Chapter 57: Volume 2 - CH 5.6

After the conference came to an end for the time being, Arslan did not go straight back to his bedroom, but instead walked down a corridor leading to the top of the fortress ramparts. The suggestion that either Dariun or Farangis serve as his bodyguard was declined with a shake of his head.

“I would like to be alone. There should be no danger inside the fortress, after all. I wish to take in a little night air.”

Being told this, they had no choice but to back down.

Arslan stretched slightly as he exited to the top of the eastern rampart. The brittle light of the stars above poured down on the prince without a sound, wrapping around him like a curtain of blue gauze.

Despite the cold, it was a pleasant night. For one thing, it was probably because he had been released from life on the run after several consecutive nights of it. He had even taken a bath, and had also finished a proper meal. When he slept, it would no longer be on grass or bare ground, but the magnificently wide bed that had been prepared for him. It was drastically different from what he had experienced until just earlier this evening.

Of course, he had not been looking forward to a life of comfort. From tomorrow on, the real day-to-day battle would begin. He must drive off the Lusitanian army to restore the royal capital of Ecbatana. He must rescue his father Andragoras and his mother Tahmineh and reclaim the lands of Pars. Far too many vast undertakings weighed upon the fourteen year old boy.

However, he had such capable and loyal subordinates that he hardly deserved them. They would lend him their strength. Surely they would help Arslan carry out the responsibilities of a crown prince.

Nonetheless, even if I say so myself, it’s a strange fate that I have, he thought. When he was little, he hadn’t even known he was a prince. The two years he had spent at court were currently as distant to him as the faraway capital, now that he was at this frontier fortress…

Suddenly, fear ran through the prince’s entire body. Somewhere nearby, the clack of armor could be heard.

“Who’s there?”

His own voice sounded like that of someone else.

The night wind surged, battering the prince’s face.

Arslan held his breath. From the other side of the wall emerged a human shadow.

His fine body, both tall and well-proportioned, was a match for either Dariun or Keshvad. And above all else, it was the silver-colored mask covering his head that daunted Arslan.

“So you’re Andragoras’s brat…”

The rumored man of the silver mask faced Arslan for the very first time. Both Dariun and Narses said they had been evenly matched against him in battle, that he possessed formidable swordsmanship.

“You’re Andragoras’s brat?” he repeated, his voice echoing with bloodthirst.

An unusual shudder ran through Arslan’s entire body.

“… I am indeed the son of Andragoras, the crown prince of Pars, Arslan. Now name yourself.”

“Crown prince, you say!? A presumptuous claim. You are nothing more than a wretched mongrel whelped from a filthy usurper.”

The two eyes of the silver mask burst into toxic flame, pluming over to Arslan without a sound.

Hirmiz grew aware of the fact that fury had soaked through the entirety of his insides. If this were not proof that the gods were on his side, what else could it be? At this very moment, the son of Andragoras was right before his eyes. Moreover, no valiant subordinate accompanied him: he was all alone!

The moment this became known to him, Hirmiz could no longer bring himself to remain concealed, and instead revealed his existence to his opponent himself. Unlike Bahman, Arslan could not yet detect an enemy who had erased his presence.

Hirmiz rested his hand on the hilt of his longsword.

“I shall not kill you at once. Sixteen years of suffering cannot be cleared in one blow. First, you little brat, I’ll slice off your right hand.”

Arslan could not respond.

“Next we meet, I’ll have your left hand. If you’re still alive after that, how about I accept your right foot as well?”

The sound of his sword scraping out of its scabbard boded death. Arslan drew his sword too, but the sound was no more than that of a hare squealing before the grinding teeth of a sher.

“Your sin was to be born into this world as a child of Andragoras. Blame your father!”

The silver mask’s slashing strike fell upon Arslan just as he was expecting it. Arslan parried. But he was far from being able to parry perfectly. Whether in strength or in skill, even fifty Arslans gathered together could not counter Hirmiz.

Arslan, sword sent flying through the night sky, received a fierce impact to his body and was blasted backward. His back slammed against the wall of the watchtower, and his breath seized. His field of vision hazed over with pain and terror at the approaching figure of the silver mask projected therein. His hand, desperately seeking a weapon, snagged against something. A torch was hanging on the wall in order to illuminate the top of the ramparts. That was what Arslan’s right hand had touched.

The silver mask brandished his longsword.

“I’ll teach you a lesson, brat of Andragoras!”

A second strike, as announced, should have chopped through Arslan’s right hand then. But it happened in the half second before that. Arslan’s right hand grasped the torch on the wall and thrust it forward as if in a dream.

Sparks scattered from the impact of the torch against the silver mask. Its surface, reflecting the light from the torch, shimmered like a full moon. A scream arose. The silver mask staggered, stamping backwards on the flagstones in retreat.

The one who was dumbfounded was Arslan. The moment the torch was thrust before his eyes, even an enemy as mighty and intimidating as the silver mask flinched.

As he adjusted his breathing and endured the pain in his back and hips, Arslan straightened up. He did so with both hands gripping the torch. In contrast, the silver mask’s shoulders heaved for breath.

“You brat…”

The groaning voice was painted over with a vivid hatred. His terror from sixteen years ago, that fear of fire, was something Hirmiz had assumed he’d completely overcome. That was not the case. How humiliating it must be, for him to display this form before the brat.

This man fears fire!

Gripping the torch with both hands, Arslan advanced forward step by step with it thrust toward the silver mask. Hirmiz moaned. As he moaned, he reluctantly retreated. He cursed his own hidden weakness as he retreated out of fear of the fire.

It was then that the sound of feet kicking against the flagstones came. Amid voices shouting to ascertain Arslan’s safety, human silhouettes came barging into both their views.

“This guy?!”

Of course, it was not just one voice that verified the presence of the silver mask.

To the left were Dariun and Giv. To the right were Farangis and Keshvad. The four mardan heroes swept out five swords and formed a wall of drawn blades around the silver mask.

Not a single one of his enemies was weak. Inside his silver mask, Hirmiz stopped himself from grinding his teeth. Far from cutting down Arslan, it was Hirmiz who had been cornered into a dangerous situation with his life on the line.

Keshvad looked around at the other three, then took half a step forward.

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“Leave this man to me. He who dares invade the bastion of Tahir Keshvad shall be slain by the hands of Keshvad.”

Arslan, shielded behind a slightly late-arriving Narses, stood watch against the wall about ten gaz1 away. Hirmiz, tossing a blistering glance at his distant figure, resumed his stance with his sword. A spirit of arrogance filled his voice.

“It’s fine if all four of you come at me at once. If you don’t, how can the likes of you defeat me?”

“For all that you’re bluffing, you do prattle nicely. I shall offer due respect to your high and mighty words by serving you a painless death.”

Keshvad took up his two swords, and with almost gliding steps, pressed toward Hirmiz.

The other three instead backed away. However, linking up wordlessly, they took up positions to block Hirmiz’s escape routes. At Hirmiz’s back were the parapets of the rampart. In every other direction he was obstructed by the drawn blade of a gallant enemy.

Keshvad’s left and right arms began to carve arcs through the air with the raised tips of his swords.

At this moment, from behind the four of them resounded the voice of Bahman.

“Don’t! You mustn’t kill that gentleman!”

More so than an attempt to forbid them, Old Bahman’s voice instead seemed closer to an entreaty.

“To kill that gentleman is to end the royal bloodline of Pars! You mustn’t kill him!”

The five leveled blades of the four, for a moment, looked as if they froze in the cold air of the winter night.

Hirmiz jumped.

Keshvad’s twin blades sliced toward his shadow against the moonlight. A sound rang out as Hirmiz’s sword met Keshvad’s left blade. But at the same time, Keshvad’s right blade sent a blow toward Hirmiz’s sternum, throwing off his stance.

The screeching of blades chained together. When Hirmiz’s sword landed, this time it was to clash against Farangis’s blade; with a single twist he crossed blades with Giv. Dazzling sparks scattered, and the scent of burnt steel arose.

Faster than the sparks and smell could dissipate, Dariun’s powerful longsword came storming in, scything toward Hirmiz’s shoulder. No, actually, it scythed toward the space where Hirmiz’s shoulder had been just a moment ago. Hirmiz had evaded Dariun’s ferocious strike, but in doing so he had no choice but to throw his own body over the rampart.

The figure of the silver mask stood out amid the darkness, then descended. At the bottom of the darkness, water splashed. He had fallen into the moat.

“Got away, huh…”

Peering into the coiling darkness beneath the rampart, Giv clucked his tongue. When he turned back around to look, he noticed the other three staring hard at Bahman. There was no way for them to pretend they had not heard Bahman’s shout.

To kill the man of the silver mask would end the royal bloodline of Pars — that was what Bahman had said. Those words had stolen the usual “crispness” of their swords. Had it not been for that, there was no doubt Hirmiz would not have been able to escape the encirclement of those four.

For Bahman to utter those words, two requirements must be satisfied.

One: the silver mask was a legitimate claimant of the royal bloodline of Pars.

Two: Prince Arslan was not a legitimate claimant of the royal bloodline of Pars.

If these two requirements were not satisfied, it would not have been possible for Bahman to shout thus.

… It was of course Narses who had realized all this the moment Bahman shouted. But the others would not remain unaware for long. What could Bahman possibly know? What could he be hiding?

“Lord Bahman, what exactly is the meaning of what you said just now?”

Dariun’s voice no longer held any respect toward his senior. He had completely taken on a tone of interrogation.

Now the four warriors switched directions and formed a circle halfway around Bahman. Elam and Afarid, who had climbed up to the top of the ramparts at some point, watched the scene with wide eyes too.

“Lord Bahman!”

This time it was Keshvad who raised his voice.

At this time, Arslan came forward.

“I also wish to know. What did you mean by that, Bahman?”

Arslan’s voice sounded as if he were enduring both fear and unease. Even the prince had experienced an epiphany regarding what terrifying implications were involved in the old man’s words. Narses, resting his hand on the prince’s shoulder, could sense him trembling.

Narses was full of regret. Should I have cut down this troublesome old soldier beforehand? he thought. That he would go so far as blurting out something so disastrous at such a fatal moment was not something Narses could have predicted either.

“Please, forgive me. Forgive me, Your Highness. I only spoke out because the blood got to my head. Even I don’t know what to do…”

Bahman prostrated himself, hands and knees on the stone paving. Arslan, looking down at his gray head, was at a loss for words. As he remained speechless, the warriors did not say anything either, unable to do anything but watch over the prince and Bahman. Narses realized he had unconsciously laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, and let go.

A single knight came dashing up the stairs.

Facing Keshvad, he reported loudly, “It’s an emergency. Just now, a Sindhuran army numbering in the tens of thousands is taking advantage of the darkness to break through the border!”

A new tension shattered the old one. Keshvad heaved a great sigh and sheathed his twin blades, then strode toward the stairs. He had to give orders to intercept the attack.

Arslan took a deep breath. Rather than forcefully breaking down the old soldier’s obstinacy now, better to fend off the Sindhuran invasion, he thought. Or no, perhaps deep in Arslan’s heart, he was afraid of what truths he might hear from Bahman’s mouth.

“Bahman, you’ll tell me all about this later.”

The prince broke into a run toward the stairs, and consequently, the warriors hurried after. For a moment, Narses glanced over his shoulder at Bahman, but did not say a thing.

After they left, Bahman alone remained on the rampart, crouched over in a daze.

… In less than half a month, the year 320 of Pars would come to an end as well.

Winter would last yet longer, like a thick and massive wall blocking Arslan from his future.

1 ~10 m ^

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