The Forgotten Field

* * *

A blade-like wind swept across the frost-covered earth.

Feeling tiny ice crystals drifting through the air lash against his cheeks, Tyron frowned.

As the swirling white haze gradually settled, the full expanse of the Argand Forest came back into view.

Gripping his reins tightly, he narrowed his eyes beneath the hood of his cloak, carefully scanning the narrow trail buried beneath gray shadows.

At the silent entrance to the forest path, fine frost drifted lazily through the air, faintly catching the light.

At first glance, the scenery appeared perfectly peaceful.

He couldn't tell what, exactly, had drawn his attention.

After surveying his surroundings through narrowed eyes, Tyron glanced back over his shoulder.

Lowell, the guildmaster of the great merchant guild whose influence extended across both the East and the North, was following behind at a measured pace together with his subordinates.

Carefully examining their pale faces, which showed signs of fatigue from the long journey, Tyron's gaze eventually reached the two supply wagons at the very rear of the caravan and the eight of his own men guarding them.

Only after confirming that everything appeared normal did he turn forward and continue down the road.

Just then—

A rustling sound came from up ahead.

Realizing instinctively that it wasn't the wind, Tyron immediately drew his sword.

At the same instant, arrows shot out from between the trees.

"Ambush!"

As Tyron barely managed to deflect one of the arrows and shouted the warning, the warriors all drew their weapons.

The attackers, however, were one step ahead.

Dozens of assailants burst out from beneath the thick blanket of fallen leaves carpeting the ground, throwing lassos around the horses' legs.

Startled, the horses reared violently, letting out frantic screams.

To keep himself from being thrown from the saddle, Tyron tightened his thighs and instinctively swung his longsword.

A wet slicing sound echoed.

Hot blood splashed across his face.

Beyond the chaos, he caught sight of one of the attackers retreating while clutching his blood-soaked forearm.

The man wore a helmet fashioned from the skull of a beast.

'Zram.'

Tyron's face twisted grimly as he spurred his horse after the retreating warrior.

But this time, a long spear thrust in from his left.

Barely preventing the weapon from piercing his horse, Tyron violently yanked on the reins.

His warhorse, Elak, excited by the battle, snapped the rope binding its legs and reared high.

A heartbeat later, the skull of the man who had attacked him exploded beneath the massive horse's iron-shod hoof like an overripe pumpkin.

The enemies who witnessed the sight instinctively faltered.

Tyron seized the opportunity and wheeled his horse around to look behind him.

The northern merchants had somehow managed to cling to their saddles while drawing their swords to resist the attackers.

But civilians with no military training could hardly be expected to withstand a surprise assault.

Moments later, one merchant was dragged from his horse by a Zram warrior.

Recognizing him as the guildmaster of the White Silver Alliance, Tyron immediately drove his horse forward, his long blade sweeping diagonally through the air.

Like an eagle's outstretched wing, his sword flashed forward and cleanly severed the head of the enemy approaching the man he was sworn to protect.

After trampling the blood-spewing corpse beneath his horse's hooves, Tyron turned toward his next target.

The raiders had already widened the distance between them and disappeared into the trees.

As the bandits vanished almost instantly, Tyron ground his teeth and shouted at his men.

"Don't pursue them! Reform the formation and establish a defensive line around the supply wagons!"

His soldiers immediately surrounded the wagons.

The enemy, however, showed no sign of launching a second assault.

Surveying the deathly silent forest, Tyron dismounted and helped a man lying sprawled on the ground back to his feet.

Fortunately, the merchant didn't appear seriously injured.

With a groan, he staggered upright.

"Damn it... what kind of disaster is this?"

"Pull yourself together and get back on your horse! We have to get out of this forest!"

The man, whose dark brown hair was unusual for someone from Valto, grumbled under his breath as he climbed back into the saddle.

After confirming he was capable of riding, Tyron returned to Elak.

Just as he was about to mount—

Something burst upward from the ground directly beside him.

His body reacted before his mind did.

Throwing himself aside, he barely avoided the blade aimed at his side.

The next attack, however, struck before he could recover.

A savage kick slammed into his abdomen before he had regained his footing.

A strangled gasp escaped Tyron as he collapsed onto the ground.

A man with golden eyes, wrapped in animal hides, rushed toward him like the wind, raising a crescent-shaped sword overhead.

Certain that death had arrived, Tyron's entire body stiffened.

At that very instant—

A long spearhead erupted through the attacker's chest.

"Ghk!"

Blood pouring from his mouth, the golden-eyed warrior turned around.

Following his movement, Tyron instinctively looked up.

A pale blond man sat astride a gray warhorse.

His face was so cold it scarcely seemed human.

Holding the shaft with one hand, the man lifted the spear.

The impaled raider rose into the air like a fish skewered on a harpoon before his body described a great arc through the sky.

The axe blade of the halberd, swung with terrifying speed, swept through the air.

Before Tyron realized it, three Zram warriors surrounding him had been cut cleanly in half at the waist.

No matter how many times he witnessed it, such monstrous strength remained impossible to believe.

"What are you standing there staring at? Assume a defensive formation immediately."

Without the slightest emotion, the man slammed the corpse hanging from the spearpoint onto the ground.

Only then did Tyron snap back to his senses.

He hurriedly climbed to his feet.

But by then, the enemy had already lost the will to fight and was rapidly retreating.

Varkas gestured toward the warriors who had arrived with him.

"Go after them."

The moment the order left his lips, dozens of knights charged into the trees.

Watching them with an expressionless face, the ruler of the East then lowered his gaze toward Tyron.

Having finally regained his composure, Tyron hurriedly bowed.

"You saved my life, Your Grace."

"You were fortunate, Drakan. We received reports that a band of raiders had established themselves in the Argand Forest and were conducting a search. Otherwise, you would have suffered a far worse fate."

The reply came not from the Grand Duke of the East, but from his aide, Daren Dru Siorcan.

Leading his horse out from between the trees, Daren surveyed the corpses strewn across the ground.

"Still... I never expected the Zram to be causing trouble this close to Kalmor."

Clicking his tongue, he turned toward the ruler of the East.

"Wouldn't it be better to begin a campaign of extermination before the cold wave arrives?"

"...The timing isn't favorable. For now, we'll expand our scouting network and close the roads."

After handing his bloodstained halberd to his squire, Varkas looked toward the northern merchants.

Every one of them wore an expression as though they had just seen a ghost.

Leading his horse toward them, the ruler of the East greeted them in a voice whose elegance seemed strangely out of place amid the carnage.

"Welcome to Kalmor. I regret that your first day here has been marred by such an unfortunate incident."

"N-Not at all, Your Grace! When leading a merchant caravan, this sort of thing is simply part of the journey."

The merchant bowed respectfully.

As befitted the head of a great guild, he had immediately recognized Varkas.

With polished eloquence, the man began showering him with praise.

"More importantly, Your Grace's skill is truly astonishing. The reputation of the continent's greatest lancer is no exaggeration. Had I not witnessed it with my own eyes, I never could have believed such magnificence. How can someone with such a lean physique possess such terrifying strength...!"

"We can exchange pleasantries later. Leaving the forest comes first."

His dry, emotionless voice cut through the merchant's flattery without hesitation.

The northerner showed no embarrassment whatsoever.

"Of course! We'll quietly follow behind Your Grace."

At his signal, the merchants immediately reformed their ranks.

Observing the scene with sharp eyes, Varkas finally turned his horse forward.

Tyron rode on his left, carefully watching their surroundings in preparation for another possible ambush.

Fortunately, they reached the edge of the forest without further incident.

Tyron had only just breathed a sigh of relief when Varkas, riding with perfect posture, suddenly drew his bow.

Has another enemy appeared?

Tyron immediately unsheathed his sword.

Varkas silently watched the shadowed forest.

Then he drew the bowstring.

A sharp cry rang out, accompanied by the frantic beating of wings.

Unable to understand what had just happened, Tyron looked at Varkas in confusion.

Just then, a hunting dog that had been following them so quietly it was easy to forget its presence sprinted forward like the wind.

Moments later, it returned carrying something in its jaws.

"...A pheasant?"

Tyron blinked blankly.

The large hunting dog proudly presented the bird pierced by an arrow to its master.

Jumping lightly from his horse, Varkas opened the dog's jaws, retrieved the pheasant, tied its legs together with a leather cord, and hung it from his saddle.

Only then did Tyron notice three or four brown hens already dangling there.

Seeing his bewildered expression, Daren explained awkwardly,

"Her Grace is fond of pheasant. It has less of a gamey smell, so it's one of the few meats she finds easy to eat."