zChapter 65 - Arc 3, Waxing Moon Chapter 8 (1/2)

War cries erupted from the direction Minaha had shot his arrow, and the bandits came rushing out.

Dozens of them rode on horseback. The galloping of hooves echoed in the forest. Birds screeched and flew off from the treetops.

Some of the bandits shot off arrows, the projectiles whipping through the air, but Ganche quickly grabbed the spear tied to his horse and knocked all of them away.

For the bandits, it seemed they needed more training to learn to continue firing arrows, for as soon as Ganche stopped the barrage, he aimed his spear at the bandits and launched it.

The spear, with its sharpened, immense blade, shot through the air and grazed past the group, only to pierce straight through the face of one of the men in the back.

The bandits who stood in the path between Ganche and the man who now fell over, the scarlet spear through his head, all clutched at their faces or shoulders, falling to their knees as they groaned in pain.

The cleave of Ganche’s spear was so powerful that it robbed the bandits of their will to fight just by nicking them.

The air was still for a moment. Then, the bandits roared in anger as they grasped their swords and spears in hand. Their numbers must have ranged in the dozens; at some point, they had surrounded Ernst and his companions in a fan-shaped formation.

If Ganche had not noticed the signs and Minaha had not let loose with his bow, then the hidden bandits would have filled their bodies with arrows.

From the moment Ganche had halted his horse until now, only a sliver of time had passed.

Had the bandits truly been able to surround them in such a short period of time? It seemed unlikely to Ernst that these bandits were a disorganized group.

“Targes, does it not seem as if a leader is somewhere among them?” Ernst asked in a low whisper directed behind him.

“I believe so, as well. Cutting off the head won’t take a group like this down, however. It’s more likely that their organized coordination ended when they surrounded us.”

As Targes had said, the bandits restlessly jostled each other as they packed closer, seeming as if they were all keeping each other in check, not wanting others to make the first move.

It seemed that in the near future, the bandits would turn on and rob each other, as well.

Staring into the glimmering eyes of the bandits, Ernst felt cold sweat trail down his back.

Ganche, astride his horse, barred the way between Ernst and the bandits. After he had launched his spear, his greatsword remained hilted at his waist. As if the bandits had sensed something amiss, none of them approached to attack.

The Dunbertian, clad in his crimson armor, seemed to grow larger with every passing moment.

As the two forces glared at each other, Ernst felt gratitude in his heart that, at the least, these bandits weren’t headed by a powerful leader.

If a formidable leader commanded them, then their stolen goods would be distributed equally, and would also be used for strategic purposes. If that were the case, then the likelihood of them having hired Grude tribesfolk or Sistican swordmasters would have been much higher.

If this group had added mercenaries into their mix, then Ganche alone might not have been enough to fight against them. But to hire people of Grude or Sistica as mercenaries – people who only operated under contracts stipulated by money – required an enormous sum of funds.

Three bandits who wore competent armor gathered their spirits, then advanced on their horses.

Their glares were focused on the box tied to Ganche’s black horse. They knew, from experience, just what contents such an ornamented wooden box would hold.

Each of them gripped their swords in hand. The way the sunlight played against the blades of the swords told that the weapons were Sistica-made.

Had these men worked as mercenaries long enough for them to be able to obtain Sistican swords? Or were those blades from the multitudes of robberies they had committed?

Ganche, too, slowly drew out the sword at his hip. The sword was enormous, as tall as Ernst’s entire body.

Gripping the reins in his left hand, Ganche turned his horse toward the center bandit.

As Ganche’s horse advanced a few steps, Ernst knew that on the man’s face was a smile.

Ernst could only see Ganche’s back, though even if he saw Ganche from the front, the black faceguard completely obscured his facial expressions. Yet even so, Ernst knew that Ganche was smiling.

A crimson helm with a black faceguard. All that was visible from the outside were the eyes. Those copper eyes which whirled with expressions like those of a child must now be glowing a fierce gold.

When the people of the Dunbertian race became agitated, their eyes changed to a golden color.

The bandits who had ventured forth with courage now stepped back, pinned by Ganche’s golden gaze. Regardless of how determined their riders were, the horses were frightened.

Ganche did not let the retreat of the bandits’ horses slip from him.

He launched his horse into a gallop with a single kick, and with a flick of his right wrist, that enormous and heavy greatsword swung in his hand.

Half of the head of the bandit on his right went flying off, and as he returned his swing, he cleaved through the chest of the bandit to his left.

Without his horse slowing down in the slightest, he cut the torso of the bandit in front of him in half and dashed past the scattered body, his hand gripping the spear that he himself had thrown.

With a heh, Ganche used a single tug to pull out the spear. He directed his horse to turn its head through only the movement of his legs, and then, the five bandits surrounding him collapsed off their steeds.

Ganche only had to brandish his spear to cleave through poorly-made armor. Two of the fallen bandits had already lost their lives.

“The battle is decided, I see,” Targes murmured in relief.

“But there are still twenty people left.” Even as he said this, Ernst also realized that this battle had been won.

Ganche, with his spear in his left hand and greatsword in his right, did not have a single bandit approach him.

To the bandits, the crimson of Ganche’s armor looked a bloody, doomful color. Even Ganche’s black horse, stomping its hooves violently on the ground, struck fear in the horses of the bandits.

“Since you wish to die, come face me. You started this – so don’t make me chase you.”