I Became the First Prince: Legend of Sword's Song

Not One, But Many (1)

Adrian and the elves headed towards the Warlord, their steps and actions so fluent that none dared bar their way.

“What idiots, those nobles! They just stand around,” he stated. The soldiers of the north had come with him.

The lords and commanders of the central kingdom had been overwhelmed by the great roar of the Warlord, a sound that none have ever heard in this age. The real problem was the soldiers. They might have been able to hold the line, but their morale was too shaken to press on.

“The orcs pushed back by the northern reinforcements will come this way. If they do, we lack the numbers to push them back,” the commander said to the Second Prince. The men were barely blocking the orcs as such, yet it was clear that the orcs would be eradicated if the correct tactics were employed. Still, knowing such a thing was not the same as doing it, which was very true when it came to warfare.

“Call back the royal champion and the knights, I will take their place against the Warlord!” Adrian shouted as if hearing the commander’s concerns. Still, the First Prince’s order was hard to accept.

Only after the gifted Richter had led his knights against the orcs had the Warlord waded into battle, so the Count hesitated before ordering his knights away from the battle. The elves stood next to the First Prince, looking dead ahead. Only nineteen of them had cleared a path for prince Adrian across the bridge through the great green mass. Some said that nineteen knights were equal to a single one of these elves.

The knights had hesitated but quickly applied themselves to other spheres of the battle. The surviving Red Iron Chain Knights began to cull the orcs who had crossed the bridge at once. The battlefield was quickly cleared up.

“Square formation! Forward!” ordered Maximilian.

“Ha!” shouted the soldiers as they advanced.

“Forward, hold, hold… Charge!”

Both the royal family’s sons led from the front, not cowering in comfort like the nobles. The soldiers’ courage burnt ever brighter as the fire of their fighting spirit sputtered into life once more. From time to time, arrows tore into the orcs, well-aimed arrows that hit them in their heads.

“Look, the rangers of Balahard!”

The elite archers of Winter Castle had already formed their lines and were now firing volley after volley. Maximilian heard the sound of their words drift over the river and felt as if he was hallucinating.

“Your guys are not alone. We have come.”

“Iron Hawks! Fire!” ordered Count Brandenburg as he stepped forward and ordered the Iron Hawk archers to fire their longbows. They responded with vigor to his words as they sniped at the orcs. Some orcs were struck in the neck and died, while others, feeling no fear or pain, fought on heedless. They cared not for arrows in their necks or spears in their backs. They were rampaging beasts that only bore straight on.

The madness of the orcs easily snuffed out the spark of hope that had been lit in the hearts of the men.

“The soldiers are not aiding the knights!” came an officer’s call.

No matter how fiercely the knights fought, the front line infantry showed little interest in advancing and helping them. The advanced knights were isolated from their camp and were being crushed under orcish axes and spears. Some of the exhausted soldiers were captured by orcs and dragged off to their camp to be eaten. If things continued as they did, most of the knights would die before the defensive lines were reformed.

‘Bawooo wooo wooo!’

The sound of the warhorn rang out.

‘Bawooo wooo!’

The reinforcing Northmen on the opposite banks of the Rhinethes responded with hearty martial songs. Count Richter Lichestein and the other knights widened their eyes in surprise as they saw the relief force’s banner.

‘Bawooo wooo!’

Once more, the horn trumpeted, and this time the Warlord answered it with a roar. A change overcame the orcs, then.

The orcs had become berserk when their king had arrived. These same raving orcs now had their instincts repressed as the madness left their eyes. They frowned in confusion. Once more, the Warlord roared, and the First Prince answered him with a blow from the horn. The elves clashed their blades and hummed unknowable songs in their clear voices.

The roar of the terrible monster was drowned out by songs being sung and by the warhorn’s trumpeting. The battle changed drastically from that moment on, as the insanity had completely left the orcs’ eyes. Gone were the berserking monsters that had not feared their own deaths. Now, if an arrow struck a single orc, those around it became afraid. Gaps were appearing in the dense wall of orcs as some started to flee.

The orcs on the front lines fought fiercely on, but those in the second rank began to look around themselves.

“The time has come! Rush them!” the commander shouted.

Knights and soldiers charged and started to push the orcs back.

“Square one, charge!”

“Ha!”

Count Richter Lichstein charged as well upon the order, his sword at the ready. Dozens of javelins flew into the ranked orcs like a great swarm of angry wasps. The Iron Hawks were firing volley after volley of arrows.

“They’re backing down!”

Up until now, it was the human lines that have been broken. For the first time in the battle, the soldiers took heart, inspired by the fact that the orcish ranks were collapsing. Infantrymen rushed forward as they jabbed their spears into their enemies.

“Knights, advance!”

The knights roared their battle cries as they crashed into the front ranks of orcs, focusing on the segment where the orcish line had completely collapsed. The knights performed a bloody and gory dance as the orcs swiftly fell before them.

Count Richter Lichstein shook his blade clean of blood as he retreated from the melee. It was impossible for him to continue, as the Warlord’s energies had invaded deep into his Mana Rings, disrupting the flow of mana. Richter needed time to rest and regain some of his magical energies.

Fortunately, the tide of battle had turned to the point where the old knight could afford to step back. He had been prepared to die just a few moments before, so quickly had everything changed. On this battlefield, with the horrible powers of a monster such as the Warlord, nothing could be predicted with surety after the northern reinforcements’ arrival.

The strangest thing of all was who the person was who had led the reinforcements like an angel of salvation. He was the First Prince Adrian Leonberger, also known as the shame of the royal family. Who would have imagined such a thing?

Count Lichstein studied the battle after he had stepped from it. After the knights had left it alone, the monster that had completely turned the tide of the battle fought against the First Prince and the nineteen elves. The prince had blown upon his horn and then moved among the elves as he struck at the great orc with his sword.

That’s one brave fool; why hasn’t anyone stopped him?

Richter Lichstein laughed at the futility of it all as his eyes tracked the First Prince.

The swords of the elves could hardly penetrate the coruscating red energies that covered the monster like armor. The only thing they had managed to do was cut the cloth of the Warlord’s clothes. Only the First Prince’s blade had swept the red energy away, as he had been able to score a deep cut into the orc’s flesh. The Warlord himself was aware of who the true enemy was, as he focused upon a single blade far more than the nineteen others.

Richter struggled to believe it even as he saw it with his own eyes. Even with an Aura Blade, he hadn’t been able to injure the Warlord, and the elite knights were all unable to penetrate the red energy.

Now, a boy who had not even had his adulthood ceremony was achieving something that no one else had been able to do. Well, all but one, for Bale Balahard had gone beyond breaking through that red barrier: He had severed one of the monster’s arms, and this on his very own, without any aid. Richter Lichstein now knew who the true champion had been and felt embarrassed at having denigrated the former Count Balahard in front of the other nobles on so many occasions. Richter Lichstein rebuked himself for his arrogance.

He was not alone in his shame.

Count Brandeburg had always been very proud of his Iron Hawk archers, believing them to be superior to the regular old Balahard rangers.

His suppositions had proved to be naught but illusions.

The rangers of Balahard now numbered less than a hundred, yet they were completely overpowering the orcs. They fired their bows and crossbows from afar, and when they got in real close to their foes, they drew their special knives. If the situation called for it, they battered the orcs back with shields.

In each of these spheres of battle, they excelled and could not be said to be less skilled than the central infantry or archers.

When they fired their bows, they were sharpshooters that took shots that the Iron Hawks would have thought impossible.

When they wielded their knives, their movements were more agile and fierce than many a swordsman.

With their shields, they stood steadier than many heavy infantrymen that Count Brandenburg had observed.

Their morale was excellent. Not one of the rangers had faltered since the battle had been joined. The same went for the northern knights, who also numbered less than a hundred yet constantly encouraged the troops with songs.

And there, in the center of it all, was the First Prince. Richter couldn’t figure out what the hell was going through Prince Adrian’s head. Even in the middle of fighting with such a monster, he blew his horn whenever he got the chance.

The only certain thing was that every time the horn was blown, the Northern Army’s banners shook in response. And as the banners touched the sky, the men of the north fought even harder, and the orcs became less and less ferocious.

The orcs were more like defeated soldiers, groaning as the blood flowed from their bodies.

The only thing that remained to be done was to let these orcs pay for every single drop of human blood they had spilled.

* * *

The first thing that I noticed was his lack of an arm. As I stared at the empty space beneath the Warlord’s shoulder, the last image of my uncle came into my mind. He had pretended to be the handsome young knight as he chopped off the foreleg of the dragon.

I was impressed that my uncle, who had been left behind as we escaped, had not gone out in vain, that he had managed to claim the arm of an orcish king.

On the other hand, I was relieved that he had left me my share of the orc.

The Warlord gave a low growl, clearly in discomfort. The great beast was covered in its own blood, and it stared straight at me with death in its eyes. The emotions that fluttered through its eyes were surprisingly familiar to me.

There was the feeling of loss and anger – that feeling of a great loss due to arrogance was one that I knew; it was as if I was looking in a mirror.

The heart of this monster and my own soul were so similar, and I found that to be hilarious. We even shared the murderous intent of tearing one another apart, of ending the foe. The only difference between the two of us was that he viewed our meeting as coincidental, while I knew that it was an inevitable facet of my fate that had led me here.

“Are you a king because you reign, or do you reign because you are a king?” I asked the Warlord. He just snorted and cleaved the air before him with his spear. His was a face that cared not at all for my questions.

“Ah, I know the question seems difficult,” I said and asked it in another way. “If you have no subjects, are you still a king?”

The Warlord was breathing low now, his spear still at the ready as he studied the battlefield. I followed his gaze and saw what he saw.

He saw humans with renewed morale pushing the orcs back with force.

He saw the fluttering cloaks of elves as they aided the human army.

He saw the other human army that had attacked so suddenly and so fiercely, and he saw as they clove so fiercely into his orcish army.

His own forces, having known no other state than constant victory and constant advance, were being devastated as they faced attack from all quarters.

The Warlord stared at me, his face set in stone.

It seemed that he had only now realized what I was trying to do, but it was already too late for him.

He had been arrogant and overconfident, far too intoxicated by his string of successive victories.

How paltry had the resistance of the weak humans been! His had been the excitement of a being that had trampled over the humans and their castles and cities.

The fulfillment of his ambition of establishing his new kingdom in the affluent southern land had been so close at hand.

He had believed that he would break through the defenses upon the Rhinethes in no time, as he had done so many times before.

The Warlord had never suspected that my forces would smash into his rear and melt away his hopes and dreams like thawing snow.

“So what now, are you no longer king?” I asked the beast once more.

The Warlord stared at me and finally spoke.

“I have been king the king since I was born. I will always be the king.”

It was the first sound he had made that was not a bestial roar.

“This is the fate that I have been given.” He said in that deep voice of his. “I am still the king.”

I just laughed at the creature before me.

“If you are the king…”

In that second, a million thoughts flashed through my mind: Mockery of this dark green monarch and ridicule of myself, the fool.

I had accomplished many great feats through the ages, yet none of them were truly mine.

I am the king who has never been in power, the king of swords.

After my illustrious existence, I had been thrown into the shadows, similar to how the rotting corpse of a pauper was thrown into a ditch.

Only now that I had become a foolish man did I wish to regain my glory.

“…then I am the usurper!”

I roared my disillusionment at the incompetent fool king whose arse sat upon a throne made from dragon bone.

At that moment, I felt hatred for the monarch that had betrayed and abandoned his most loyal and courageous knight to the cold snows of the north and the hungry maws of the orcs.

My anger was directed against the warlords who had so cruelly taken what was dear to me.

{}-{ You are singing the [Extraordinary] song of [The Poetry of the Defeated King ] }-{}

“Isn’t it mine, either those high halls,

Or that dignified throne?

There is nothing that is not my seat.”

These philosophies, and this poem, had been created within me as that wagon had carried my bruised body and my battered mind.

It was the first poem I had created out of hate and not with karma.

“Never think of honor, it has no use.”

The flame that had been blazing all over Twilight now became almost frozen, static.

“You will die a miserable death, just like an insignificant runt of an orc.”

The indigo flame of my blade had by now shifted into a dark blueish hue, the type of blue that a raven would see where it to fly over the deepest parts of an ocean.

“Waaghaaruh! Waaghaaaaruh!” came the Warlord’s fierce roar.

The great red energy that flowed around his spear, that mighty fervor of his, rose as if it would consume the entire world.

The elves had been humming their songs all this time, yet they now ceased to do so. Their dance, which had flowed like water flows over rocks, had faltered. The elven swordsman stepped back.

At that moment, I focused myself upon the chill that raced through me, for it felt as if I had been frozen from the deepest depths of my soul to the very tips of my fingers.

Ah, it has been a long time indeed!

Only now did I feel truly whole, for this absolute frigidity was closer to my true essence.

I had been born in the dark and cold soil of this word.

The Warlord’s battle fervor, that red tsunami of overbearing energy, flew at me and only me.

His attack was born out of desperation as if killing me could end this battle and save him from destruction!

It seemed that he had forgotten; the hate that I held within my heart was not mine alone, just as this battle had not merely been between the two of us.

“Kill it!”

A dull noise resounded over the river. A fragmenting projectile had been fired from the defensive lines by a permanently installed siege-weapon.

“The Black Lancers are here!” someone called out.

Knights led by the one-eyed Quéon Lichtheim charged in under falling rain of steel.

“Charge! Charge!”

The Black Lancers sliced into the red energy as they concentrated their mana on the blades of their spears.

If I had not been there, the reckless charge of these knights would have been fleeting, as the Warlord’s malicious and murderous might would have cleaved through them all in a matter of minutes.

Now though, I stood strong, and I would aid these Black Lancers, not like the last time I had thought with them when our defeat had been so total.

“I cut the scales from the dragon,

A dragon that could not be cut by any sword,

And I drink its steaming blood!”

“Let us sing, brothers, let us sing the [The Poem of the True Dragon]!”

What an extraordinary song of war they had chosen to sing, for it seemed that there existed another poem about the myth.

My entire world became hazy, dark, and I felt only the torment of my tearing heart and my scattering soul.

In that world, I could only see a dim dark-blue line, and it cut through the center of the Warlord’s red energy.

And then, the Red Sea split before me.