"Feed them more. If they don't obey in the air, they'll just think of whatever's on their back as emergency rations."
At the beast-handler's order, several soldiers stuck slabs of dripping meat on tridents and dropped them in front of the gryphons.
Inside the beaks shaped like an eagle's, teeth like sawblades showed.
Chomp, crack, crunch.
As the sinew and fascia of raw meat tore, a chilling sound came out. A gryphon was a monster. A monster with black eyes, black blood leaking, reeking with a rancid blood-stench. The soldier feeding it did not relax.
'If this goes wrong, I die.'
The soldier's spear was cautious. Fresh horse meat—this was the first tool for taming a gryphon.
"If they go hungry, it's over."
Said the handler. It was basic to feed them richly with mostly meat. Only then would they not crave human flesh.
If you asked whether feeding them well meant you could ride them long hours, the answer was again no.
The monster handler was experienced, having tamed multiple monsters. In that one's view, gryphons were inefficient.
Gryphons did not have very good stamina. On the ground, they might fight all day, but once they started flying, their wingbeats ate up their strength.
And once their strength was drained, with a lump of weight added on their backs—more so if the thing on their back was that tender, prime meat called a human?
They'd fling the burden to the ground with a "what a nice lunchbox," and tear and swallow it.
Lose strength, and they eat whoever's riding them—that's what it means. Nor do they obey just because you give orders. Compared to a trained warhorse, the inconveniences were far too many. They were worse than a wild horse just broken in.
Because their savagery couldn't be controlled, they chased every unit the enemy sent out as bait the moment they saw it—that was a problem too.
Even so, these Gryphon Riders were the core of the strategy.
Because a single advantage canceled out all these flaws—efficiency could go to the dogs for that reason.
'What can you do against something that flies?'
Because gryphons were included, the guardian god of the South was pinned down by so small a force as this.
The knightly order's strength couldn't be sent elsewhere. They didn't dare turn their gaze. If they pulled their feet back, the remaining troops would be annihilated.
The handler did not know every part of the strategy, but could tell by feel that this was part of a major branch.
Even if things went wrong here, there would be no danger to the handler.
'I am special.'
Monster-handling was a rare skill even in the South. The handler's master had learned a little alchemy, a little magic, and some sorcery, and from that had created the present concept. Thus was the monster handler born. A single genius had accomplished it.
"Can't you make these idiots listen better?"
One of the Gryphon Riders threw the line with a furrowed brow. If it were a regular soldier, the handler would have snapped back—who are you to flap your mouth here—but couldn't. The speaker was the only knight among the riders. Maybe not top-tier in the entire great nation, but because of a special talent, this man alone rode a gryphon.
Above all, he was a knight. Even if he wasn't among the few best, with a flick of his hand the handler's neck could go rolling.
The superiority of force was clear. The handler bowed his head.
"If they listened that meekly, they wouldn't be called monsters, Sir Simlak."
"I know. But think of the rider, too."
The handler swallowed the rising irritation, but a faint displeasure seeped into the tone. To speak like that without knowing what it had cost to break this pack of gryphons—it was galling.
"If I didn't think of the rider, you'd already be gryphon feed."
The knight's eyes turned toward the handler. They were glass-clear, without a trace of emotion.
"Watch your mouth. I nearly chopped off an arm just now."
"…I will take care."
The monster handler bowed farther. If the handler died, the dozens of gryphons bound by charms and sorcery would go mad and rampage.
The knight knew. He would have been told a hundred times before coming. But this man was the kind who didn't care about any of that. A Southern knight drunk on battle—that very thing.
'Son of a—'
The handler cursed the knight inwardly. Simlak knew and let it pass. In any case, that man was the key to this operation.
Knowing that, there would be no lopping of heads. Would a knight who fought for the High Pontiff defy the High Pontiff's order?
There were three knightly orders in the South. Simlak belonged to one of them—the Amethyst Order. The amethyst was one of the High Pontiff's symbols, meaning a hand and foot that served him.
In truth, Simlak had no grievance with the handler. Simlak was simply parched.
'I want to cross blades with that Cypress bastard.'
Without permission, he could not step out. That was what offended him.
'Do you not trust me, Commander?'
It was the order of the Amethyst Order's commander. And not only Simlak—three other knights felt the same dissatisfaction.
"You saw it?"
"Barely."
"If it's just taking a life, it looks easy."
The three each had a singular talent. With Simlak included, the four of them were all the knight-power left in this camp.
The opponent those three meant was the captain of the Red Cloak Order of Knights, Cypress.
Simlak, too, had only seen Cypress from afar a few times.
'That's Cypress?'
Was that really the knight called a guardian god? To Simlak's eyes, the man called Cypress looked weak. In other words, doable. If it looked that way to Simlak, it was likely similar for the other three.
'This isn't the recklessness or bravado of youth.'
There were more knights in the South than on the continent. Purely a difference in numbers. Because of that, they knew their place well. A good fighter properly assesses the opponent's power.
A Southern saying. They were men used to that proverb.
They did not underestimate an opponent out of arrogance. That was why the question arose.
Did it make sense that the advance was blocked because of a single knight? They'd even heard the strategy had been revised because of one Cypress.
Yet that opponent looked easy. If their blood didn't run hot, they wouldn't deserve to be called Southern knights.
If it hadn't been for the order of the main force's commander and captain, they would have ditched these gryphons and charged long ago.
'Parched, truly.'
A knight was also someone who possessed a desire for struggle. Simlak's desire for struggle was on the excessive side among them. That didn't mean there was no patience.
"Hold it, Simlak. This isn't our time to move."
Said a knight of the Amethyst known for wielding calm as a weapon.
"I know."
Simlak nodded. He would carry out the task given him. That was his duty now.
***
Two mornings later—Screeee——a gryphon's monstrous cry cut the sky. You could call it a horrific sound, just to hear it.
At least, for those defending Naurillia's Southern Front, it was so. The number of riders had increased again. Over thirty.
"Those bastards keep multiplying?"
Sir Lien said when he saw it. Brow furrowed, three javelins slung over his shoulder, he gauged the positions of the incoming ones.
The ones on gryphons would be gauging their positions as well. A knight's thrown javelin would feel like a threat.
"Everyone to your stations. Don't forget what we're here to do."
Though he held the post of vice-captain, his tone was plain and his actions unhesitating. At his words, every one of the Red Cloak Order of Knights stamped their feet in answer.
"Ha!"
A knightly order was a single body whose hands and feet had been trained together from youth. Their ability to execute a plan was naturally superior. As for drill—the general measure of that ability—they had done more than enough.
"Move."
Lien gave the command. Five squires mounted up and broke into a run. Today, they were the first bait. While friendlies reacted and the gryphons swooped, behind the friendly camp a single horse pawed the ground, ready to run.
Odd-Eye still couldn't take to the sky just by flapping wings in place. It had to gallop and get speed for the body to lift. Only then would it fly.
Because of that, the whole Naurillia army had been taking down tents in the camp and raising them elsewhere to make a road.
That road ran straight toward the place the gryphons would come. Odd-Eye pounded down that path—straight, long, and made smooth as soldiers picked stones through the night.
It tore the wind and unleashed its full, racing instinct.
Enkrid hugged close to Odd-Eye's back. Otherwise the wind would flay his skin.
The black hide of the horse sweated blue. Sweat that had been touched by Will turned into a blue vapor.
Over that, the dark-green cloak stretched of its own accord and wrapped the human from head to toe.
As they kept running, a single line seemed to score the earth. It left behind afterimages of a dark-blue line tangled with a dark-green line.
To the soldiers' eyes, that was how it looked. And that strange line seemed to surge up and take to the sky.
***
Two mornings later—Screeee——a gryphon's monstrous cry cut the sky. You could call it a horrific sound, just to hear it.
At least, for those defending Naurillia's Southern Front, it was so. The number of riders had increased again. Over thirty.
"Those bastards keep multiplying?"
Sir Lien said when he saw it. Brow furrowed, three javelins slung over his shoulder, he gauged the positions of the incoming ones.
The ones on gryphons would be gauging their positions as well. A knight's thrown javelin would feel like a threat.
"Everyone to your stations. Don't forget what we're here to do."
Though he held the post of vice-captain, his tone was plain and his actions unhesitating. At his words, every one of the Red Cloak Order of Knights stamped their feet in answer.
"Ha!"
A knightly order was a single body whose hands and feet had been trained together from youth. Their ability to execute a plan was naturally superior. As for drill—the general measure of that ability—they had done more than enough.
"Move."
Lien gave the command. Five squires mounted up and broke into a run. Today, they were the first bait. While friendlies reacted and the gryphons swooped, behind the friendly camp a single horse pawed the ground, ready to run.
Odd-Eye still couldn't take to the sky just by flapping wings in place. It had to gallop and get speed for the body to lift. Only then would it fly.
Because of that, the whole Naurillia army had been taking down tents in the camp and raising them elsewhere to make a road.
That road ran straight toward the place the gryphons would come. Odd-Eye pounded down that path—straight, long, and made smooth as soldiers picked stones through the night.
It tore the wind and unleashed its full, racing instinct.
Enkrid hugged close to Odd-Eye's back. Otherwise the wind would flay his skin.
The black hide of the horse sweated blue. Sweat that had been touched by Will turned into a blue vapor.
Over that, the dark-green cloak stretched of its own accord and wrapped the human from head to toe.
As they kept running, a single line seemed to score the earth. It left behind afterimages of a dark-blue line tangled with a dark-green line.
To the soldiers' eyes, that was how it looked. And that strange line seemed to surge up and take to the sky.
***
"Over here! Look here!"
Not only part of the Red Cloak Order served as bait. Twenty supporting soldiers led by Burnion also went out as bait.
Burnion strained the veins in his neck. His shout seeped through the thunder of gryphon wingbeats.
Would the bastard on the gryphon even hear? He wouldn't. Even so, Burnion shouted.
To tame a monster and fight alongside it—
His mercenary band had been swept away and killed by such monster waves. Thus every monster in the world was his enemy and the target of his vengeance. Grinding his molars, Burnion shouted again.
"Look at me! Come eat me!"
He wasn't the only soldier who went out as bait. In the South, many had suffered at the hands of monsters and demons.
Some among them had lost eyes or limbs, and others had lost family.
"Come on, come."
One soldier murmured, cut his own hand, and scattered blood. Most monsters were sensitive to the smell of blood. Knowing that, he did it.
The Southern Front was not simply a place that fought Rihinstetten. These men had two enemies. If one was the great southern nation, the other was the monsters flowing out of the Demon-lands.
And in the South, they had long used strategies that employed monsters. For those who hated monsters, the South itself became an object of hatred as well.
Apart from these, there were soldiers who volunteered as bait for other reasons.
"The Lord watches over us!"
If you ran your mouth wrong on horseback, your tongue would get cut in half. Knowing that, there was still a soldier who poured out such a long cry. His name was Lapild—a man who, if he lived, was certain to become a devout follower of the War God.
"Ooooh!"
Their shouts were not in vain. The gryphon pack could not shake off the lure of galloping horses and humans.
The Gryphon Rider standing atop it soothed the monster being ridden and dropped bundles of stones and scrolls hooked on the modified saddle.
The bundles flared and fell as great fireballs. A single javelin flew for the center of one.
Boom!
How many in midair could break a spell?
It was the Red Cloak Order of Knights. Javelins thrown by those who had reached a quasi-knight level, likely.
The Gryphon Rider adjusted distance and repeated the task. The rain had stopped. If gryphons hadn't hated rain, this battle would already have ended long ago.
In truth, it didn't matter either way.
Even if the rain had poured down, they wouldn't have been able to rest. The drowned dead in their masses and the monster hordes would have pummeled them without end.
'To batter them one-sidedly from the sky…'
Simlak prepared for any javelin a knight might hurl up. Strangely, it was quiet below. By now, arrows or javelins aimed at him should have been coming up, yet there was no such attempt. All their effort was going into intercepting the falling scrolls.
'Too many to take on?'
So—timid responses?
Simlak's disappointment grew. They should have fought better than this. If the name Cypress wasn't a lie, they should have.
'Is this all?'
Naturally, they had no skill of flying, right?
The gryphons beat vast wings through the sky. The sound hammered the ears like a falling waterfall.
Kwaaaa, kwaaaa.
Amid that noise, another rhythm mixed in. No—it might not have truly been heard. Simlak only acted on instinct.
He yanked the leather reins tied to the gryphon's mouth. It was a snap judgment. The gryphon reacted, twisting aside, and Simlak held the reins in his left hand alone, leaning his body to one side. Because his thighs and hips were fixed to the saddle so as not to fall, he twisted his waist as far as it would go. It was by a hair's breadth.
Whump!
With a sound of air popping, pressure rocked his helm. Straightening from the lean, Simlak turned his head.
Every motion was fast enough to step beyond a normal man's bounds. The light that ran from his eyes traced a half-arc in midair.
And at the end of his gaze, he saw not a gryphon, but a man riding a winged horse.
A winged horse was astonishing, but something else seized Simlak's attention.
'Without even a saddle?'
He was flying. Which meant in open air. Even a knight, if he fell, would be badly injured or die. Yet he was riding a winged creature with no saddle?
It was bravado beyond boldness. Even Simlak had his thighs and pelvis fixed to the saddle set on the gryphon.
With accelerated thought, Simlak discarded a few visible and distracting facts—like the very existence of a pegasus or whether there was a saddle—and instead grasped what he needed.
'Enemy—flying. At least knight-class.'
At the recognition, Simlak felt a thrill inside.
"So, you have the skill of flying."
At last, a foe worth fighting had appeared.
That opponent didn't look like Cypress no matter how you squinted, but dropping one here to start would be fun.
In any case, the reason they used gryphons was to sap the strength of those Red Cloak Knights and then fight them.
And if they managed to kill even the opponent who'd barely made it up into the sky? The enemy's morale would scrape the floor.
"Who are you? Give your name."
No answer came back.
Enkrid, the actual opponent, only drummed Odd-Eye's head calmly, sharing a rapport with the horse.
"Hey, I almost fell."
Neigh.
"Don't say you don't care. We're fighting together right now. Don't forget."
Neigh.
"Right, let's try what we trained."
If it were simply fighting while mounted on Odd-Eye's back, would there have been any need to rack their brains and train for days?
No. Enkrid had come up with a clever technique and meant to execute it, and the reactions within the Order when they heard it were varied. Truly varied.