Chapter 22: Betrayal (5)

Contrary to expectations, the battle dragged on, tedious and frustrating.

From atop a three-tiered command carriage, Tolland clicked his tongue.

Elon’s priests received basic combat training, but they were no match for knights honed in battle from youth.

For them, combat training was merely a part of their doctrinal studies.

Even a farmer’s son turned soldier, trained for years, far surpassed them.

That the Elon Sect’s untrained novices were delaying the battle irritated the King of Mosul.

Yet, the sight before him justified the delay.

“Elon’s protective barrier.”

“It’s formidable. The high priests are pouring everything into it.”

“I know that much. How do we break it? How long can those heretics maintain it?”

“If they keep expending themselves like this… it’s unlikely to collapse naturally in a day or two. You know the power of the Elon Sect’s holy magic better than I, Your Majesty.”

“…Indeed…”

Tolland recalled the priests of Elon who shone in the war against the Demon King’s Army.

Their miracles—reviving those thought dead, regenerating severed limbs—were awe-inspiring.

When aimed at the same enemy or supporting allies, their power was unmatched.

But now, facing Elon as an enemy, it was merely a bothersome nuisance.

He’d considered sparing some for use as healers, but seeing the barrier changed his mind.

Kill them all.

Once the barrier fell, only priests with feeble combat skills would remain.

Bound in chains, they’d be dragged to the secret ritual site and offered to Hokhma.

Then, his new god would be pleased, elevating Tolland to an even higher realm, a mightier swordmaster.

Medeya narrowed her eyes, studying the barrier crafted by Elon’s priests.

After examining the holy spell, she drew a small, light wand from her pocket and pointed it like a spear at the barrier.

A thin, green beam, fluttering like a butterfly, struck the barrier’s surface.

Like a glowing insect, it bounced off, losing strength and fading.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. My power isn’t enough.”

The witch bowed.

“No matter. That barrier can’t be broken by magic.”

Tolland spoke briefly to the knights below.

Soon, soldiers and knights returned with heavy iron clubs, hammers, and massive shields requiring two hands.

At Garland’s signal, raising his sword from horseback, the soldiers surrounding the barrier struck it with full force in unison.

“It’s working.”

For a moment, some pointed weapons—spears and swords—pierced the barrier before being repelled.

A barrier raised by priests who’ve never thrown a proper punch… It’s just a delay.

Tolland reclined on a plush, wide sofa, a rarity on the battlefield, watching the soldiers try to physically shatter the barrier under Garland’s command.

“Your Majesty.”

“Well done, Medeya. You know me well.”

“Thank you.”

Wine savored on the battlefield had its own worth. Tolland’s hand reached for the witch’s chest beside him.

“Strike!”

“Hah!”

Below, sturdy human soldiers drove their weapons into the barrier under his proud son’s command.

The protective wall would soon crumble.

It won’t be long.

Before the new sun rose, the temple would fall.

***

It won’t hold long.

Moriah coughed up blood, reeling from the impacts shaking the barrier.

The priests remaining in the sect were far less skilled than he’d expected.

Holy magic required steadfast faith, but also relentless practice and individual effort.

Mosul’s current priests were pitifully inadequate.

Even those strutting as high priests performed worse than apprentices when chanting holy spells.

“Priest!”

Blood soaked his hands and armor from a copious outpouring.

An apprentice rushed to support him, but Moriah waved them off.

“The holy spell will soon break. We’ll have to fight.”

“But…!”

“We can’t maintain the barrier forever. Fight to survive, or wither away. You know what must be done.”

Moriah severed his inner connection to the barrier.

Relied upon by over half the priests, it lost strength instantly, shattering like glass under impact and vanishing like foam.

The priests stared in despair and resignation.

“Stand. It’s not over. We’ll all return to Elon, but we must do so without shame.”

Moriah rose, not with the resolve of one resigned to death.

Holding his mace and shield, he strode toward the soldiers stunned by the barrier’s collapse.

They didn’t rush the temple.

They were waiting.

Waiting? For what?

Neigh… Hearing horses, Moriah understood.

“Garland.”

Garland approached on horseback, his armor blood-splattered, facing Moriah.

“Priest Moriah, surrender now.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Elon wishes us to die here, tonight. As his faithful servant, how could I miss the chance to rest in his embrace?”

“…I see.”

Garland dismounted.

The temple wasn’t suited for mounted combat, and his unpolished riding skills would disadvantage him against this opponent.

Slapping the horse’s rear, it fled toward the soldiers.

“!!”

In that instant, as Garland’s attention flickered to the horse, Moriah charged.

The steel mace that once pulverized Demon King’s Army soldiers swung toward Garland’s head.

Garland dodged with unbelievable agility, an unexpected outcome.

Panting, Moriah noticed the dark pattern painted on the prince’s armor.

“Magic. From physical enhancement to all sorts of tricks.”

“It’s effective. I didn’t expect such a sudden attack.”

“Enough quibbling. Your father started this. If you want to blame someone, blame him for sending you to the front.”

“I can’t do that.”

Whoosh! The counterattack was fierce.

Moriah nearly lost his shield to the prince’s swift sword.

The priest was stunned.

The relentless barrage from the young knight was nearly impossible to block, deflect, or parry.

Is this the reward for forsaking Elon?

Garland seemed unaware, but to Moriah, the prince’s enhanced movements were absurdly powerful, drawing a bitter laugh.

I can’t even buy time properly… Age doesn’t lie!

“Haaah!”

Sword met shield, sword met sword, sword met armor, sparking flames.

The night’s veil occasionally hid the warriors’ weapons.

Garland pressed Moriah relentlessly, like an inexhaustible avatar of strength.

The balance of power never tipped toward Moriah, not even for a moment.

The aging priest struggled with the heavy mace, shield, and crushing weight of his armor, barely standing.

Garland, meanwhile, breathed evenly, at ease.

Clang! Garland’s gauntleted fist smashed Moriah’s shield like a hammer, shattering the once-hallowed shield into fragments.

This is it.

Moriah saw the sword thrusting straight at him and whispered a faint apology only he could hear.

I’m sorry.

Yes, Elon… Your will…

Thud. The sword pierced his neck through a gap in his armor like a skewer.

The prince, drenched in the old priest’s blood, raised Moriah’s head, prompting cheers from the soldiers.

“Seize them! Kill any who resist!”

The knights leading the operation shouted.

The soldiers’ roars, the relentless advance of their boots like an earthquake, the King of Mosul and his witch watching from above—it all unfolded.

Elon’s priests, in their usual robes, clutching copper candlesticks or whatever they could find, struggled desperately against the soldiers.

Garland, holding Moriah’s severed head, turned toward the man watching from the highest vantage.

To the King of Mosul.

***

With Sir Morik, we entered a forest off the road.

Lighting a campfire and setting up a crude tent, Morik candidly recounted the events in the city while we were away—especially Jasmine’s abduction.

“Damn it! Let’s go save Jasmine now!”

Perdual slammed the ground with his fists, leaping up.

Others agreed, nodding or posturing as if ready to sprint to Mosul without rest.

Not to impress the captain, but because the Black Tail Mercenaries genuinely cherished and loved Jasmine.

Yet Surabar, sitting by the small campfire with Morik, remained still.

“Enough. It’s late. Don’t move recklessly.”

“Captain! Jasmine—”

“I know. I know. Sit down.”

“…Yes, sir…”

A chill ran through us.

We’d never seen the captain truly angry, consumed by rage.

Morik, facing him across the modest fire, trembled in fear.

Surabar, with a tiger’s glare, spoke to Morik.

“Is Jasmine alive?”

“I can’t be certain, but… likely. I heard she was sent to the King of Bers as a ‘gift.’”

“A gift… a gift…”

Surabar closed his eyes, clenching his fists.

His rigid posture, not even breathing, was that of someone gritting their teeth to endure pain.

It was pitiable, heartbreaking. Though not as intense as the captain’s, I felt a surge of rage too.

The Border Count, sworn to protect Mosul and its citizens and loyal to the Emperor, had fallen at the worst possible moment.

Who could’ve predicted he’d act so suddenly while the captain and I were away?

I looked at the captain. He looked at me. We shared the same thought.

Walking to the city would take three days. Even pushing hard and cutting sleep, we’d shave off only a day or half.

The Black Tails, devoted to Jasmine, would charge in with unyielding will.

But will alone wasn’t enough.

To save Jasmine, abducted by soldiers and sent as a gift to the King of Bers, we needed more than determination.

We needed strength.

“Captain.”

“…Yes.”

As always, Surabar made his decision swiftly.