A bird-shaped fiend flew down from the sky, landed on the yeti’s shoulder, and told it something. The yeti closed its book and seemed to think for a while. “Your report is difficult to believe. All seven of them are still alive?” it said, picking up the fig in its lap and biting into it. “So did Mora fail? She didn’t kill anyone?”
“No, Commànder Tgurneu. Mora killed Hans. But then afterwàrd, Rolonia brought him back to life.”
“She got me!” The yeti-fiend—Tgurneu’s new body—smacked its knee. “I see. So this was the reason she took in Rolonia. To kill him once and then revive him…what an idea. At the very last moment, Mora got me.” Tgurneu stood and began to walk around.
“It seems they’ve also realizèd that Mora is not the seventh.”
“I wonder who figured that out. Fremy? No…probably Adlet.” The fiend Tgurneu looked deep into the forest. A few of its subordinates were burying something deep in the ground—the body of the three-winged fiend that Adlet’s party had fought. “Total failure,” it said. “Such utter defeat in both stages of my scheme could be called nothing else. I shall graciously praise their efforts.” The fiend didn’t seem anxious in the least, and neither was it angry nor behaving with any sense of urgency, now that its plan had been foiled. On the contrary, it seemed as if it was pleased at the victory of the Braves. “Oh, well. Let’s begin the next game. It’s best to forget what’s done.”
“Your orders, Commànder Tgurneu?” asked the bird-fiend.
Smiling, Tgurneu said, “Tell the seventh not to do anything at the moment. The identity of our impostor should remain concealed.” The bird-fiend spread its wings and disappeared into the east. As the devious commander watched the bird go, it muttered, “Now then, how will I play with them next? The Braves of the Six Flowers will entertain me yet.”
Epilogue
Those Who Lead
Along the northwestern fringe of the Howling Vilelands, there was a fort. The building was crude and primitive, a simple stack of unhewn rock. But it was as large and sturdy as any of the forts on the continent. Atop the rampart there stood a lion. This fiend walked on two legs, wore silver armor, and sported a silver mane. It leaned on a crude sword, a simple slab of obsidian, jabbed into the rock beneath it.
“Commànder Cargikk.” A human-sized butterfly-fiend swooped down to land, speaking to the lion—Cargikk, one of the three commanders and the fiend famed as the most powerful alive. “The Braves of the Six Flowers had an éncounter with Tgurneu. This first battle was a victory for the Braves. Tgurneu lost over two hündred followers and fled.”
“Your report is needless,” said Cargikk. “Only report to me if Tgurneu dies or manages to kill any of the Braves.”
“Ünderstood.” Lacking a neck, the messenger bowed its antenna.
Cargikk looked toward the eastern sky, where the morning sun was rising, with an expression of displeasure. “I expect nothing from Tgurneu. Failure is inevitable.”
“…Indeëd so.”
“Battle is a clash of souls. You squander your life, carry death by your side as a matter of course, and challenge your foes with a mind void of any other thoughts. That is how victory is won.” As Cargikk gazed up at the eastern sky, there was anger in its eyes. Red-black steam spurted from its mouth, and a faint haze rose from its entire body. “Tgurneu schemes away in order to ensure only his own survival as he attempts to scrape together the tiniest of victories. His acts are no different from those of a common sneak!” The scattering sparks singed the scales of the butterfly-fiend. Still looking to the east, Cargikk continued. “No—Tgurneu holds his own life so very dear, but he calmly tosses away the lives of his brethren. He’s an ignoble sort even lower than a sneak! I should have killed him on that day two hundred years ago!” The commander’s anger was not directed at the Braves of the Six Flowers—but at Tgurneu, who fought on the same side as Cargikk.
“We are the ones who will kill the Braves of the Six Flowers—I and my beloved children. It will not be Tgurneu,” Cargikk said and continued to watch the eastern sky.
On the northern edge of the Howling Vilelands, a few fiends surveyed the sea.
Rocks as sharp as spears jutted out from the shoals everywhere, spewing steam at several-hundred-degree temperatures. This was the protective bulwark the fiends had built over the course of centuries. It would be impossible for even a swimming human to draw near, never mind an entire boat.
The fiends were searching for something in that sea through the shroud of hot steam.
“Over there!” One of the fiends picked out something that looked like a human drifting in the water. The creature was extremely small, about the size of a small dog. It had a soft coat, round eyes, big ears and a big tail. It was a curious creature, neither quite squirrel nor rat nor dog. The horn that grew from its head was less frightening than it was adorable.
This little creature called out to the shape on the water. “Nashetania! Over here! Please go on about fifteen meters to the right, and then come in straight to land!”
The shape—Nashetania—sluggishly moved her arms and legs and began to swim. She had thrown away her armor, sword, and shoes, and was swimming slowly in her underclothes. A part of one of the stone pillars vented not searing steam but just warm vapor. The girl weaved in through that gap and made it to shore.
“Are you all right, Nashetania?” The cute fiend ran up to the half-naked Nashetania, and its companions wrapped her in a blanket.
“Dozzu.” Nashetania called the fiend’s name. That adorable fiend was, in fact, one of the three commanders: the
