Chapter Seven: After the Battle Was Won
I
Kier Fortress, Base of Imperial Military Operations in Fernest
After General Felix received the news of the Crimson Knights’ defeat, he set off from Listelein Castle to see Marshal Gladden at Kier Fortress.
“Sorry for making you come all this way,” Gladden welcomed him.
“Not at all, ser,” Felix replied. Gladden gestured for him to sit down on the sofa, so he did so. An attendant smoothly placed a teacup on the table before him. It appeared to be Hausen tea, a variety of tea cultivated in the Asvelt Empire, and one to which Felix was particularly partial. It was one of the empire’s most important luxury exports and was always in high demand in other nations. Felix took the cup with a word of thanks, accidentally making eye contact with the attendant. Her face colored as she saluted, then rushed from the room. Felix, unsure what to make of this, looked doubtfully after her.
Gladden, watching him with mild amazement, asked, “How old are you, Felix?”
“Twenty-one this year...” Felix replied. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Twenty-one already...” Gladden mused. “You’re of an age to be getting married, then. A word from you and you’d have every young lady of high birth in the empire lining up to ask for your hand, and yet I’m yet to hear any good news on that front.” He paused, looking at Felix probingly, then stroked his chin. “Or have you secretly promised yourself to someone?”
Felix gaped at him. “I’m sorry, what are we talking about?” he asked, feeling a little unmoored by the sudden discussion of his marriage prospects.
Gladden only shook his head with a sigh. “Never mind,” he said. “Just think of it as an old man’s teasing. Let’s get back to Rosenmarie. I heard she was badly injured, but what’s her actual condition?”
“The healer says she’ll live, but it will be a long time before she fully recovers,” Felix replied. According to the healer, in addition to her two broken arms, Rosenmarie had also suffered extensive damage to her internal organs. If the damage had been any more severe, she would certainly have died.
“Thank goodness...” Gladden said, nodding with relief and sinking back into the sofa. Gladden would never admit it, but Felix knew he cared about Rosenmarie in his own way.
“After this, though, I think we’ll have to shelve our plans to conquer the north,” Felix continued. Rosenmarie’s army had fallen all the way back to the northern border, basing themselves out of an outland castle, Fort Astora. Rosenmarie’s aide Guyel was standing in as supreme commander in her absence.
“No helping that. No one can replace the Crimson Knights...” Gladden said. He paused, then asked, “Is it all really true, then? Halfway through this, I started feeling like I was reading a fantasy story.” He looked over to the pile of papers on his desk—Guyel’s report on the Battle of Carnac. The report went through the circumstances leading to the battle in detail, and everything they knew about Death God Olivia.
“Colonel Guyel is an exceptional soldier. Having read his report myself, I believe it to be a plain statement of fact,” Felix replied
“He’d have to be to serve under that shrew of a commander. I know his character as well as you, I just...” Gladden paused, searching for the right words. “I just have to wonder if this Death God Olivia can really be that powerful. In his report he describes her as a teenage girl.”
Guyel’s report was more or less just an account of how Olivia and her forces had toyed with the Crimson Knights. He described Olivia in particular as practically superhuman. Although the girl was just one soldier, Olivia was enough to freeze the blood of any imperial soldier. When Felix looked at her through their enemy’s eyes, however, she seemed akin to the heroes and conquerors of yore, or perhaps even greater. Gladden was right that it sounded like fantasy, but Felix knew with absolute and unwavering certainty that it was all true. He remembered when he first laid eyes on Olivia at the ceremony to approve the exchange of hostages. Ever since that day, he had, deep in his heart, dreaded that things would come to this.
Olivia’s figure was still vividly etched in his memory, and he pictured her as he thought, Even with Rosenmarie’s odh, this girl still wiped the floor with her. I can scarcely imagine how powerful she must be. And let’s not forget that she neutralized thirty thousand of our soldiers, or how she saw right through Rosenmarie’s cunning. It beggars belief. Is strategy another of this girl’s talents, or was there someone else behind it...? Whichever it is, she’s still the greatest thorn in the empire’s side right now.
Seeing that Gladden still looked disbelieving, he said, “My lord marshal, the result of this last battle should tell you all you need to know. Our next move must be made in consideration of the facts we have.”
Gladden nodded, his expression resolute. “I agree. Come to think of it, that fort we left to the Swarans—Fort Peshitta—was lost because of the death god’s interference too. You’re absolutely right. To ignore reality would be the height of foolishness. On which note,” he continued, “did Chancellor Darmés have anything to say about this?”
“He told me that we were to hold our current position in the north, and that he was leaving the rest to the two of us.”
“The lord chancellor wants to wait and see, does he?” Gladden said, his lip curling as he went on sarcastically, “Well, I hope neither hell nor high waters come calling in the meantime...” Darmés might be second only to the emperor himself in terms of power, but he had risen up out of the analytics department, and he was a dyed-in-the-wool bureaucrat. Forget an army, the man had never so much as commanded a single private. Felix could only imagine how fed up Gladden, whose position as leader of the Three Generals put him at the pinnacle of the imperial army, must have been with Darmés sticking his nose into military affairs—chancellor or not.
“However,” Felix went on, “he also told me that the Azure Knights must stay where they are. Not that I would have dreamed of mobilizing without the permission of His Imperial Majesty, of course.”
Gladden smiled wryly. “That’s to be expected. The Azure Knights are needed for the defense of the capital.”
“Forgive me, ser.”
“No need for you to apologize, Felix,” Gladden said. “Though that does mean I’ll have to take center stage in the next act...” Gladden rubbed his chin again, then reached for his cup of black tea, now stone cold. Felix took another few sips of his hausen tea, and for a time the two sat without saying a word.
Finally, Gladden broke the silence. “Felix, until Rosenmarie is fully recovered, I want you to look after the Crimson Knights. I doubt the Seventh Legion plans on making a foray into the empire’s lands, but better to be safe than sorry, eh?”
“I have no objections myself, ser. It’s just...” Felix paused, looking for the right words. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? The Azure Knights might be locked down, but I can always ride out with my usual unit if need be.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. This is a good opportunity for us all to get serious about this war. Our forces still have the advantage; that hasn’t changed, but it won’t do to let the royal army get too carried away. The news of the Crimson Knights’ defeat must have spread around Duvedirica by now.”
“You think there’s a chance that the vassal states will hear about this defeat and start getting funny ideas, ser?” Felix guessed. Gladden grimaced slightly.
“That’s exactly what I think. Swaran is one thing, but the Stonian army still haven’t taken any losses. As a warning to them all, allow my Helios Knights and I to handle this.” He picked up his cup and downed the remaining tea in a single gulp.
The Royal Army at Windsome Castle
Although they had suffered devastating losses, the Seventh Legion emerged victorious from their battle with the Crimson Knights. Paul assigned a unit of eight thousand soldiers, with the Independent Cavalry Regiment at its core, to the task of chasing down any remaining enemies. He then rode back to Windsome Castle, arriving to a hail of cheers from the liberated citizens.
Three days later, Paul looked down on a man dressed in fine robes who knelt before him.
“If you want to explain yourself, I’m listening,” Paul said coldly, his voice echoing in the stillness of the audience chamber. A tremor ran through the kneeling man’s shoulders, and he looked up with fear in his eyes. The man’s name was Count Konrad Windsome, lord of the Zaltz region and former master of Windsome Castle.
“Forgive me, your grace. I swear, I only submitted to the empire in order to fulfill my duty to protect my people!”
“You’re telling me you didn’t want any of this, then, Count?”
“Of course not, Your Grace! I surrendered the castle first only because I wished to ensure that the people came to no harm! I would never have handed over the castle of my most glorious ancestor Tristan Windsome were it not of the gravest necessity!” Once he got going, Konrad proved to be quite verbose. He went on, ardently impressing upon Paul how he had devoted himself to the protection of his people even as he suffered under imperial persecution. The soldiers standing guard along the walls of the chamber wore expressions of utter contempt, but he didn’t seem to notice. Paul listened to the whole speech, then turned to Otto who waited at his side. Otto nodded, then placed a tray before Konrad. On it rested a letter written on parchment.
“Wh...What is this?” Konrad asked, bewildered.
“This was delivered to me by a representative of your people,” said Paul. “I suggest you take a look at the contents yourself.” Konrad’s reaction was comically dramatic. He fumbled in his haste to open the letter, then unfolded it violently and began to read like a starving man given food. Everyone watched as, little by little, the blood drained from his face.
“Your Grace, I—” Konrad began, but Paul cut his excuses off with a wave.
“Finished? Good. These people you say you devoted yourself to protecting seem to hate you with an intensity that borders on the fanatical. Now, if my eyes didn’t deceive me, it says there that a great number of innocents were killed on your orders, Count. I can hardly believe you’re both referring to the same events.”
“Th-That’s not what happened!” cried Konrad. “These people, they don’t understand! It was orders from the empire! I had no choice!”
“You had no choice but to order the murder of the people it was your duty to protect?” Paul asked quietly. There was a faint clinking of armor from the direction of the soldiers on guard. Konrad let out a small, anguished sob, and his whole body shook.
“Y-Yes, Your Grace. I... I didn’t want to do it. It was all... I had no choice...” His earlier talkativeness was gone now. Instead his voice grew smaller and smaller until at last he lapsed into silence. This, more than anything else, betrayed his guilty conscience. Paul sighed, then slowly raised a hand. The soldiers moved in around Konrad, training their spears on him.
“L-Lord Paul?! Wh-What are you—?!”
“Enough with the theatrics,” Paul cut him off. “I have neither time nor mercy enough to waste any more on you. I’ll leave the choice of the stake or the executioner’s block to you.”
“Do not be cruel, Your Grace, I beg you!” Konrad ranted. His face bloomed scarlet, and spittle flew from his mouth. “I told you, I never turned on Fernest out of choice! Should I have defied them and been cut down like a dog? Lord Paul!”
“That’s exactly what you should have done. You should have died and used your death to buy your people’s safety. That is what any self-respecting lord would have done. Instead, you rolled over and showed your belly to the empire to save your own skin, and what is more, you went along with the slaughter of your own innocent people. Any more words are wasted on a beast like you,” Paul said, disgusted. He then addressed the soldiers. “Throw him in a cell.”
“You can’t be serious?!” shrieked Konrad. “Why should I lay down my life for a bunch of filthy peasants?! My bloodline runs directly from the hero of Fernest, Tristan Windsome himself!”
“And I’m sure even now, the hero of Fernest, Tristan Windsome, is turning in his grave to know that his line is going to end having fallen so low,” Paul replied.
“Damn you! I wasn’t the only one, you know! All the others turned too! All the lords went over to the empire! Don’t try to pin this all on me!” Konrad howled, protesting at the injustice of being the only one to be punished.
This time, Otto replied instead. “Do not trouble yourself on that count,” he said, his expression blank and his tone perfunctory. “We have already issued orders for the arrest of all the traitorous lords. They will be standing in your place soon enough.”
Konrad went on railing desperately against his fate, but he struggled in vain. The soldiers beat him down until he was at last escorted from the room looking battered as an old rag.
Paul stared after him, then muttered to himself, “Deplorable... Too many fools these days confuse nobility with a right to absolute dominion.”
“It is only the labor of the commoners that keeps the nobility alive,” Otto agreed. “A simple axiom, but it seems one that Count Konrad failed to grasp.”
“And now he’s even dragged the name of the great Tristan Windsome through the dirt. He is beyond redemption.” Paul spat, then heaved a deep sigh.
Konrad Windsome’s death sentence was officially announced two days later. The public execution turned into a great occasion, with the common folk pouring in until Windsome Castle was full to bursting. Paul himself disliked the spectacle of public executions. He merely went through with it this time because it was the only way to appease the intractable resentment of the common folk.
As Konrad lay his head upon the block, the crowd threw stones at him along with every taunt and jeer under the sun. Konrad, it appeared, hadn’t given up quite yet. Even as an incoming stone split his forehead open, he continued to beg Paul for his life.
“L-Lord Paul, please, I beg you, have mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy—!” His voice was tinged with madness as he repeated the plea over and over again, and his eyes glimmered as they roved wildly around.
Otto didn’t even glance at him as he turned to Paul and announced, “My lord, preparations are complete.”
“Then let it be done.” Paul gestured, and a hulking soldier in clanking armor mounted the platform. This was the executioner. He stood before the block and drew a longsword. Its well-honed blade caught the sun’s light and shone brightly. With that, the baying crowd at once fell silent. The only sound was Konrad’s now incoherent gibbering as everyone in attendance held their breath. The soldier raised the longsword slowly up above his head, held the stance for a moment, then swung. Konrad’s head fell into the basket with a thud, while a thunderous cheer rose up from the crowd.
“Otto, take care of the rest.”
“Yes, ser.”
Paul looked briefly into Konrad’s terror-stricken face, then left quickly. The cheering from the crowd went on and on, as though it would never end.
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