Chapter Four: The Hero and the Knight
I
The Commander’s Station at the Emaleid Citadel, in the Kingdom of Fernest
Osmund arrived at the Emaleid Citadel ahead of the Independent Cavalry Regiment. He summoned his officers to a council. The Imperial Army had been spotted on the Amalheim Plains to the north of Emaleid.
“Don’t you think we should shore up our forces and wait for the Independent Cavalry Regiment to arrive, my lord?” Major Celim started off the debate with a conservative proposal.
“I agree with the major.”
“As do I.” Voices of assent echoed from around the table.
“You’re saying we should bring the war down on Emaleid?” Osmund demanded, looking between the three who had spoken first.
It was Celim who replied, speaking for the group. “I see your point, ser, but I must beg to differ. Emaleid has strong walls. I very much doubt any damage will reach the city proper.” Nigh impenetrable walls protected the citadel, and a deep moat encircled that to boot. Once the drawbridge was raised, the enemy would be prevented from even reaching the citadel gates. If they did as Celim suggested—shored up their defenses and waited for the battle—things would probably play out in their favor. In that scenario, however, they would all but certainly lose the opportunity to decisively drive off the enemy.
“You’re too optimistic, Celim. Nothing’s been confirmed, but for all we know, the enemy could have siege weaponry,” said Osmund.
“But surely, my lord, it is equally possible that they do not.”
“Yes, of course,” he replied, “But in war, one always has to assume the worst will happen. We should only engage the enemy with our backs against the citadel walls as a last resort.” His tone was brusque, to remind the doubtful officers of their lack of real battlefield experience. This wasn’t a military fort. If the enemy breached the gates or the walls, they would descend upon the citizens in their homes, the result of which would be as devastating as an avalanche. They would slaughter the men and make sport of the women. Osmund could already hear the roars and the screams and see the hellish ruins of the city, engulfed in malice. At that point, it would be too late to wish they’d done things differently.
“My lord has heard the reports, I believe?” Celim asked. “The enemy force is all clad in red plate. You must know what that means...”
Red plate—the hallmark of the Crimson Knights. All the officers present knew it was the appearance of those same Crimson Knights that had turned the tide against the Third and Fourth Legions and brought about their destruction. The Crimson Knights were notorious throughout Duvedirica, almost to the same degree as the fearsome Azure Knights. It was because of them that Celim and the other officers advocated a conservative approach—why they were afraid. Osmund, for his part, willingly acknowledged that the Crimson Knights were a threat to be taken seriously. All it meant was that if they could find a way to crush the enemy, the glory would be that much greater.
There’s never been a safe way to wage a war, thought Osmund. If our enemy is dangerous, well, that means we have all the more to gain. A vision of a rank insignia with two shining golden stars blazed in his mind’s eye.
“You’ve all made yourselves understood. But as I said, fighting up against the city is a last resort. We will strike the first blow. Our intelligence says the enemy has around three thousand soldiers, which, in a funny coincidence, is just as many as we do.”
“That we are evenly matched is precisely why this is so risky, my lord! I beg you to reconsider!” Celim burst out, sending spittle flying. The other officers added their protests to his.
“Now listen here!” cut in Osmund. “Celim, and the rest of you too. The matter is decided. You have your orders.” Celim’s mouth clamped shut, and, grudgingly, he nodded. The other officers copied him in silence. Osmund felt their dissatisfaction, but he’d made himself clear. There could be no more dissent. That was how it went in the army.
“With that out of the way,” he continued, “Tell me about our enemy’s movements.”
“The scouts report that their force has stopped at the Amalheim Plains,” said Celim. “We don’t know why they’ve stopped, and they show no sign of continuing their advance.”
“I see. That is odd...” Osmund mused. “All right. Let’s keep an eye on the situation while the soldiers make ready to move out. Ensure the scouts report every detail of what they see. That will be all.” He noted the hard expressions Celim and the others wore as they saluted, rising and turning to leave the command station.
The Imperial Army on the Amalheim Plains
“They’re staying put, Lieutenant Colonel,” drawled Captain Lamia. As his aide spoke, Vollmer rose laboriously from the wine barrel he used in place of a chair. He was a huge man, so vast that the battle-axe strapped to his back looked like a woodcutter’s hatchet. His steel-like muscles showed quite obviously even through his armor, and he had long, straggly hair and an unkempt beard not unlike the mane of a wild beast. He carried himself with the unmistakable air of a powerful and battle-hardened warrior.
“What a dull lot. Are they serious about taking back the north or not?” he grumbled, then called out to his soldiers, “Hey, someone go bang on the gates to the citadel and bring me that damn monster! There’s five pieces of gold here for anyone who can pull it off!” At the mention of five pieces of gold, some of the soldiers stirred. That was enough to live off for two years without doing a day of work. Lamia huffed in exasperation.
“And how are you going to make the monster come along with you?” he said, spreading his arms. “It’s not like we have a collar lying around. You must stop putting foolish ideas into the heads of our sweet young soldiers, ser.”
Those around him all guffawed with laughter. Vollmer imagined the monster girl who’d left thousands of their soldiers trembling wrecks and how he couldn’t wait to split her skull open with his prized battle-axe. His desire was simple—he wanted to know how the monster would sing.
“All right, enough messing around. For now, we know the Seventh Legion reached the citadel, correct?” he asked. Lamia inclined his head deferentially, returning his spyglass to his waist.
“Yes, ser. There’s no doubt about that. We’ve had a few reports of a force flying the banners of the Seventh Legion passing through the gates, which matches with the information the shimmer sent us.”
“Good. I can’t go disgracing her name by returning without a present for Lady Rosenmarie, not after she was kind enough to assign this mission to me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, ser,” replied Lamia, a teasing note in his voice. “Against such an exceptional warrior as yourself, I expect even this so-called monster will flee with her tail between her legs. They don’t call you The Man-Butcher for nothing.”
Vollmer heaved a great sigh. “Would you drop it with the name?” he said. “Who the hell even came up with that rubbish? Everyone thinks I’m some murder-loving maniac now.”
According to Lamia, the name had stuck thanks to his tendency to leave his opponents mutilated beyond recognition. He didn’t kill them like that because he enjoyed it, of course—he had just been born freakishly strong. The moniker of “Man-Butcher” was a constant, maddening source of annoyance for him.
“Ser?!” gasped Lamia, blinking at him in astonishment. “What are you talking about? You love killing! Are you feeling all right?” Vollmer looked around at the other soldiers, but they all avoided his eyes. He got the feeling there were some serious misunderstandings going on here.
“Okay, let’s get one thing straight. You’ve got me all wrong. What I love is the song they sing when they meet my axe. Whether they die or not after that is neither here nor there.”
“Ser,” said Lamia, with deliberate patience, “that’s more or less the same thing as saying you love killing.”
Vollmer exhaled heavily, wondering why he always had to be surrounded by people who couldn’t understand art. “Try to appreciate art the way I do, Lamia. Your mind will be richer for it,” he said, holding his hand reverentially to his breast.
“It’s a little hard to take that seriously coming from a man the size of a grizzly bear, ser,” said Lamia. “Anyway, what’s our plan? If our opponent won’t come to us, should we get out the siege weapons and put an end to this quickly? It’s a prime opportunity to test the new model’s effectiveness.”
Vollmer followed Lamia’s gaze to the scrubby forest, where wheels were just visible from between the trees. The Imperial Weapons Development Unit’s prototype miniature catapult. Twice as powerful as previous models, it could reduce a wooden barricade to rubble in a single strike. “Only as a last resort,” said Vollmer. “Colonel Guyel intends to make the citadel our base of operations for the advance into central Fernest. We want to take it with as little damage as possible.”
“Then what is the plan, ser?” Lamia asked again. “We’re not just going to sit here idling away the days, I hope?”
Vollmer rested his chin on his fist and thought. Lamia was right—staying put would do them no good. Soon, he would have to decide on a definite course of action. “No, that won’t do... All right, how about we send them an invitation?” he said. Lamia immediately brightened.
“That sounds perfect, ser. Our friends in the Seventh Legion will be overjoyed to receive an invitation from you, Lieutenant Colonel.”
“Shall I leave the details to you then, Lamia?” Vollmer said.
Lamia gave an enthusiastic nod, and said, “I’ll have the trees felled, and the necessary materials procured.” He called over several of the soldiers standing by, then left, humming quietly.
The sun rose over Mount Gransaless the next morning, its soft light gradually spilling across the plains below. The light of dawn also shone upon three bodies impaled on stakes—one was missing their eyes, mouth, and nose, the next had clean stumps where their limbs had been, and the third had been flayed from head to toe. At their feet, neatly folded, were three sets of military uniforms in the colors of the royal army.
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