Read Online Scenes from an Unholy War by Hideyuki Kikuchi - Free Book Online
Authors: Hideyuki Kikuchi
Ads: Link
do so for what seemed an eternity. And all the while, he never stopped shouting. “What about me ? Am I just like you? Do I really want to stay the way I am now? Could it be I don’t really want to die? Well, what is it?”
He continued relentlessly hacking up the already-decaying remains. In this hell, with no one there to see or hear him, he showed his true self.
—
Before the sun went down, the man who’d gone out on a scouting mission came back. He wasn’t one of the villagers, but rather a drifter who’d been hired for the job. Twenty people had signed on for fifty dalas a day. Most of them had come to town looking for such work after hearing rumors that a band of outlaws was on its way. This was happening all over the Frontier, but both the mayor and Rust were surprised the vagrants had arrived so quickly. After all, the mayor hadn’t believed the Black Death gang would arrive for quite a while. But the information possessed by the expert fighting men who wandered the Frontier was more accurate than anyone else’s. Of course, they’d be risking their lives, but those who came to offer their services were professionals, and few of them would be inclined to run off during the fighting. The village was still careful about whom they hired, and naturally, payment was made in advance. However, the history of the Frontier was rife with tales of people who’d collected their pay, only to promptly turn tail. Therefore the villagers didn’t wholly trust them, and they would keep an eye on the hired guns until the very end.
At least the man’s report on his reconnaissance mission was accurate enough.
“Thirty miles to our south, eh? That’d put them here inside of three days.”
Rust immediately set to organizing efforts to repel the attackers. The village’s defenses were checked and reinforced, and armaments that’d been waiting in warehouses were set up in previously designated strategic positions. The weapons they had amassed were ones that had been purchased from the Capital through arms dealers in the five decades since the village was incorporated. Not only did they have the very latest-model intelligent mortar, but they also had quite a few old-fashioned fuse-style cannons.
The villagers needed no further training than their daily life. In a manner of speaking, every day on the Frontier was a day spent in combat. From the time they were toddlers, children practiced with swords and spears, and past the age of ten they had to master the use of firearms. Even if they weren’t professionals, the men and women of the Frontier were born warriors. The drifters who’d temporarily taken on employment—mercenaries, in a manner of speaking—knew this quite well and didn’t look down on the villagers, except for one amateur, fresh out of the Capital, who saw the townspeople practicing with their firearms and snickered.
Lyra was putting them through their paces. On hearing the laughter, she asked, “Care to try your luck against them, then?” She was wearing a thin smirk.
The matter was settled most emphatically. While the drifter out of the Capital could barely hit the bull’s-eye on a life-sized iron target at two hundred yards using the very latest-model clip-fed rifle, the people he’d mocked could easily hit the same at twice that distance using antiquated bolt-action weapons.
Outraged, the drifter challenged a villager to a sword fight, one on one. The villager chose to go with a stick he was comfortable with. It was over in an instant. Jumping back out of range of the drifter’s sword, the villager delivered a blow with his footlong baton. It slammed into the drifter’s face, knocking him out on the spot.
Lyra treated these villagers as if they were children. If they held back against her because she was a woman, she had no qualms about knocking them senseless. Even when they gave it their all, every swing met only air, and when they were finally exhausted, she delivered the coup de grâce.
He continued relentlessly hacking up the already-decaying remains. In this hell, with no one there to see or hear him, he showed his true self.
—
Before the sun went down, the man who’d gone out on a scouting mission came back. He wasn’t one of the villagers, but rather a drifter who’d been hired for the job. Twenty people had signed on for fifty dalas a day. Most of them had come to town looking for such work after hearing rumors that a band of outlaws was on its way. This was happening all over the Frontier, but both the mayor and Rust were surprised the vagrants had arrived so quickly. After all, the mayor hadn’t believed the Black Death gang would arrive for quite a while. But the information possessed by the expert fighting men who wandered the Frontier was more accurate than anyone else’s. Of course, they’d be risking their lives, but those who came to offer their services were professionals, and few of them would be inclined to run off during the fighting. The village was still careful about whom they hired, and naturally, payment was made in advance. However, the history of the Frontier was rife with tales of people who’d collected their pay, only to promptly turn tail. Therefore the villagers didn’t wholly trust them, and they would keep an eye on the hired guns until the very end.
At least the man’s report on his reconnaissance mission was accurate enough.
“Thirty miles to our south, eh? That’d put them here inside of three days.”
Rust immediately set to organizing efforts to repel the attackers. The village’s defenses were checked and reinforced, and armaments that’d been waiting in warehouses were set up in previously designated strategic positions. The weapons they had amassed were ones that had been purchased from the Capital through arms dealers in the five decades since the village was incorporated. Not only did they have the very latest-model intelligent mortar, but they also had quite a few old-fashioned fuse-style cannons.
The villagers needed no further training than their daily life. In a manner of speaking, every day on the Frontier was a day spent in combat. From the time they were toddlers, children practiced with swords and spears, and past the age of ten they had to master the use of firearms. Even if they weren’t professionals, the men and women of the Frontier were born warriors. The drifters who’d temporarily taken on employment—mercenaries, in a manner of speaking—knew this quite well and didn’t look down on the villagers, except for one amateur, fresh out of the Capital, who saw the townspeople practicing with their firearms and snickered.
Lyra was putting them through their paces. On hearing the laughter, she asked, “Care to try your luck against them, then?” She was wearing a thin smirk.
The matter was settled most emphatically. While the drifter out of the Capital could barely hit the bull’s-eye on a life-sized iron target at two hundred yards using the very latest-model clip-fed rifle, the people he’d mocked could easily hit the same at twice that distance using antiquated bolt-action weapons.
Outraged, the drifter challenged a villager to a sword fight, one on one. The villager chose to go with a stick he was comfortable with. It was over in an instant. Jumping back out of range of the drifter’s sword, the villager delivered a blow with his footlong baton. It slammed into the drifter’s face, knocking him out on the spot.
Lyra treated these villagers as if they were children. If they held back against her because she was a woman, she had no qualms about knocking them senseless. Even when they gave it their all, every swing met only air, and when they were finally exhausted, she delivered the coup de grâce.
Similar Books
