Ode of the Brave - Chapter 145

WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR

◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 145

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The sun and the highlands, the wind and the sea, and oranges.

Ricart did not know what influence those things had on the people who lived here, but the Sinatrians had a somewhat emotional, passionate side.

To Ricart, who came from the north and center of the Empire, where people valued quiet restraint, diligence, courage, and honor, it seemed unfamiliar and strange.

Still, perhaps Ricart himself had been influenced without realizing it. By the sun and the highlands, the wind and the sea, and oranges.

West of the plains of Valensha, the land gradually rose into high country. The mountains were not particularly tall, but several ranges stretched across the region.

There were five possible routes an outside force could use to invade, which made defending the homeland difficult unless they shut themselves inside the city and held out.

But if they did that, they would have no choice but to lose all the crops that were just beginning to ripen.

The answer was clear. They had to go out onto the plains and fight.

Yet no matter how clear the answer was, there were things in this world that could not be helped, just as there were in individual lives.

It was even harder to do something reckless in a battle where life and death were on the line.

Still, Ricart persuaded, threatened, cajoled, and did every damn thing he could to finally lead the troops onto the plains.

In truth, the hardest part of commanding a battle was not coming up with clever strategies or tactics. It was persuading people and leading them.

Fortunately, though the knights and soldiers all disliked it, they reluctantly did as they were told.

The sky was overcast, as if it might rain. The sun, usually so fierce, could not be seen.

The wind was stronger than usual, making the colorful flags snap fiercely in the air, but Ricart's expression as he gazed up at the sky was grim.

Before a battle, worry and anxiety inevitably made a person sensitive. Ricart was no different. The only difference was that he saw another side of humanity, another side of the world.

He could overcome worry and anxiety on his own. But heightened nerves sometimes made him believe in superstitions he normally would not.

A sudden gust of wind, clouds taking a strange shape. Was that a good sign or a bad one? If it rained, who would benefit, and who would suffer?

But there was little point considering such things now. They had already set up camp and waited for battle for two days.

Naturally, the soldiers did not look pleased either. They frowned as they stared at the high sky like Ricart, or looked toward the horizon at the edge of the land.

Mounted scouts flew around the army like dragonflies. They carried news and reports back and forth, and as time passed, they came and went more often, more quickly.

The busier they became, the more the soldiers understood.

The battle was close.

Then a faint Thud-thud-thud could be heard.

The sound gradually grew louder until the ground itself seemed to tremble.

Some of the horses grew anxious. The knights and soldiers struggled to calm them.

Then, at last, the enemy began to appear one by one over the distant ridge. At first, there did not seem to be many, but they kept pouring down onto the plains until, before long, they covered the entire field.

The Salaman banners snapped wildly in the wind. Unlike the banners here, theirs were mostly solid colors such as yellow or black. Rather than bearing geometric patterns or images of animals and plants, many were covered in curling letters.

Still, this was too much.

The scouts had delivered the same reports over the past two days, so everyone already knew. But seeing it with their own eyes was different.

Twenty thousand men.

It was not merely a number. It was a force, one that could destroy anything in the world.

Even Ricart's heart trembled, so there was no need to look at the soldiers. Their hands shook as they gripped their shields and weapons.

To calm their unease and raise their spirits, Ricart deliberately rode his red horse along the front of the camp.

Look at me, and find courage.

Still, the soldiers' trembling hands did not settle easily. So Ricart rode around the front of the camp and shouted loudly.

“People of Sinatria! Hear me!”

Ricart did not speak down to the soldiers.

“Why do you wear such cumbersome, heavy armor and carry weapons in your hands? Is it because the king ordered you to? Is it for money? As you all know, I am an outsider from far away. But through an outsider's eyes, every man of Sinatria I have seen was brave and knew no fear. Was I wrong?”

Ricart prodded at the soldiers' pride. Whether it made sense or not, he was ready to sell anything and say anything if it raised morale.

Ricart clenched his fist, raised it high, and spoke.

“Just three men each! If every one of you kills only three men, we can kill them all! Surely a man of Sinatria can handle three heathens! Am I wrong? Answer me!”

Here and there, soldiers raised spearlike weapons and shouted, “No!” and “We can do it!”

But they were not all of one mind.

“I am not giving you a difficult order! Do not retreat! Do not turn and run! And in the end, win!”

That was exactly what made it difficult, but he seemed to have achieved his goal, at least somewhat. He turned hearts pounding with fear into excitement and stirred their will to fight.

The truly important thing in battle was troop placement and formation. Ricart had studied and analyzed the surrounding terrain, then finished positioning his forces two days ago. The enemy had only just arrived.

Were they careless, or was this simply the difficulty of controlling such a large army? In the distance, the enemy merely spread their troops out in a disorderly line.

With more than three times as many men, being too cautious could become poison. They could simply press forward. If they worried over too many details and tangled themselves up, that would be a problem.

Still, even spreading troops into a line required carefully setting the intervals, so it was not something that could be finished quickly.

While they did so, Ricart mounted his red horse, raised his spear, and rode alone toward the enemy camp.

Thud, thud, thud.

As he crossed the plains alone toward the enemy, he naturally drew the attention of friend and foe alike. Tens of thousands of eyes turned toward Ricart on his red horse and followed his movements.

Ricart approached the enemy for one reason only. He wanted to see his target clearly with his own eyes.

It was extremely dangerous. Knights could rush out from the enemy camp to attack Ricart or capture him.

But Ricart did not seem worried at all. As if watching an army parade held in his honor, he rode boldly close to the enemy lines.

There were so many enemy troops that he could not see all the way from left to right, but they stared at him as if wondering what this man was doing, riding so close.

Unlike Ricart, Sultan Yusuf was nowhere to be seen, apparently deep inside the camp. Ricart could only guess he was where the splendid banners and well-equipped soldiers were gathered.

Ricart pointed his spear that way and shouted.

“Is the coward too frightened to even show his face?”

A Salaman knight shouted back angrily.

“The Sultan has no time to deal with the likes of you! Get lost!”

“Tell him to keep hiding! But when I return, do not expect courtesy!”

Ricart had not been courteous from the beginning, yet he brazenly barked at them before turning his reins and returning to his own camp.

Fortunately or unfortunately, no separate unit came out to pursue him.

Ricart returned to his troops and shouted.

“Sultan Yusuf is undoubtedly a coward! It is obvious what his men must be like! We will win today! I am certain of it! God has already decided!”

The soldiers began chanting like a military slogan.

“Yusuf is a coward! God has decided!”

It could be called showmanship. Ricart's reckless behavior was certainly excellent at raising their momentum despite their numerical disadvantage.

Time passed, and the enemy finished deploying their troops. Then they began to advance slowly, their distinct Rumble seeming to shake the earth itself.

Ricart's troops were positioned with a large boulder on their left, using the terrain to make up for their numerical disadvantage. The enemy, however, detached troops to circle around the rocky hill. Once they went around it, they could strike from behind.

Of course, even after detaching troops, the enemy's main force advancing from the front was still more than twice the size of Ricart's army.

Then something irrational happened.

A horn sounded long from Ricart's camp, and around six thousand men began to advance.

Bwooooooo!

Rumble...!

The Sultan's command was briefly taken aback. They had not expected Ricart to abandon the advantageous position and advance.

Would there be some unexpected variable? Was this a suicidal act? Were they fools?

But this was the gamble Ricart had made.

And the soldiers trusted him enough to follow it.

Ricart's gamble was not complicated.

A point breakthrough.

He would ignore their numbers and concentrate all their strength on the place where the Sultan was.

Heavy cavalry were normally kept in reserve until the very end, but Ricart stood before the Flame Knights, who had been waiting behind the lines. Their eyes beneath their helmets gleamed like those of starving beasts.

Around then, rain began to patter down from the sky, which had been overcast since morning.

“Is it a good sign, or a bad one?”

Ricart asked Raimund.

“It does not matter.”

“That is right. It does not matter.”

Holding the spear-banner, Ricart stood before the knights and shouted.

“I know you have suffered in your hearts all this time. Even so, we are those who fight. We are knights. It does not matter how many enemies there are! Winning! Victory! That alone is the reason we exist! Let it rain! We will become the storm ourselves!”

Ricart mounted his great warhorse and rode along the line of knights, holding the spear-banner that represented flame as he shouted.

“Show the enemy! Our courage! Our fury! Our justice! Flame Knights! Rise! Raise a storm!”

The two hundred broad, powerful machines of war all drew breath deep into their bellies and roared.

“Raise a storm!”

“Flame Knights! Chaaaaaaarge!”

As Ricart gave the order to charge, he himself surged forward at the very front. Raimund and the Flame Knights thundered after him. They were on the right side of their formation.

From the enemy's perspective, it seemed that Ricart had deployed his last resort far too quickly. But if they could suppress the knights, every variable would disappear, so they immediately sent in their heavy cavalry as well.

Then something strange happened.

Or rather, it was not strange at all. Things simply began to go wrong.

Normally, heavy cavalry charged in a line, striking the widest possible area with maximum force to shatter the enemy formation. But the knights raced after Ricart, who led at the front like the tip of an arrow.

Their shape naturally became a wedge, and they could change direction more freely than the Sultan's knights.

At first, they turned gradually. Then, more sharply and sharply, until they appeared to be racing not toward the enemy's left, but toward their center.

The enemy heavy cavalry moved to engage the knights, but their formation could not change direction easily. They tangled themselves together.

Ricart slipped past them with ease.

The strongest unit had become useless in an instant.

Ricart's main force continued to advance, while Ricart surged into the point between the enemy's left flank and center.

The knights' resounding battle cries shook the entire battlefield.

Like raging flames, their charge exploded into the enemy center.

“Waaaaaah!”

Thudthudthudthudthudthudthudthudthud!

Crash! Crack! Thud! Crunch! Thud! Crack!

Two hundred huge, heavy warhorses trampled people without mercy. The spear thrusts hardly mattered. Ricart alone had two enemies skewered on his spear.

Ricart's fierce red horse tore through the enemy as if it were truly a dragon about to breathe fire.

It charged with the overwhelming force of a running bull, ramming aside enemies as it drove deep into their center, like a sharp spear stabbing deep into a person's side.

After splitting through the enemy ranks for some time, Ricart's momentum seemed to slow. He pulled on the reins.

The red horse raised its forelegs high, as if it would leap into the sky. Ricart lifted his sword toward the heavens and shouted at the top of his lungs.

Beneath the gray sky, golden flames burning along the holy sword fluttered like a banner.

“Raise a storm!”

The enemy's desperate screams and the countless sounds of the battlefield were deafening.

Yet the soldiers, who had been advancing slowly, heard that cry clearly.

They charged together, drowning out every other sound.

“Raise a stooooorm!”

Someone once said that battle was all about momentum.

But there were different kinds of momentum. This was the impact of some enormous explosion.

If one looked at it coolly, it was not impossible to respond to. But Ricart's strategy was a powerful blow that could not be recovered from.

And because all things in the world were done by people, emotions like fear and an unexplainable atmosphere were not easily resisted.

The troops circling far around the hill and the left and right flanks were bewildered, confused about how events were unfolding. Meanwhile, the enemy at the center had nearly fallen into panic.

“Waaaaaah!”

A tremendous roar rose from the center, and the left and right flanks felt they should turn their orderly advance toward it. But that was not as easy as it sounded. Even the commanders of the subordinate units were at a loss.

The center became a literal mess, a devastated field. Ricart and the Flame Knights charged onward toward the Sultan, while the soldiers supported them from behind.

Rain pattered down. Corpses lay grotesquely bent and crushed, and blood covered the ground.

Ricart's battle fever had risen to the top of his head. His wide-open eyes were fierce.

In that state, he charged fearlessly toward a place beneath a splendid canopy. Dozens of people carried something like a huge palanquin, while mounted guards hurried forward to fight Ricart.

Against the red horse's tremendous speed and strength, combined with the burning sword, there was nothing they could do but become pieces of meat.

Whoosh! Thud! Whoosh!

Ricart quickly cut down only one or two men, then rode past the rest.

The servants or slaves holding up the palanquin were startled and scattered, and the palanquin crashed onto its side.

Ricart instinctively charged at the person who had fallen out.

The person had hit the ground headfirst and was just scrambling to their feet.

Ricart passed by like the wind, swinging his burning sword.

Then the Sultan looked up directly at Ricart.

Their eyes met.

What? He is a child?

He looked around fourteen or fifteen. Ricart himself had traveled the world and fought for his life at that age, but the boy before him clearly had never known hardship.

He simply looked up at Ricart with innocent, startled eyes, knowing nothing of war.

There seemed to be a separate political faction that had directly started the war, but Ricart could not take back the sword he had already swung.

Just as the blade reached the boy's neck, Ricart spoke inside his heart for the briefest moment.

There was no time to say it aloud, so he hoped his eyes might convey it.

Forgive me.

Whoosh! Thud!

With such emptiness, with such ease, the Sultan's head flew off.

The guards who had rushed forward to protect the Sultan, even as the Flame Knights killed them, froze where they stood.

Ricart returned and skewered the young Sultan's head from the ground with his spear. Then he raised it high for all to see and led his forces onward.

Every enemy who saw the Sultan's head was deeply shocked and fled. The soldiers swept through them as they pleased, like gleaners gathering grain.

By the time the battle ended, rain was pouring from the sky in earnest.

But it could not easily cool the heat of the men, burning fiercely within them.