[V14C11] The War Wolf Howls

General Strauss had taken over the main hall of Valmbelk Castle. The prisoners—including Albert, the Third Prince of the Kingdom of Ridill, Birendahl, and Konitz—were gathered together against the right-hand wall.

All the prisoners were seated against the wall with their arms and legs bound behind their backs, and a long rope connected them to their neighbors. Truly a meticulous display of caution.

Furthermore, everyone had been gagged aside from Albert, Birendahl, and Konitz. This was likely to limit the possibility of mages.

Patrick, who was seated beside Albert, muffled out a sorrowful cry.

(‘This gag tastes awful’? …How carefree can you be!)

Albert more or less understood what Patrick was trying to say—probably because they had known each other for so long.

The three left ungagged were probably to allow for negotiation, or perhaps as a token gesture of respect.

To tell the truth, Albert could use magic. He had once studied at the mage training institution of Minerva and was fairly adept at practical magic.

However, even a faint whisper of a chant would be noticed immediately. The soldiers were clearly wary and kept their eyes on them.

(If only I could use magic without chanting, like Monica…!)

Konitz, who looked as timid as he seemed, sat with his pale face downcast and silent. In contrast, the overbearing Birendahl kept muttering “How did it come to this…” and other such complaints.

Apparently, the poison laced in their drinks hadn’t been very strong. Though Birendahl’s complexion was poor, he still had enough energy to run his mouth, so there wasn’t too much to worry about.

If he was going to grumble, Albert thought, he wished the man would do so a little louder. That way, he might be able to use it to mask a spell incantation.

(But just casting a spell isn’t good enough. The enemy soldiers outnumber us… and they probably have a few mages too.)

Albert pressed his lips tightly together to avoid drawing suspicion, and quietly counted the number of enemies without turning his head.

There were thirty men in this room alone, including General Strauss. And of course, this wasn’t all of them. Many were probably assigned to positions outside the main hall.

General Strauss could be seen conversing with one of his subordinates in a red uniform who had just entered the room. However, the language they used was unknown to Albert. He could tell the subordinate was making a report and Strauss was giving instructions, but nothing beyond that. They were careful to not leak any information to the prisoners.

If only Bridget were here to translate. Albert could not help but grind his teeth.

(Is Bridget safe? I hope she managed to escape with the margrave…)

Perhaps Bridget and Margrave Valmbelk had escaped the castle and to seek help. That was their only remaining hope.

Rather than whispering, Albert decided to speak to Birendahl in a composed voice to fake confidence.

“Lord Birendahl, how are you feeling? Any numbness or nausea?”

“…There is some numbness, but nothing serious.”

Though Birendahl’s face looked pale, he was, after all, a leading figure in the Empire. He responded with surprising composure, not showing any signs of bravado.

(…In that case, the others who drank the poison should also be able to move, if it comes down to it.)

The poison seemed to be a non-lethal kind intended to limit their movements.

General Strauss clearly wanted Albert, Birendahl, and Konitz alive for use as bargaining chips.

Next, Albert addressed Konitz, who looked even worse than Birendahl.

“Lord Konitz, are you feeling okay?”

“Ah, I… I didn’t drink the wine, so… I’m fine…”

Konitz mumbled back, lowering his head to avoid Albert’s eyes.

His domain of Hydelingen was directly to the east of Valmbelk, but Albert couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy. Would they actually send troops to save their lord?

In the first place, Konitz seemed far too timid to lead an army.

At that moment, the doors to the great hall opened, and one of General Strauss’s red-uniformed men brought in two new individuals: an elderly man with limbs as thin as withered branches, and a tall woman with short hair.

The moment Birendahl saw them, his previously resolute expression twisted in despair.

“They’ve captured the War Wolf…”

(So that elderly man is the former lord of this castle… the Imperial hero, the War Wolf of Valmbelk!)

Only those who have witnessed the War Wolf of Valmbelk on the battlefield could understand the true terror of his title.

Perhaps Birendahl had hoped that the War Wolf would turn this dire situation around.

But the Imperial hero he looked up to was now a gaunt figure. His hands were already bound behind his back.

The War Wolf’s sleepy eyes had been staring into space, but then, he suddenly lifted his face and shouted.

“Get me my potatoes!”

“Grandfather, you just ate them a moment ago.”

“Supply unit! Where is the salt?! Bring it here!”

“The salt is located in the kitchen, Grandfather.”

Hearing the exchange between the old man and his granddaughter, the faces of everyone from the Empire turned to sorrow.

Not just Birendahl and the prisoners… even General Strauss and his men.

“Teodor Blanquet-dono.”

General Strauss stepped forward, and his sharp features displayed a tinge of grief. The tone he used to address Teodor contained his utmost respect.

Now, he spoke in the standard language of the Empire rather than the one he used with his subordinates.

“I deeply regret that we had to meet under such circumstances…”

“Ah,” Teodor mumbled. “Are you Emile’s grandson? You’ve grown up so big.”

“I have admired your exploits since childhood and grew up wishing to be someone like you. I’m sure everyone who learned swordsmanship in the Empire would say the same thing. Back in our youths, we all ran through the fields swinging sticks and shouting, ‘I am the War Wolf of Valmbelk’.”

Every word General Strauss spoke belayed the boyish admiration he once felt.

He remembered the passion of distant days as if savoring the memory, a nostalgic and bittersweet feeling.

General Strauss briefly closed his eyes. And once he reopened them, they displayed the firm resolve to cut away all of his old sentimentality.

“Teodor Blanquet, the War Wolf of Valmbelk. It is with the death of a national hero that we will spread despair throughout the Empire, and herald the dawn of a new era.”

General Strauss was making a grand display in front of the old man once called the War Wolf of Valmbelk. However, Albert was not looking at either of them.

His eyes were fixed on the short-haired woman standing quietly behind the old man. Since she referred to Teodor as “Grandfather,” she seemed to be the sister of the margrave, Frieda Blanquet.

Frieda had met Albert’s gaze and was staring intently at him, as if trying to tell him something.

(What does she want me to do…?)

Frieda’s hands were bound behind her back, just like her grandfather. However, her legs were still free, and she was not gagged. Clearly, she was the prisoner with the most freedom at the moment.

As Albert struggled to understand, Frieda briefly glanced toward the side opposite to where Albert and the others were held. Following her gaze only left Albert even more perplexed.

Mounted on the opposite wall was a sword displayed on a pedestal lined with silk. She seemed to be indicating this sword for some reason.

(Is there something special about that sword…? It doesn’t look like a magical tool to me…)

Was it even possible for a single sword to turn this situation around?

Nevertheless, Albert believed it was better than doing nothing and leaving himself at the mercy of their captors. He began chanting a spell.

General Strauss noticed immediately, and soldiers in red uniforms rushed to stop Albert.

“Don’t let him finish that chant!”

Two soldiers pinned Albert down and covered his mouth. Albert fought back by biting one of their hands, forcing him to interrupt the incantation.

Albert was backed up by the gagged Patrick, who let out a muffled shout and headbutted one of the soldiers holding him.

The desperate struggle of the two boys was, of course, futile against battle-hardened soldiers. However, Albert had succeeded in drawing the attention of General Strauss and his men for a brief instant.

Seizing that opening, Frieda darted toward the wall-mounted sword with the agility of a wild goat.

She approached the wall, and with a flick of her dress, and kicked the sword up with her slender leg.

The mounted sword spun into the air. When it fell back down, a tiny portion of the blade had slipped out of its sheath.

Frieda extended her bound wrists to the precise point where the blade would land. The edge peaking from the sheath sliced cleanly through the ropes binding her.

One misstep and she might have cut off her own hands, yet Frieda did it without batting an eye. Now freed, she took up the sword and charged at General Strauss.

It was a completely unexpected strike from behind. Regardless, General Strauss reacted faster than his men and met Frieda’s sword by drawing his own.

A sharp clang echoed as blade met blade. General Strauss fixed his gaze on Frieda and murmured his praises.

“As expected of the War Wolf’s granddaughter. Your swings are fearless and skillful… But a bit too light.”

General Strauss stepped forward and swung his sword down on Frieda, who tried to parry. The resulting clang was noticeably heavier than the previous.

He continued the offensive, pushing Frieda back with each consecutive blow. It was clear to everyone that she had no chance of winning this exchange.

Strauss delivered a fierce overhead swing, with so much force that Frieda could not completely deflect it. The sword was knocked out of her hand and slid across the floor.

“Give it up, granddaughter of the War Wolf.”

“…”

Frieda fell to her knees above a piece of cloth on the floor. This was the white silk that had lined the sword’s pedestal.

She remained in a kneeling position and grabbed the cloth. Then, she started weaving it while shouting in a fierce tone.

“Enemy forces in red uniforms spotted ahead! Number estimated at five thousand! Mage brigade led by the Thunder Mage and the Grotto Mage confirmed on the right wing!”

Had her overwhelming defeat caused her to go insane?

As everyone in the room gave her strange stares, Frieda continued waving the cloth like a battle flag, shouting on.

“The 6th and 7th Division have been routed! They’ve broken through our lines!”

Albert listened to her words and remembered. He had never seen the battle that Frieda was reenacting, but he knew it.

(I’ve read it in the history books. The story showing us the terror of Valmbelk…)

The Battle of Karnard Plain, one of the most well-known battles in the war fifty years ago.

The moment Albert remembered, a splatter of blood fell on his head.

The soldiers restraining him screamed as they collapsed onto the floor. One of their severed arms dropped into a pool of blood.

Someone had quietly picked up the sword dropped by Frieda, cut the ropes binding his own wrists, and slain the soldiers restraining Albert in a single smooth motion. The man responsible had swung the blade effortlessly, despite having limbs as thin as withered branches.

His gray eyes that had been staring into space were now sharp and fixed on General Strauss. His gaunt figure seemed to grow to a size twice as large as before.

“I am the lord of Valmbelk Castle, Teodor Blanquet.”

The elderly hero of the Empire pointed the tip of his sword at Strauss, speaking in a low, but heavy voice.

“Those who dare to defile the land of Valmbelk, speak your name now.”

His anger sent a chill down their spines. His voice proclaimed their deaths.

“Those who name themselves will have their heads sent back to their homelands! Those who do not will have their bodies left to the dragons!”

At that moment, Albert saw General Strauss getting a bit teary-eyed. He looked like a boy longing for the revival of his hero.

However, the fleeting glimpse of youthful admiration vanished in an instant. General Strauss raised his drawn sword and gave the order to his men.

“Men, draw your swords! Today, we bring down the War Wolf of Valmbelk!”

Right as General Strauss’s men prepared for combat, the doors to the hall were kicked open.

A group of elderly men roared as they poured into the room. They were the staff of Valmbelk Castle.

Leading them was the grandson of the War Wolf, Henrik Blanquet, the Margrave of Valmbelk, with his sword held at the ready. Apparently, he had freed his staff and armed them with weapons.

Henrik howled at the enemy with eyes very similar to his grandfather’s.

“This ends here, General Strauss…! Do not underestimate Valmbelk!”

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