“Oh, come on! What does that matter!? Your cute little sister is here! You could at least crack a smile!”
“Where’s this ‘cute little sister’ you’re referring to?”
“Here! Right here! I’m your cute little sister, boss!”
“How annoying...” Gilbert responded, practically spitting out the words.
But Franziska was carelessly humming a tune like she hadn’t heard him at all. She turned her gaze to the horizon her brother was looking out over, but quickly found that she had to hold a hand over her eyes to block the harsh sunlight. “Mn... So, where are you looking?”
“Nowhere in particular... But there’s a terrible stench coming from over there.”
“There? From the west? Oswald’s fighting the prince in the east, right?”
“A dangerous foe, yes. But there’s something different about this one.”
“Hm... The west would mean... the Second Army?”
“No. Not anymore.” Gilbert glared at Franziska, making little to no effort to conceal his irritation, but this only made her break into an enraptured smile.
“Wow, even a knight would shrink back from that look! I’m really feeling it now.”
“Silence, fool. The Fourth Princess you failed to eliminate is here. She has taken in the Second Army, her troops now numbering sixteen thousand... including Black Knight Jerome.”
Franziska puffed out her cheeks. “Huh. Seriously? Isn’t she from the northeast, though? What’s she doing in the west?”
“If that wasn’t bad enough, the Queen’s Navy has been crushed.”
“Okay, now that part’s got nothing to do with me!”
“Based on the report from our spy, her strategist, Regis d’Aurick, was serving as admiral proxy. That notorious man who was rumored to have taken Fort Volks—he’s the one Oswald was wary about. That’s why he hired us to slow him down.”
Franziska’s eyes darted all over. She had attacked Fort Volks along with Varden’s forces, her duty having been to lock down the Fourth Princess for as long as possible, but she hadn’t managed to keep her for even a day.
“Um... Er... A-Ahahaha...”
“Your blunder allowed them to hinder the pursuit of the Seventh Army in the Battle of La Frenge. And the war has taken a harsh turn since the supply ships were crushed at sea. High Britannia continues its advance, but they can only last as long as they have ammunition. If they fail to take Verseilles with what they have on hand, including the supplies we carry, then... all will be lost.”
Franziska was beginning to look ill. She had broken into a cold sweat.
“Hah...” Gilbert sighed. “Had I known how dangerous he was, I would have gone to Fort Volks personally. Looks like Jessica’s intel missed the mark by a long shot.”
“Sis would be pretty upset if she heard you say that.”
“In this world, only the winners survive; effort and standing have nothing to do with it. If you don’t want to die, get results. You may be my sister, but the next time you fail, I’m cutting you off.”
“Erk... Don’t worry! Of course I’m going to win next time!”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
At that, Gilbert’s eyes flitted back to the west. Franziska wiped her brow with a sigh.
Another voice soon came from the base of the tree—a high-pitched female one. “Gilly? Franny? Dinner’s ready!”
Looking up and waving from below was a child who couldn’t have been older than ten. She was the third sister, going by Martina. She looked considerably small from so high up, but that also would have been the case on the ground; height-wise, she barely even reached Gilbert’s waist.
Franziska broke into a smile. “Meheh. Good girl, that Martina!”
“...Too unreliable on the front line. She’s on cooking duty for now. But it’s never too early to get battlefield experience.”
“Er, boss? I’m saying that Martina is cute. What did you think I meant?”
“No need to discuss such a trifling detail.”
“It’s pretty important to me!”
Gilbert lifted himself up ever so slightly before leaping from the bough, the wind roaring in his ears on the way down. His sudden absence caused the bough to spring back up, very nearly flinging Franziska into the air.
“Hyah!? W-Wait for me, boss!” She was as nimble as a cat, but this was too great of a height for even her to jump from without preparation. She hurried back to the trunk, climbing down with haste.
No sooner had Gilbert touched the ground than Martina latched onto him. “Gilly! Dinner!”
“Right...”
She began climbing up his body as though he were a tree himself—not that he particularly minded. He allowed her to swing about and play as he returned to the camp.
The High Britannian supply unit he had been entrusted with numbered ten thousand in total. Of those, five thousand were professional soldiers there to guard the convoy, and another three hundred were elites he had brought from the mercenary brigade Renard Pendu.
When they arrived, the mercenaries immediately flocked to him.
“Here, take a seat, chief!”
“Ah, chief! Over here!”
“Wait, ain’t it our unit’s turn today!?”
“Oi, quit pushing me. I’ll slaughter you!”
“Ahyahyahya! Go on, then. I dare you!”
They were exuding the same air as always, coming off as a gathering of ruffians.
Gilbert let out another sigh. “Nuisances... I knew it. I really need to break up the brigade.”
The men suddenly fell silent, but only for a brief moment. Soon enough—“Bwahahahahah!”—they all burst into laughter.
“C’mon over, chief! The best cut’s done grilling! We’ve got deer today! Venison! Just removed the horns!”
“How about you guys listen to me...?”
Under normal circumstances, there would not have been time to set up a stove. A camp was little more than a bonfire, and with such weak flames, it was impossible to make anything too complex.
Today, however, they had managed to steal a camp set up by the imperial army. It came with a serviceable stove, and the men were in high spirits over the large chunks of meat they could roast and the soups they could stew in their pots.
Despite their current behavior, Gilbert knew that the events a couple days prior had put the soldiers on edge. As their leader, he decided it necessary to offer them at least a brief respite, cracking open a wine casket from the supplies. He couldn’t blame them for being troubled, after all—from the port, they had witnessed the battle that had taken place in the bay firsthand.
It had seemed almost certain that High Britannia would come out victorious, but even so, the supply unit were prepared to depart the instant they saw any worrying signs. And then, under the watchful eyes of the soldiers... a High Britannian ship of the line had been caught up in an explosion greater than anything they had ever seen before.
In that very moment, Gilbert had known that the crews aboard the other ships would lose their will to fight. His own men had been understandably shocked as well. Bows and spears could be countered, but this had been a burst like a volcanic eruption—a force of nature that no man would ever be able to oppose.
Time and alcohol—those were the only cures for the profound terror they were faced with.
It hadn’t been long after the supply unit’s departure from the port town that their scouts spotted an enemy unit setting up camp. These foes proved to be cowards, fleeing without ever crossing blades, and there was nothing lost in using the preparations they had left behind.
After a good drink and a nice meal, both the soldiers and supply carriers appeared to have regained their spirits to quite a degree. In fact, the mercenaries were now even rowdier, their voices perhaps thirty percent louder than usual.
As far as Gilbert was concerned, they were acting too energetic. He arbitrarily took an empty seat, feeling rather fed up, at which point Martina sat down to his right. In no time at all, there was a heaping plate of meat thrust before him. Only then did Franziska finally catch up, completely winded.
“Heeey! Boss’s side belongs to me, remember!?” she exclaimed, barging in and grabbing his left arm.
Gilbert sighed. “Personal space... Your body temperatures are too high, the both of you. It’s irritating.”
“No way!” Franziska and Martina cried in unison.
In the end, it didn’t matter where he sat; the mercenaries would bring their own plates over and gather in a circle around him regardless. They would selfishly include him in their conversations on just about anything they could think of.
“Listen to this, chief! My wife gave birth back home!”
“Good for you. A toast.”
The mercenaries roared, clanging their cups of wood and iron together in a fervent cheer.
“Chief! My old ma went and croaked, but she never gave a penny to church. You think she can still make it into heaven?”
“Don’t worry about it. If she’s in hell, I’m sure you’ll see her soon enough. Make it up to her then. Well, a toast to heaven.”
They gave another shout and toasted again.
“Chief! My wife gave birth, too! It’s a boy!”
“Wonderful. A toast.”
“Thing is... I haven’t seen her in two years!”
“I see. Then he won’t have your ugly mug. A toast.”
The men cheered in a mixture of despair and desperation.
Gilbert looked around. “Where’s Jessica?”
“Still praying...” Franziska responded, glancing toward the tent currently being used by their eldest sister. It was fairly large and removed from all the clamor.
Jessica was a magician whose spells served many purposes. They granted power to her comrades. They healed wounds. They read the weather using the flow of the stars. Or at least, the men of the brigade believed they did such things. And while she saw these comrades as family, she could hardly stand the noise. At times, she would hole up and even refuse to eat.
The sinking sun added an orange fringe to the western hills, and as time passed, it looked as though half the sky had been set ablaze. One only had to shift their gaze toward the encroaching dark of night to see that the first stars had already begun to shine.
✧ ✧ ✧
June 3rd, night—
Hooves beat the ground, kicking against the grassy plains and raising a cloud of dust as horsemen in black-painted armor closed in on the enemy camp.
It was Belgaria’s Black Knight Brigade, led by the renowned Black Knight himself, Jerome Jean de Beilschmidt. He was fully clad in black plate armor, as his epithet suggested, and brandished his prized lance, Les Cheveux d’une Dame. The horse he rode was black as well, fitted with armor to protect it from bullets and arrows.
This was an era where horses were an outrageously valuable commodity. A well-trained warhorse, for example, was treasured so highly that most soldiers could save up over their entire careers and still not be able to afford one. It was for this reason that they were rarely targeted in close-quarters combat; regardless of the battle’s purpose, any soldier who managed to defeat a knight and steal his warhorse would have obtained a life-changing fortune.
Indeed, no matter how strong the foe they were up against, no one would intentionally squander the prospect of potential riches. A warhorse’s armor was only meant to protect it from unintentional shots, but how effective this would be against High Britannia’s latest rifles was yet to be seen.
A guide with good eyes and a white banner took the lead, and a moment later, he raised a hand. A campfire could be seen flickering beneath the stars; the enemy was close.
“Hmph... Time to teach them a lesson!”
The beating hooves naturally gave away their approach. Explosive bursts rose from High Britannia’s camp—the roars of their new rifles. The camp was still too far away for these shots to be a major threat, but a few stray bullets still hit their targets, knocking those struck in unfortunate places from their horses.
Sure, the horsemen were overwhelmingly faster than foot soldiers, but there was little that could be done when they were being so one-sidedly fired upon. The specs of the enemy’s guns were simply too great.
Once they had amply closed the distance, Jerome finally gave the order.
“Fire!”
Rather than blowing into a bugle, Krueger, who rode beside him, signaled the order with a gunshot. Belgaria’s guns were front-loaded and took quite some time to reload, so as soon as one shot was fired, the weapon was shoved into a bag hung from the saddle and another loaded one was pulled out. This tactic was intended to make use of the Second Army’s surplus of guns.
The Black Knight Brigade now numbered four hundred, having lost a hundred men a few days before in the battle of La Frenge. Their shots were unreliable on horseback, but they were sure to accomplish something with four muskets per horseman.
Soon, it wasn’t only bullets coming from the enemy camp—flaming arrows were flying toward them as well. Such meager attacks weren’t enough to spook a warhorse, but in no time at all, flames had started to spread along the ground.
Jerome clicked his tongue. “They’ve spread oil!”
This had presumably been done under the order of the Mercenary King; High Britannia’s soldiers weren’t well accustomed to war, and it would require a skilled hand to do something as petty as splashing oil in preparation for a night raid.
It appeared that not much oil had actually been used, so the flames served no real purpose other than to provide light—but that was exactly the problem.
“General, we’re in plain sight!” Krueger yelled, his voice stiff. The night raid had lost its advantage.
Once again, Jerome barked an order. “All right! Retreat!”
This time, in response to the command, Abidal-Evra and his direct subordinates sounded a bugle.
Cavalry were unable to come to a sudden halt, nor could they abruptly turn the other way. They instead began heading to the right, starting with those in the lead, turning their shielded left sides to the enemy as they devoted their all to getting away.
They had preserved their horses’ stamina precisely for this moment, and they broke from their foe at the speed of the wind. Soon enough, the gunshots had faded into the distance.
Jerome tugged on his horse’s reins to slow it down as Abidal-Evra came close.
“General, we have a few injuries.”
While Jerome’s current position listed him as head of the Fourth Army’s Black Knight Brigade, those who had spent years serving under him were used to calling him “General.” This was rarely a cause for confusion, however, as their current commander was often referred to as “Princess,” instead.
“Let them rest,” Jerome ordered. “They can take their time. Those who are unharmed, hurry back to base camp. We’re preparing for the next one.”
“Yes, sir!”
A white shape suddenly caught his eye, moving across the dark hill. It was a carriage.
“There!”
Jerome signaled for those behind to take care not to crash into those in front. The braying horses and Abidal-Evra’s bugle told them to decelerate.
Once the Black Knight Brigade had slowed considerably, it passed by several horse-drawn carriages, each piled high with barrels. It was the sappers. He could vaguely make out their salutes in the dark, and while he wasn’t sure whether they could see him in return, Jerome tentatively reciprocated.
“Are those really going to be useful...?” he muttered.
Abidal-Evra tilted his head, “Who knows? However, if we raided the enemy without a plan, even a cavalry charge would suffer considerable casualties. We’ve already lost a few riders just from exchanging shots at a distance in the dark.”
They had launched a surprise attack during the Battle of La Frenge and still ended up losing a hundred horsemen. High Britannia’s guns were far too dangerous to face head-on.
Jerome spurred his horse. “War is going to be completely different from here on out.”
“Regrettably so,” Abidal-Evra responded, his voice quavering.
Before these new guns had entered the fray, knights were just about peerless on the battlefield. They wore armor that neither spears nor arrows could pierce, raced faster than anyone could flee, and carried sizable lances that allowed them to safely and reliably butcher their foes from horseback.
No matter how dire a situation the foot soldiers were in, the cavalry alone had often been enough to overturn the results of a battle. But now, an infantryman without experience, armor, or an expensive horse could kill a knight with the simple pull of a trigger. And even though it was nighttime, the hail of gunfire had still managed to halt their advance, with traces of oil and a few sparks clearing away the darkness all too easily.
Can we really fight off the supply unit?
It wasn’t only Jerome—many knights surely shared his doubts. But the operation had already begun. For now, they were to carry out their roles and ask questions later.
✧ ✧ ✧
The Fourth Army’s main camp resided a thirty-minute gallop away, not too far from the enemy’s campsite. Even though it was for the express purpose of their plan, they really had gone all out with their battle formation—bonfires illuminated the surrounding area, while foot soldiers clad in heavy armor watched every direction. Horses were given time to rest inside while the guns they carried were loaded for the next attack, and the carriages coming in were stacked high with barrels before being sent right on their way.
When the Black Knight Brigade returned, the stablehands and gun-tenders raced over, with each knight scrambling to be the first to have his equipment checked. As this went on, a somewhat gangly man stepped down from the white carriage fitted with expensive glass, teetering as he walked. It was the strategist who had proposed this plan—Regis.
“...Good work,” he murmured.
“Hmph. We ran around a bit and got a look at the enemy. Commend the horses, maybe, but we’ve hardly done any work.”
“That’s good... There’s still time till daybreak, and I was worried we wouldn’t be able to repeat our diversions.”
“Is there really any point in all that?” Jerome asked, glaring at the barrels.
Regis scratched his head. “It’s partly dependent on the weather, so I can’t say for sure... But the way things are looking now, we should be fine as long as we continue until morning.”
“It’ll be magic if you manage to pull this off.”
“Not exactly. It really is just sciences naturelles.”
“Hmph. Speaking of magic... there are rumors that the Mercenary King employs a magician of his own.”
“Yes, but they’re entirely baseless. Something about how Gilbert’s younger sister Jessica can use magic to strengthen and heal others. They say she can even see into the future.”
“What do you think?”
“...The world’s a big place; there could actually be someone like that out there. It’s good to believe in a little mystery,” Regis replied with a pleasant smile on his face.
Jerome reached out and grabbed a handful of the tactician’s dark, green-tinted hair, then began shaking him about. “We’re about to fight those magically empowered soldiers! Do you understand me!?”
“Waah!?”
“Don’t you have any countermeasures!?”
“No, we won’t really need them.”
“What!?” Jerome released his grip, at which point Regis started patting down his hair with a troubled look on his face. He had never been too orderly to begin with, but his reaction made it evident that he did actually care in his own way.
“Ah, what to do...? Altina gets annoyed when my hair and clothes aren’t proper, you know?”
“Not my problem.”
“Hah... What a cold response...”
“Okay, I’ll humor you. Why does the princess care about how you look?”
“Hm... Because the soldiers would grow anxious upon seeing their strategist looking shabby and unreliable, perhaps?”
“If you understand that much, at least wear a sword.”
“Hahaha... The soldiers have already figured out that I can’t even chop an onion with a sword. I’m pretty sure that gesture has lost all meaning by this point.”
“Have some shame! If you consider yourself a soldier, then come to morning practice! I’ll whip you into shape!”
“...Very well. I’ll consider it when I actually have the time to sleep at night.”
The reason Regis was so busy partly came down to him being a strategist in the midst of a war. However, it also stemmed from the fact that Jerome had previously discharged all their civil officers. To say they were short on staff was an understatement—considering the scale of the Fourth Army, they would usually have another two hundred people hard at work.
Now that I think about it, we should have at least one more person...
Regis had heard that Auguste’s maid, Lillim, was exceptionally proficient, and consequently left some work to her. But there were more important things to focus on right now.
“You just said there’s no need to consider the magician,” Jerome said. “What do you mean?”
“...Even if the Mercenary King’s sister is a real magician, she was unable to see through my plan when we took on High Britannia’s warships. Renard Pendu should have been at the port by then.”
“I see. You have a point.”
“That means her magic is restricted, at the very least... I imagine her presence is largely intended to provide a feeling of comfort similar to the church’s prayer. Since the church is quite opposed to mercenary business, perhaps she serves as a replacement of sorts—an idol for those who seek peace of mind.”
A majority of mercenaries were poor and rarely donated to the church. There was always the possibility they would turn to banditry the moment their pockets ran dry, and many brigades ended up pursuing theft as a side business regardless. In an attempt to counter this, the church preached that any mercenary with even an ounce of good in his heart would take up official service under a country or noble, or otherwise become a farmer or merchant.
Regis could see Mercenary King Gilbert passing his sister off as a magician to assuage his more devout men.
“I see... Then there really is no need to think about her.”
“...We do need to be careful, though. If something does happen, we must ensure the soldiers don’t grow fearful. Paranoia is terrifying to deal with.”
“Hah! I’ll personally snap the neck of any fearful wimp who cowers under my command! They can go straight home in a box!”
“Y-You can’t say things like that! Only a thousand of the soldiers with us are from the border regiment. You’re going to scare our new additions.”
“Tsk. You’re no fun at all.”
Jerome thought for a moment, back to when they had called him a hero—when he only had five hundred cavalry and a thousand infantry, in the days when he was still a viscount. When he was sent to the border and given Fort Sierck, the Beilschmidt border regiment had been three thousand troops strong. And in the three years that followed, he had drilled them to perfection. But for various financial reasons, their numbers never grew much beyond that.
This fact stood even after Marie Quatre Argentina arrived. That princess hadn’t changed a thing. Rather, it had all come down to this weak-willed young man—Regis.
After forming an alliance with the barbarians and securing Fort Volks as their new base of operations, the ransom they had received for their prisoners of war allowed them to bolster their forces to six thousand. From there, negotiations with Marshal General Latrielle had paved the way for the formation of the Fourth Army. Having absorbed the Second Army, their numbers reached a peak of sixteen thousand troops. They may not have had complete control over them, and there was still a long way for them to come, but...
In half a year, their forces had grown over fivefold.
Jerome’s lips relaxed. “Well, speaking of magicians, we have a wizard of our own. I’m sure we can tell that to the soldiers to calm them down.”
Regis looked at him meekly. “No, that’s... really not true, okay?”
“Kukukuh... I use everything at my disposal to win. That’s all there is to it.”
“...Please reconsider, sir.”
In the midst of their conversation, the clatter of galloping hooves began to grow louder from somewhere among the darkness. Another unit had returned, this one built around the Second Army’s horsemen and bolstered with mercenaries. It was led by Benjamin, whose crest was a half-moon, so they were called the Crescent Knight Brigade.
The drum of their horses’ hooves was especially heavy, and once they were within firelight, it became clear that they had suffered a number of injuries. Medics rushed to them as the camp was suddenly caught up in a bustling clamor.
Much like the Black Knights, the Crescent Knights had just launched a raid, having been told to retreat after each rider had fired four shots. But their casualties were greater than anticipated.
“Hmph,” Jerome scoffed. “Did he misjudge his distances or something? Goddamn amateurs.”
“I didn’t expect this many casualties for a night battle... Did something happen out there?”
“They spread oil around the camp and ignited it with flaming arrows. The light from the flames meant we were in plain sight.”
Regis folded his arms in thought. “Oh, I see... So that’s what they’ve gone with...”
“We lost the initiative.”
“Right... I did send scouts to observe them, but they must have disguised the act of spreading oil. Pretending to throw away trash or do their business, and the like... It would be hard to notice from afar.”
“Does this mean they were anticipating a night raid?”
“The camp they stole was set up on a hard-to-defend position where visibility is poor; all things considered, they would probably suspect it was a trap. I thought they might be wary, to say the least—that’s why the order was to retreat right after firing.”
“There are plenty of arrogant fools who don’t listen to warnings. I’m sure those Crescent Knights were too eager for glory. The Second Army did lose their first battle, after all.”
Belgaria was a powerful nation that sought bravery over caution, but the winds of change had surely begun to blow—not that Jerome wanted to admit it...
Regis shrugged. “It can’t be helped. I’ll talk to Sir Benjamin later. Could we have the Black Knight Brigade leave again soon?”
“What do we do about the oil?”
“Oh, please bring some flaming arrows of your own, then shoot the ground from afar. When the oil catches fire, wait a moment for it to burn out before you attack.”
“Hm...”
He said that like it was self-evident. I’m impressed he thought it up on the spot, Jerome thought to himself. No, on second thought, that was probably just something he read in a book somewhere. But these small doubts weren’t the only reason he refrained from praising Regis aloud—it simply wasn’t in his nature to do so.
“Oh, and also... It’s about time for the enemy to notice we’re employing hit-and-run tactics. There’s a chance they’ll have a separate column waiting to ambush their attackers.”
“Then we’ll just need to spot them first.”
“I guess so... We do have eyes on them already; they’ll give the signal if anyone is spotted leaving the camp.” Regis said as he took out a map. He opened it up near the fire, revealing symbols written along their planned route. “Our scouts are here, at Points A and B. They should light their lanterns for you. If you don’t see them, or the lanterns remain dark, that means there’s probably an ambush.”
“Always prepared, aren’t you?”
They had brought lanterns that only shone light in one direction for situations like these, but it was still quite dangerous to illuminate one’s position in the middle of a night battle. Even if they were only lit when the knights were near, they were putting themselves in a life-and-death situation.
Jerome turned, briskly walking over to his men. “We’re going out!” he barked. “Abidal-Evra, get your men some flame arrows! Krueger, prepare the guns! Hurry! Don’t give the enemy any time to rest!”
“Yes, sir!” the Black Knight Brigade shouted in unison.
✧ ✧ ✧
Gilbert walked with a wooden box over one shoulder. Resting above it was another box... and then another. Any normal person would have struggled with just one, and yet he was carrying three.
“Phew...”
Seeing this, the men from his brigade hurriedly flocked to him.
“Chief!? You coulda just asked us! We woulda—!”
“If you have time to yap, start carrying the others. We’re packing food and clothes around the gunpowder. We can’t risk it getting struck by a stray bullet, otherwise we’ll all be blown sky-high.”
“G-Got it!”
His men raced to the other boxes, and in the midst of their scramble, Franziska raced over with a rifle under one arm. “I’ve spread the oil, boss!”
“Good... Though it’s pretty pointless if our enemy’s no fool.”
“Yeah, it’ll light up if they shoot it, too. That’s why I also left us some torches—that way, we’ll still have some light once the oil goes out.”
They had used this tactic before, so Franziska knew it well. Those under Gilbert’s lead learned directly from their experiences on the battlefield—in other words, war was their teacher.
Compared to blazing oil, the light of a torch was weak, meaning their soldiers’ aim would be nowhere near as good as it was during the day. However, the presence of any light at all could dissuade the horsemen from initiating a charge, so it was likely to at least buy them some time.
“About four hours until daybreak... Judging by their approach, I assume they’re waiting for us to exhaust ourselves.”
“Should we just leave now?”
“Not an option. If we have our baggage carriers walk through the night, we’ll need to stop too many times during the day. They’ll collapse, otherwise,” Gilbert explained. While leaving early was indeed an option, it would be unfeasible to spur them on without any rest.
Gilbert had expected an attack in the night. What he hadn’t expected, however, was for them to continue so incessantly. Neither did he imagine that it would become a shootout; Belgaria’s cavalry was known for its strength, so he had been waiting for them to charge with their knights.
“...They’re far more mean-spirited than I expected.”
“Who?”
“The Fourth Princess. Or perhaps her strategist.”
“Oh, Regis, was it? I may or may not have seen him before.”
“What’s he like?”
“Wimpy. Looks kinda weak, too. Oh, right—he actually screamed, ‘Eek.’”
“...And he’s a soldier?”
“I don’t know about that. The princess was pretty strong, though. Not stronger than me, of course! The real danger was that head of House Balzac!”
“Hm? Isn’t the current head known for being weak?”
“He’s really tough, but get this—he doesn’t want to kill people! What’s the deal with that!?”
“Oh... I know the feeling. I hate killing as well.”
“Eh? Boss?”
“What, did you think I was some trigger-happy murderer?”
“N-Not really, but...” Franziska’s eyes were wide open.
Gilbert put down his boxes, creating a protective layer around the gunpowder. Mercenaries and soldiers soon followed suit, bringing over crates packed with clothing and food. It would take a cannon shell to cause any kind of combustion now.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Gilbert exhaled. “Phew... I hate killing. But it’s better to kill than be killed. I’m not a man of faith.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
All of a sudden, his eyes darted around the camp. They captured glimpses of shadows wriggling in the dark, most likely Belgarian scouts. His lips curled into a subtle grin.
“...Well, looks like we’ll be killing tonight.”
“Yeah!” Franziska cheered, visibly delighted.
Upon returning to his tent, Gilbert started equipping the minimum amount of armor he deemed necessary, his sister gallantly helping him put it on. He then picked up the three-pronged spear that he had grown so accustomed to using. Its familiar sensation was the same as ever.
At four hours to daybreak, a thousand soldiers left camp with torches in hand and rifles over their shoulders. Their aim was to intercept the enemy rather than ambush them; instead of concealing themselves, they would draw the raiders straight to them by standing out as much as possible.
They set up formation to the west of the camp. And while Belgaria’s scouts were focused on this interception unit, Gilbert raced out with twenty of his own men in tow.
✧ ✧ ✧
In the dead of night, the Black Knight Brigade once again raced on horseback toward the enemy camp. Their vision was obscured by the occasional patches of vegetation found even in the highlands, and the shadows of trees snatched away the already meager starlight they had to rely on; what remained was the sort of pitch-black where one might expect a demon to reside.
Jerome confirmed the map in his head—this was where the signal was supposed to be. But when he scanned the area for the light of a lantern...
Gone.
In the distance, Jerome could see the torches of the enemy camp. He pulled on his horse’s reins, slowing it to a trot. That motion alone was enough for every knight who followed to grow wary of their surroundings, and they looked around cautiously in fear of an ambush.
A chill ran down Jerome’s spine. Something felt... off.
Below us.
Jerome tugged on the reins again, making his horse change pace. He hadn’t seen anything that would warrant concern; he was acting on pure intuition.
The horse moved splendidly in response, leaping in an instant as though having become suddenly weightless. Had it been able to see, or was it also acting on instinct? Whatever the case, they had managed to avoid something on the ground.
This sudden action caused many of the knights following Jerome to either stop in place or perform a similar jump, but there were some who failed to react entirely. One horse in particular was caught by its forelegs, lurched forward, and then fell to the ground. Once the others had witnessed that, it was clear for all to see: the enemy had stretched rope directly across their path.
As the balance of the massive horse crumbled, an armored knight was thrown forward. A dull clang quickly followed as his iron plate was caved in, then came a muffled scream. Even some of the horses that managed to avoid the rope wound up tripping on fallen comrades, leading to an even greater number of casualties.
They had thoroughly surveyed the area for such traps before the operation began, which meant they must have been set up by the enemy in the short timespan since the previous raid.
Did they predict which path we’d take? Or do they have a spy?
Regis had of course been the one to devise their plan, disclosing routes to the leader of each unit only when it was time for them to head out. By that logic, Jerome was the sole other person to have access to this information.
Wait, our scouts should know as well; they wouldn’t be able to give us the signal otherwise.
The fact that the lanterns weren’t lit meant there would surely be an ambush. Or worse...
“Were our scouts taken out...?”
Someone who had set up a trap like this wouldn’t be satisfied with just a few knights. Jerome focused, listening carefully for any signs of enemy combatants who were surely attempting to blend in with all the ruckus they had caused.
Behind us, from the left!
Footsteps were closing in on them. Their foes had opted not to bring their horses, presumably to better conceal themselves, and yet they moved as fast as dogs.
“The enemy!” Jerome barked, gripping the reins with his left hand and urging his horse to turn around. Though his lance was readied in his right, this sudden move meant he was momentarily more vulnerable on his unarmed side. This was no cause for worry, however—there was still distance to spare between them and the approaching attackers.
Or so he thought.
One man in particular closed in at unthinkable speeds. “Ha-hah! So you’re the Black Knight!” he exclaimed, thrusting out his trident.
“The Mercenary King...!”
Three prongs tore through the air toward Jerome, but he managed to parry them with Les Cheveux d’une Dame. He had switched his lance to his left hand at the very last moment, realizing that he wouldn’t have been able to react in time had he kept the weapon in his right.
A broad grin spread across the Mercenary King’s face. “Khah! You did well to block that one!”
“You’ve got some nerve saying that after such an underhanded sleight! A king? Please! At best, you’re the Mercenary Rat!”
“Not my problem! I’ve never called myself a king!”
The Black Knight Brigade was up against not only Mercenary King Gilbert, but roughly fifteen others as well. They were most likely from Renard Pendu, and they attacked the knights who tried to come to Jerome’s aid, stopping them in their tracks.
Jerome turned his horse to face Gilbert. “Hmph. I’ve always wanted to duel against you. Well, have at it. I’ll see if you really are as good as they say!”
After expertly switching his lance back to his right hand, Jerome lunged forward to unleash a series of consecutive thrusts—a recognized specialty of the Black Knight himself. Neither Varden’s skilled knights nor the head of the Belgarian White Wolf Brigade had endured the attack and survived.
Jerome’s efforts, however, were parried on the very first stab, and his eyes shot open wide as the trident was suddenly thrust toward his chest.
He blocked and countered my attack!
Jerome wrenched his body sideways in an attempt to dodge, his breastplate letting off sparks and an ear-grating shriek as the trident gouged through it. But he wasn’t going to back down so easily; once again, he thrust the Empire’s black lance forward, aiming to pierce through his opponent’s throat.
At the very last second, however, Gilbert knocked the lance aside with his left hand. It grazed his shoulder, then stabbed through the air.
Jerome cursed under his breath. So he can block that, too...
In contrast, Gilbert’s eyes were positively gleaming. “Hah! You’re not the Black Knight for nothing! To think you could dodge my trident like that. But this is just how things have to be, eh?”
“Hmph... You’re the first guy to block my lance with your bare hands. I thought you were a mercenary, not an acrobat.”
“Just how long will your confidence last, I wonder? My next move won’t be quite so slow!”
“Bring it on!”
Jerome used his lance to parry Gilbert’s next attack, converting his momentum into another lunge. His foe knocked it aside in turn before drawing his weapon back, aiming for Jerome’s thigh with an unrelenting stab.
Fine, take my leg!
Without even attempting to guard, Jerome thrust for his opponent’s head. It wasn’t until both weapons were sheer moments from piercing their targets that Gilbert suddenly leaped aside.
“Kuhahah!” he laughed, spit flying from his mouth. “You’re the real deal, I’ll give you that! No hesitation to trade a leg to get ahead.”
“I’ve got to admit... I don’t think I could take you down with anything less.”
“Yes, I understand well. It would be a pleasure to fight to the death with you, Black Knight... though not worth what High Britannia is paying me,” Gilbert said regretfully. Mercenaries fought for money, so going up against a stronger foe required greater compensation.
Jerome steadied his breath. “So you’ve put a price on your life, huh? While you’re at it, you should make sure your employer’s covering the cost of your funeral too.”
“I’ll consider it. But for now... it’s about time we head off.”
Gilbert raised a hand, at which point his men fighting the other knights started to retreat. As their leader, he of course moved to join them, but a single rider of the Black Knight Brigade rushed out to intercept his withdrawal.
“You’re not getting away!”
It was Second-Grade Combat Officer Krueger. With a long spear in hand, he moved to attack.
“Oi! Give it up!” Jerome yelled. But his warning fell on deaf ears.
“He landed an attack on our general; it’ll be a disgrace if we let him leave in one piece!”
Gilbert blocked the incoming spear, but Krueger skillfully leveraged his range advantage to avoid the counter and lunge again.
“Fine,” Gilbert grunted through gritted teeth. “Looks like your subordinate saved you, Black Knight.”
Jerome initially failed to understand what the man meant, but this bemusement was short-lived; out of nowhere, gunshots thundered through the forest. Krueger suddenly lurched back, lost his balance, and dropped to the ground. The remaining knights took out their firearms, as if only now remembering them, and shot back.
Countless blasts echoed across the highlands, but Gilbert and his Renard Pendu mercenaries had already disappeared into the shadows of the trees.
“Oi!” Jerome leaped down from his horse and raced over to the fallen Krueger. He hurriedly removed the man’s helmet, but the face beneath was drained of vigor, and the eyes that met him were completely hollow.
“Urgh... General...” Krueger groaned, blood trickling from his mouth. His hefty metal breastplate bore three bullet holes; the shots had presumably reached his internal organs.
What a carefully prepared trap... Jerome thought. They had no doubt captured and interrogated Belgaria’s scouts to learn the route, then set up a rope to isolate the one leading the charge. Gilbert was thus able to challenge him one-on-one, and on the off chance that the Mercenary King was unsuccessful, there were snipers stationed in the forest who could take aim while the Black Knight Brigade was locked down.
Had Krueger not charged out, perhaps Jerome would have taken those bullets himself. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his dying ally by the shoulders and hoisted him up.
“Enough nonsense! I’m leaving you behind if you so much as close your eyes! Get up, Krueger! This is an order!”
“...I can’t... see...”
“Krueger! I said get a grip!”
“I just... wanted to... be... like...”
With that, Krueger fell silent. No further words would ever pass his lips.
“...Goddamn fool.”
✧ ✧ ✧
Despite their casualties, the Black Knight Brigade still carried out its duty. The enemy had dispatched another flying column, but the knights dealt enough damage to make them retreat to their camp. They then continued to fire on the enemy from afar, as per their schedule, before eventually retreating back to the agreed checkpoint.
Now, during this momentary lull in the action, was the time to mourn the fallen. Their bodies were placed side by side, and those who had survived surrounded them while a priest chanted prayers.
Regis watched this from his perch atop a nearby box. No one had uttered so much as a word of complaint to him about the plan, but even so, whenever he learned that someone had died under his command, he was overcome with a sickening sensation as though his stomach was filled with lead. A sigh escaped his throat—one of many since hearing the news.
The drowsy Crescent Knights were preparing for the next attack. Their leader, Benjamin, rode alongside his brother and deputy commander, Justin, but the two had ventured too close to the enemy during the last assault, consequently raising their number of casualties by quite some margin. They certainly wouldn’t repeat that mistake—or so they maintained. As there were no substitutes for their roles, Regis could only count on them making such necessary corrections themselves.
Braying horses, the clatter of armor, guns being loaded, the calls of soldiers... Amid the clamor of the Crescent Knights’ preparations, the carriages transporting new scouts set off ahead. Jerome’s report had revealed that their initial scouts were most likely captured and forced to divulge their attack route, but they were trained units hidden in a dark forest—who would have guessed they could be found so easily? Perhaps that spoke to how competent Renard Pendu truly was.
Their situation was growing all the more dangerous, but Regis wouldn’t dare send any troops into battle without investigating first. That was why he was sending another unit of scouts on the same perilous mission.
Regis was feeling a mixture of unease and impatience. Their casualties were greater than expected; he hadn’t anticipated they would lose so many scouts or knights.
Not everything is going to go as smoothly as it does in my books. I know that.
He had set up this plan fully aware that people would die in the process, and yet a shiver still ran down his spine. As he watched the new scouts depart, he felt as though he had suddenly aged several dozen years. He was just as spindly and flimsy as he remembered, yet his body felt so heavy that he couldn’t so much as raise a finger. Even trying to breathe was a struggle.
His heart, however, pounded even faster than usual. Despite the lack of any notable heat, sweat incessantly trickled down into his eyes, and an unpleasant sticky dampness made his shirt cling to his back. After so many casualties, would this plan even succeed? Did it have enough merit to warrant such losses? Perhaps there might have been a more appropriate alternative that would have lowered their death count.
“What’s the matter, Regis? You look really down. Oh, are you hungry?”
The sudden voice took Regis by surprise, and he turned to see Altina holding out a potato in her lightly-armored right hand.
“Err... I’m okay, thank you. I don’t have much of an appetite right now.”
“Who’s going to take command if you collapse?”
Well, there’s you and Sir Jerome... Regis mused, before sternly dismissing the thought. By allowing himself to pass out, he would effectively be abandoning his responsibilities.
“You’re right. I should eat a proper meal.”
“Right?” Altina replied with a smile, placing the potato in his palm.
“Hot! Hot! Why is this so hot!?”
“It’s freshly baked. Potatoes taste far better that way.”
Regis hurriedly passed the potato between his hands, trying to keep from getting burned as he waited for it to cool. “H-How were you completely unfazed while holding something this hot?”
“I’m more concerned about how weak you are. You’ve got a decent amount of experience on the battlefield—aren’t you used to eating potatoes with your hands? Well, unless you’re putting them in a stew, I suppose.”
Other cooking methods were indeed possible with a proper stove, but the rudimentary camps set up in times of combat were seldom equipped with more than a bonfire.
“Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always read during meals. With my hands occupied, most of my food—potatoes included—usually spends a lot more time on my plate.”
It was also for this reason that Regis had learned to use a fork, since eating with his hands would only dirty whatever book he was reading. This was a trend that had carried on even now that he could eat at his own leisure.
“Doesn’t it get cold?”
“Well, I’ve always struggled with hot food; my mouth burns much too easily.”
“But some foods are especially delicious when they’re piping hot! You sure are a strange one, Regis...” Altina said with an amused laugh, leading him to return a wry smile.
Oh, so I can still smile... It seemed that the overwhelming sense of dread tormenting his heart had somewhat cleared up.
Altina plopped herself down on the same box as Regis, sitting close enough that her shoulders brushed against his. When he glimpsed over, her profile immediately caught his eye, strikingly illuminated by the flickering bonfire. His breath caught in his throat. How could one woman be so utterly bewitching?
Regis quickly averted his gaze. Altina was the fourth princess of the Belgarian Empire, as well as the commander he served; he needed to remember his place.
“...Are you ready, Altina? There’s still some time till daybreak.”
“I’ve finished my preparations. It’s just... I can’t sleep. I’m probably too worked up.”
“That doesn’t surprise me; we’re mere hours away from a decisive battle.”
“Regis... Is something worrying you? You don’t look well.”
“We’re at war. There isn’t much I’m not worried about.”
“That’s not what I mean... If you don’t want to tell me, though, I won’t force you.”
She really is growing more by the day, Regis thought. She had always been virtuous and just, but now he could pick up a sense of forbearance as well. She was still impulsive by nature, but a little more thoughtful. Perhaps she was becoming more mature, or maybe his own downtrodden, borderline childish behavior had prompted her to step up.
Regis bit into the potato. It hadn’t cooled much at all, but he tried to ignore the heat and gather his thoughts as he chewed.
“My main worry,” he eventually began, “is that a lot of people are dying because of my decisions. It’s making me feel quite ill.”
“As you said, Regis—we’re at war. It really can’t be helped. Casualties are a given. Whether we win or lose, plenty of people will lose their lives without having done anything to deserve it. No matter how good a person is, how hard they’ve trained, or how much they’re loved, the possibility of death is always there.”
“...Yeah. I know.”
“That’s why I want to become empress. I’ll put an end to the wars. I’ll shape a country that doesn’t have to fight its neighbors.”
“...Yeah.”
“If we got along with them better, perhaps even High Britannia wouldn’t have waged war on us.”
“I agree. But with how many times Belgaria has gone to war with its surrounding territories, I doubt they’ll suddenly warm up to us. We’re pretty widely hated.”
“And you’re saying hatred endures forever?”
“If you want me to be blunt... history proves that it does. Thoughts and feelings may change on an individual level, but if you consider a country as a single unit, then hatred is never forgotten. After a building burns down, it may at first glance look as though the flames have died out. But there are still embers smoldering beneath the rubble, and it takes only a slight gust to set everything ablaze again. Oftentimes, countries that once formed armistices and peace deals are soon at war again.”
“So war can never go away entirely?”
“If we could maintain an era of peace long enough to reach our grandchildren and great-grandchildren, then perhaps more substantial change could come about when the older generation eventually dies out. You can’t erase hatred, but you can’t pass it down either. It might even be possible to bury it entirely, assuming peace went on for long enough.”
“But a parent could always teach their child that, say, Belgaria is the enemy, which might in turn be passed on to their children.”
“Education does play an important role in one’s perceptions, but hatred is an emotion. You could plant preconceived notions in a person’s mind using academia, for example, but someone who has only ever experienced peace with the Empire wouldn’t truly hate us from the depths of their heart.”
“So that’s how it works...”
“Feelings vary from person to person, but a nation’s sentiment is an accumulation of the larger majority. At the very least, I don’t think there would be any wars grounded in hatred. Countries may have differing interests... but there would be more room for negotiation should such problems arise.”
Altina nodded, a serious look on her face. Even in cases where two nations were opposed on a matter, the issue could be resolved through discussion rather than war. Surely that was the future she set her sights on.
“But if we let the war drag on, relations with our neighboring countries will never improve,” she said.
“Precisely. Something has to change, otherwise one side will inevitably fall. In fact, any nation that cannot agree to peace will crumble eventually; no matter how strong an army may be, the day always comes where it loses the fight.”
“I want to change the Empire—to make it a country where no one has to give up their lives in battle.”
“Right.”
“And to do that, we must first overcome the crisis before our eyes.”
“...I know.”
“I understand this may not be easy, but... please, think of the people who are still alive, rather than those we’ve lost.”
Regis looked around blankly. He had seen so many soldiers grieving that his thoughts were completely focused on the dead. It seemed that no matter how rationally he tried to view things, his emotions were still able to overpower him at times. He took a deep breath, and his mind—clouded with guilt and weary from sleep deprivation—seemed to clear ever so slightly.
“...Thank you. I’m okay now.”
“You are? I can’t say I really understand, but I’m happy that you’re feeling better.”
“...The casualties were greater than I expected.”
“Because of the Mercenary King?”
“Most likely. The more scouts we send out, the more won’t come back. Perhaps that’s inevitable... The Black Knight Brigade lost ten men during their attack, a combat officer included. Quite a few more were injured.”
Altina silently nodded. The way her subordinates were acting was enough to give away that there had been fatalities, but this was the first time she was hearing actual figures.
“But is the plan going smoothly?”
“...It is. I spoke to the soldiers who hail from these parts; both the wind and temperature are ideal. Our allies are continuing to follow orders, and our enemy’s movements are still within expectations.”
Sixteen thousand troops made up the Empire’s Fourth Army. They had attacked with two cavalry brigades numbering four hundred horsemen each, and it took two thousand people to prepare their meals, treat their wounds, tend to their horses, and maintain their guns.
The knights’ attacks served to nail the enemy army down to that campsite. High Britannia’s supply unit still needed to travel another 50 lieue (222 km) to reach the main forces near the capital, and they wouldn’t be able to move without adequate preparations. What’s more, once they knew further raids were imminent, rather than distributing their forces over a larger radius, they would almost certainly concentrate on defending their convoy. For that reason, Regis was paying no mind to protecting Belgaria’s main camp; he left only the minimum number of lookouts behind, assigning the rest of the soldiers to carry out one particular job.
Altina looked to the east. Their surroundings were barely illuminated by the stars above, but perhaps she could see something through the darkness. Two hours remained until daybreak.
✧ ✧ ✧
Both the Black Knights and Crescent Knights prepared to sortie. They had stalled long enough; the sky would brighten soon.
Regis glanced at the flag hoisted over the camp. The wind was pitifully weak, but under their current circumstances, the limp, dangling banner was a most promising sight to behold.
A man marched through the undergrowth toward him, offering a friendly, informal salute. “Think we can do it, Tactician?”
“Yes, Ferdinand. All thanks to you.”
Ferdinand Stuttgart, captain of the sappers—while he looked quite worn out from the work that had carried on all through the night, his expression was brimming with satisfaction. “The morning is warm, windless, and humid. Splendid, don’t you agree!?”
“Yeah. We couldn’t have hoped for better.”
“It was certainly worth the investment of twelve thousand troops, if not just for this sight. I’ll be bragging to my grandson about this once—or should I say if—we make it back. You have my thanks.”
“No need. I’m just glad you were there, Ferdinand. Otherwise, even had I made the proposition, I doubt we could have carried it out. You’ve been helping me out since Fort Volks.”
Regis had sought out the best engineers he could find when tunneling into the fortress, and even after that, Ferdinand’s sappers had continued to prove their worth; they played crucial roles in both modifying its defenses after the capture and during the recent battle against Varden.
“Back when I first enlisted, my job was construction. I was setting up tents and stoves, under the impression that building a bridge or something would be the biggest contribution I could ever make.”
“Well, that would be true under normal circumstances, yes.”
“That’s why I was surprised when you got me to dig all the way under an enemy fortress. And when you had me make those detonation devices, too. This one, though—this is the clincher.”
“I’d read about it before, but there were no records of anything quite on this scale. I was a bit anxious... but it looks like it might work out.”
“Yes, it’s getting rather misty already.”
“Yeah.”
“This isn’t the season or region for a sudden gust of wind. Don’t worry—it’ll work, I’m sure!”
“...Back when I lived in the capital, there were times I would open the window and see nothing but pure white. But I’ve never seen it set in right before my eyes like this.”
“Neither have I.”
The rising sun lit up the area. Even with the glow from the bonfires, it was impossible to overlook the white filter coating everything in sight. A thick fog was setting in. They had extracted enough water to metaphorically lower the sea level and, over the course of the night, splashed it all over the region.
Their plan was simple enough: Regis had learned that naturally occurring fog had numerous forms, with a type called radiation fog existing among them. It stemmed from a phenomenon known as radiative cooling—heat from the earth would dissipate into the air over the night, lowering the temperature of the air closest to the ground.
While air would always contain a certain amount of water vapor, that amount decreased as the temperature lowered. And when the temperature dropped low enough for the air to reach complete saturation, condensation would occur. This changed the gaseous water vapor into minute liquid droplets, which then suspended in the air as fog.
Fog formed most easily in the inland regions, especially valleys and basins with barely any wind, and as it turned out, the uplands of west La Frenge were an inland basin with terribly weak winds this time of year. It was usually sunny and dry, meaning it was unlikely for fog to develop, but if ample water were splashed onto the ground, this would fulfill all the necessary criteria.
Incidentally, the only difference between fog and clouds was that fog remained at or near the ground. Clouds were composed of what was essentially the same visible aerosol, and once the suspended water droplets stuck to one another and grew to the point that they fell, they came down as rain.
These phenomena had all been studied by natural scientists and compiled into academic papers, and experiments on how to form fog had already begun to circulate—albeit on a smaller scale.
If the enemy couldn’t see, then the longer range of their guns was meaningless; increased firepower was nothing to fear when the shots would never hit their targets. What’s more, it would now be impossible for them to slip out of these hilly lands faster than horsemen, especially when carrying all their precious supplies; in the dead of night, it was possible to light a torch or ignite scattered oil with a flaming arrow, but clearing away fog was another story entirely.
Regis squinted through the white, cloudy mist that surrounded them. “Now then... let’s get moving.”
