Chapter 2: The Letter Arrives
Chapter 2: The Letter Arrives
“That’s enough!” Balthazar’s voice echoed out.
“Phwah!” Altina exhaled as she collapsed to the ground and sprawled out across the soft undergrowth, staring up at the blinding blue sky. Each breath came out a weak rasp, and she gulped in air as though it were the finest delicacy. Her hands were numb, and beads of sweat dripped down her skin.
Eddie was resting a short distance away. He was in a similar state, though he seemed a little less exhausted—he was squatting down, but upright nonetheless. Pieces of a broken wooden sword were scattered across the nearby earth.
“Hah... I’m tired...”
“Good grief. You’re slackers, the both of you! We’ve barely even started, and you’re struggling to breathe!” Balthazar called out spiritedly. There were bandages wrapped around his right arm, coming all the way down to his fingers; he had fractured a bone in his fight against the Mercenary King.
Under normal circumstances, only the forearm would have needed to be secured, but the lady doctor knew what Balthazar was like—he would have immediately reached for his sword if she hadn’t restricted his hand as well. Now that he couldn’t hold a weapon, he could only watch and give instructions as Altina and Eddie trained.
“Hah... Hah... I think this is the first time Balthazar...has actually taught me any footwork,” Altina wheezed.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever received instructions this detailed,” Eddie said with a weary shrug.
They were currently atop Fort Volks. As the fortress was a repurposed mine carved into the side of a cliff, it was only natural that there was earth right above it. There was even a watering hole nearby. It would have been the perfect place to grow crops, but some had said it was blasphemous to farm over the head of a royal. As a result, it was only being maintained to the bare minimum; the soldiers were reluctant to work the land, even if Altina herself allowed it.
Those who were more superstitious had been especially against the idea. They claimed it was a bad omen to lay dirt over one’s commander since this signifies defeat in the local religion. The fortress’s very design meant that having earth overhead was inevitable regardless, but this ill fortune was supposedly negated by having Altina sleep on the very top floor, and establishing the roof as an extension of her quarters.
Altina didn’t really mind playing along to keep the soldiers calm, plus she often used the roof as a personal training area. Scouts were occasionally posted up there in times of war, but the terribly strong winds meant she was usually alone. Even now, she could feel the wind stroking her body. She let it sweep over her as she thought back on the day’s practice.
“You’re pretty strong, huh, Eddie?” she mused aloud.
“Yep. Don’t go falling for me though.”
“I very well might’ve if you weren’t an idiot. But you are, in fact, an idiot.”
“There was no need to say it twice, damn it.”
Altina got to her feet and looked over the sword in her hands. It was the renewed Grand Tonnerre Quatre, now with a massive weight on the pommel that made it look somewhat like a metal hammer. The hilt was thick and wrapped in leather that nicely conformed to her grip, and what it lacked in ornamentation compared to more modern swords, it more than made up for with durability. The parts used were all notably sturdy, and Enzo, a blacksmith from Rouenne, claimed that he had now returned the weapon to its original form.
It was of course heavier than it had been before the revisions, but its point of balance was a lot more reasonable, meaning it was considerably easier to move. Before, Altina had only been able to swing once before needing to reposition herself. Her movements had been sluggish, as though she were tilling a field with a hoe, but now she could smoothly transition from one motion into the next.
Even with these revisions, however, the princess struggled to keep up with Eddie. She had beaten him once so far, but also lost three times. It wasn’t unreasonable to say he moved as quickly as Latrielle.
Altina touched a finger to her lips in thought. “I’m good at dealing with slashes, but thrusts really break my rhythm...”
“Maybe that’s why spears are more effective than swords on the battlefield,” Eddie chimed in.
“Nah, spears are much easier to read; you know exactly what to expect with them. But with swords, the thrusts can happen between a flurry of slashes, you know?” Altina made a variety of explanatory hand gestures as she spoke.
Eddie nodded a few times in agreement. “Well, you wouldn’t have to worry about thrusts so much if you kept your distance.”
“But you thrust no matter where I am. And you’re just about as fast as Latrielle.”
“That’s because you’re always too close. Your weapon’s huge, so keeping your distance should be your top priority.”
“Am I reacting too slowly, perhaps...?”
“It’s like you’re still too hung up on how your sword reacts to your movements. When your opponent comes in close, you should be backing away automatically.”
“Close combat is what I’m good at, though...”
“I get that, but at a range where both weapons can reach, the lighter sword is almost always gonna strike first.”
“Ah! Of course!”
“Hm?”
“So what you’re saying is, I need to swing the Grand Tonnerre Quatre faster than you and Latrielle can swing your swords! Then I’m sure to win!”
“Y-You serious?!” Eddie cried out in genuine amazement. “You really are a genius, huh?”
Altina triumphantly puffed out her chest. The sight was enough for Balthazar, who had been watching their exchange from the sidelines, to let out a long sigh.
It wasn’t long before a fourth figure appeared, using one hand to stop her maid uniform from getting blown about by the fierce winds as she trampled the undergrowth.
“Princess.”
“Oh, Clarisse! Is it lunchtime already?”
“You’ve already eaten lunch, haven’t you?”
“He he he... I’ve moved around so much that I’m hungry again. Is it dinnertime then? That works for me too.”
“It’s only three, Princess.”
“Why isn’t dinner served at three?”
“Because three isn’t dinnertime.”
“Then three seriously needs to get its act together. So be it though, I suppose. How about some tea? I really am hungry.”
“...Very well. Incidentally, you have received a letter.”
“Really?”
“From Mr. Regis.”
“Really?! You should’ve started with that!” Altina exclaimed, hurrying over at once. Her knees were shaking from exhaustion, but she quickly put a stop to that using nothing but willpower.
Eddie gave a wry smile. “Welp, I guess that’s it for today’s training.”
Balthazar nodded, then turned his gaze to Altina. “Argentina...”
“Yeah?”
“When it comes to training of any kind, I’m of the belief that careful thought and simulation are more important than repetition. Use the past to predict the future and better the present.”
“Right.”
“Do you understand me?”
“Y-Yeah?”
“Look me in the eye when you say that!”
Altina was already doing some thinking on her part, though evidently not enough to satisfy Balthazar. While she didn’t believe that using her head was something she was particularly good at, she couldn’t rely on that excuse forever—especially when she didn’t have a strategist by her side to rely on.
✧ ✧ ✧
After descending the stairs leading down from the roof, Altina offered the lookout a salute. The fortress was entirely underground, excluding the few passageways that protruded out from the cliffside, so the interior was always dim no matter how bright it was outside. Most of their light came from the torches fixed to the walls, which colored the once gray stone corridors a shade of orange.
Even so, the soldiers didn’t have the time for this to put a damper on their moods. Jerome was absent, but they still had Everard, who was just as well-versed in Jerome’s teaching methods. The senior officers like Abidal-Evra had also grown more pragmatic from their countless battles in the war against High Britannia—under their instruction, the soldiers would be out training every day, barely spending any time in the claustrophobic corridors. The nine thousand soldiers currently stationed at Fort Volks were a mishmash from various units, but as things were going now, it wouldn’t even be half a year before they became a formidable force that acted as one.
Following the Fourth Army’s achievements in the recent war, there were an increasing number of people requesting to join them. This didn’t come as much of a surprise—those who realized they were going to be fighting either way were a lot more enthusiastic to do so under a commander who had already proven herself able to win.
Altina wholly attributed these achievements to Regis, so she found it rather off-putting whenever applicants showered her with praise. Even so, her new reputation had proven more than effective—the Fourth Army had not only recovered its lost forces but had also seen an overall gain in numbers.
Someone was approaching from the opposite end of the stone passageway—what looked to be an attractive young man with silver hair and crimson eyes. It was First Prince Auguste. He wore the elegant clothes of a normal gentleman rather than a military uniform, since he was naturally not a soldier, and while he was royalty, he had already renounced his claim to the throne and gone into an early retirement.
At least, this was the official story.
In reality, the person most believed to be Auguste was actually his younger sister Felicia in disguise. The real first prince had died a year ago, though this was a grave secret known only to a select few. This fact was naturally being kept from the soldiers, and it was for this reason that Felicia always dressed as her late brother while in the fortress. Eddie was accompanying her as the prince’s guard.
“Something the matter, Auguste?” Eddie asked.
“To think you were training again... You’ve been at it every single day lately.”
“Of course. I’ve got a good sparring partner and a wise old man to teach me.”
Balthazar reverently lowered his head to the prince. “Thank you for taking in this incompetent grandson of mine.”
“Oh, no. It really is no problem at all,” Auguste replied. “Eddie is always looking out for me. It’s just... I sometimes wish he would spare some time for me as well...”
“Is that so?” Balthazar paused for a moment, then gave an understanding nod. “This boy’s only good for swinging swords, but please use him as you see fit.”
A broad grin spread across Eddie’s face. “Ah, I see. You want to work on your sword skills too, don’t you, Auguste?”
“Absolutely not!” he shot back, inadvertently raising a girly shriek.
Eddie suddenly sneezed, prompting the first prince to whip out a white handkerchief which he then handed to his trusty guard.
“You’ll catch a cold if you walk around covered in sweat. Come on, I’ll wipe you down. So, err...let’s return to our room.”
“We were about to go have tea,” Eddie explained.
“Tea, when you’re in such a state? We may be on the front lines, but I stand against such a blatant lack of courtesy.”
“That so?”
“Come. I’ll even help wash your back for you.”
“It’s fine, really. I can do that myself.”
“So you say, but how can I be sure you won’t just run away?” Auguste said. He then grabbed Eddie by the arm and began dragging him away.
“I won’t run away! Really!”
“Too late now. I’m going to scrub you down like a horse. You should be honored.”
“Ha ha ha. You say that, but when it actually comes to washing me, you’re always too embarrassed to put any strength into it. It just tickles, if anything.”
“W-Well, that won’t be the case today!”
With that exchange, they disappeared around the corner. Felicia was ever the cautious shut-in, but when dressed as her brother, it seemed she grew considerably bolder, regardless of whether that was the proper way for a prince to conduct himself. There were already rumors among the soldiers of an extraordinary relationship between the imperial prince and the duke, but perhaps that was safer than them believing the former was actually a princess in disguise.
Balthazar sighed. He was not among those privy to Auguste’s true identity, so the prince’s relationship with his guard must have looked quite bizarre to him. “It seems my lineage shall end with my grandson...” he murmured.
“Nah. With how well they’re getting on, you should be just fine,” Altina replied. The unaware old man could only cock his head in response.
✧ ✧ ✧
The workshop at Fort Volks—
A burly man arrived pulling a cart tightly packed with crates. His name was Gilbert Schweinzeberg, though he was better known throughout the continent as the infamous Mercenary King and the captain of the mercenary brigade Renard Pendu.
Despite his reputation, Gilbert was now being put to work as a prisoner. He would be sent to the gallows unless he continued to follow orders, so he and his men cleaned, transported boxes, and made minor repairs around the fort.
Gilbert brought the cart to a halt. “Is this good...?” he asked, his voice a low, heavy rumble. This was a man who could steal an enemy soldier’s consciousness with just a single glare on the battlefield, and yet the smith who greeted him wore an unfazed smile.
“Oh, finally here! Good work. Could you crack one of those open for me?”
“...Understood.”
The large, bear-like man making the request was Enzo Bardot Smith, blacksmith of Rouenne. He didn’t seem at all afraid of the mercenary, though it wasn’t as though Gilbert was particularly trying to scare him.
Gilbert began opening one of the crates as ordered. It appeared to contain coal, but it was coal unlike anything he had seen before—rather than the glossy black luster he was used to, the rocks had a strange dullness to them.
“What’s this...? It’s not the right color for coal.”
“Oh, good of you to notice. This is coke, sent straight from Rouenne,” Enzo said, plucking one of the rocks from the crate. He then rolled it around on his palm, checking its quality.
“What is coke?” Gilbert asked.
“You know how you need to heat iron in a forge before you can work it? Sure, you could burn charcoal, but sometimes that just doesn’t give enough heat. That’s where coke comes in—it burns much hotter, you see.”
“So it’s different from coal then?”
“Yeah. Coal doesn’t get hot enough, for one, but it also produces sulfur. That stuff weakens the iron.”
“Is using this fuel common?”
“Only a fraction of the blacksmiths here in Belgaria use it, though I’ve heard there’s a booming market for the stuff over in High Britannia. After all, you can’t process that special alloy of theirs without a coke blast furnace.”
“What?! Then you can make new-alloy with this?!”
“Ah, so that’s what you lot call it? Hm... It wouldn’t be easy with the forge here at the fort since the bellows are man-powered. I’d want something hooked up to a waterwheel before I even thought about giving it a go, but for that, I’d need a whole new workshop.”
Gilbert sighed. “I’d assumed High Britannia was leagues ahead, but it seems Belgaria is closer than I thought. Perhaps Germania has simply fallen behind...”
The sizable reward was of course one of the main reasons Renard Pendu had allied with High Britannia, but it was the promise of new-alloy weapons that had truly sealed the deal—not only did excellent arms greatly improve one’s odds of securing military gains, but outdated gear was also a good path to an early grave. Had the Germanians been able to make new-alloy themselves, perhaps Gilbert never would have agreed to assist High Britannia in the first place.
Enzo tilted his head. “I wouldn’t say they’re behind. The Germanian Federation might not have the newest iron alloy or the latest guns, but they were the first ones to make a proper forge. Of course, that was before they became a federation... Oh, I heard they’re also the folks who came up with putting buttons on clothes.”
“That was a long time ago.”
Enzo merely shrugged. There had indeed been revolutionary inventions in the northern countries many years ago, but a string of civil wars had caused them to fall behind in both manufacturing and agriculture. The seemingly never-ending conflict caused a drop in global power all throughout the Federation, but it also created a situation that was very convenient for the mercenary industry.
As it stood, Belgaria already boasted a powerful military. If they were able to bolster that with new-alloy weapons and guns, the Federation wouldn’t stand a chance.
Germania’s sovereign state, San Preussen, had been increasing its forces in recent years. Its current king was a thrifty economist with a knack for military matters, and there were rumors on the wind that he might try to absorb the surrounding small countries to form an empire. This certainly was a valid means for survival, but nobody could see the leaders of the Federation’s other nations agreeing to the arrangement.
For the Federation, unification and ruin were both on the horizon; it was simply a matter of seeing which direction things headed.
Whatever happens to the Federation shouldn’t matter to a mercenary...though I guess I’m not even a mercenary anymore. I’m just a laborer now, Gilbert thought with a sigh.
“All right, bring as much coke as you can carry over here,” Enzo said, beckoning Gilbert to the forge.
“Right...”
Gilbert glanced at the workstation, and it was then that he caught sight of a longsword. It was the type often used by the Belgarian soldiers, but this one was different—it glimmered as though it had been forged from pure silver, and its leather grip had been applied better than any he had ever seen before. Before he knew it, he was reaching out a hand toward its hilt.
The weapon fit perfectly into his hand, as though it were made just for him. It was significantly lighter than what he was used to, but it made him feel strangely reassured; he was holding the sword for the very first time, but it was like he had spent years growing acquainted with it.
“Oi! What are you doing?!”
For a brief moment, Gilbert had been so enraptured that he had forgotten where he was. His overseeing officer had quickly pulled him back to his senses, but now the man was standing with his spear at the ready. Gilbert could feel his heart suddenly hammering in his chest; the Belgarian soldiers were already wary enough, and he knew what it meant when a prison laborer picked up a sword.
Ghh... Talk about careless. To think I’d make such a stupid mistake. What now?
There was only one soldier before him at the moment, around five paces away, but his loud voice would surely cause more to gather. There were also two other lookouts nearby, though they were currently only watching. The workshop was filled with tools, and there was a sizable worktable to consider, but there was still ample space to fight freely.
The main problem was the chains binding his legs. They weren’t much of a hindrance when he was transporting materials, but they would absolutely get in the way during combat, and a fast approach was an absolute necessity when using a sword against a spear.
Right. I’ll allow him to thrust, then I’ll steal the spear, Gilbert told himself. Catching a peon’s spear wouldn’t be a challenge at all, but a bead of sweat trickled down his brow nonetheless. What happens to my men, though? What about the ones getting medical treatment? They’re all dead meat.
The chance of such an impulsive rebellion being successful was infinitesimally small. Gilbert was at a standstill. He locked eyes with the spear-wielding soldier until Enzo suddenly broke the silence.
“What are you doing? Help me out already.”
“Huh?!” Gilbert inadvertently cried out. The blacksmith was still beckoning him over without a care.
“He’s a prisoner requiring special attention! They call him the Mercenary King!” the overseer yelled, his voice rough. “I saw him pick up a sword! This is a rebellion!”
Enzo shrugged. “He picked it up because I asked him to, right? Now hurry up and bring it over. The coke too.”
“Get away from him, blacksmith!” the soldier barked, evidently not satisfied with the explanation. “He’s dangerous!”
“He’s in a fort with ten thousand soldiers; it doesn’t matter how dangerous he is. What can he accomplish with one sword, anyway? And I have you here to protect me, right? As far as I’m concerned, there’s no need to worry.”
“Grr...”
Gilbert would have no hope of escaping the fortress when his rebellion consisted of one man with a single sword—that much seemed obvious. He placed the silver sword atop the boxes of coke and pulled the cart closer, bringing it right up to the forge. The overseer lowered his spear the moment he saw his supervisee had put down the weapon, and the other soldiers who had gathered returned to their stations upon seeing that things had de-escalated.
Did this man just save me?
Gilbert couldn’t help but wonder, since there was no reason to bring an already completed sword over to a forge. There were no two ways about it—seeing that the soldier had misunderstood the situation, the blacksmith had stepped in to ease the tension.
“Why did you help me out?” Gilbert whispered as he started tossing coke into the fire.
“I could tell from the look in your eyes.”
“My eyes?”
“I saw a man who entrusts his life to his weapons staring at my work like a kid in a candy store, forgetting himself in the process.”
It was a somewhat unseemly way to put it, but true nonetheless; Gilbert had certainly been charmed by the man’s handiwork.
“Hmph...” Gilbert grumbled, then realizing that he had both intended and failed to thank the smith.
“That said...” Enzo smiled. “You’re pretty famous, eh?”
“I don’t recall ever using such an embarrassing nickname myself.”
“How did you like my sword then?”
“It’s very well made, but too light for me.”
“Yeah, I thought that might be the case. You usually use a polearm, right?”
“Did my eyes tell you that too?”
“No, your muscles did.”
The two men continued to work as they conversed. It wasn’t long before the first crate had been fully emptied into the forge.
“All right, now we’re going to strengthen the flame,” Enzo said. “Could you get those bellows moving for me?”
Acting as instructed, Gilbert gripped the handle protruding from the box-shaped bellows, pushing and pulling to inject air into the forge.
“Not bad at all. You’re working that thing better than my apprentices.”
“I’ve never lost to anyone in raw strength.”
“It shows. Keep at it like that.”
Carrying coke and working the bellows were jobs that the apprentice smiths normally handled themselves, but the fort had gained so many new soldiers that anyone who could work metal had enough on their plate to keep them going day and night. As a result, the strong-looking laborers were being asked to help out.
Gilbert had initially seen the job as simple, monotonous work, but sending just enough air to keep the flames at a particular strength took a surprising amount of concentration. There was also the fact that a furnace capable of turning iron bright red was burning right before his eyes. He was sweaty in no time.
Enzo heated the iron, struck it, then heated it again. There were blacksmiths in Renard Pendu, but Gilbert soon realized this man was something else entirely. He continued doing whatever work the man asked, paying no mind to how much time had passed.
From that day onward, Gilbert was often called to help at the forge.
✧ ✧ ✧
After separating from Balthazar, Altina returned to her room. It wasn’t long before Clarisse brought in tea and some brioche, with Eric then appearing only moments later.
Eric was a handsome young man not much older than Altina, having apparently turned seventeen not too long ago. He currently served as the princess’s escort officer, though an injury during the first battle of the war had left him unable to put any strength into his left hand. This would not prove much of an issue in daily life, but it prevented him from holding a large shield or gripping a horse’s reins.
Altina offered Eric a chair—slender, white, and elegant. Fort Volks had only been their base of operations for half a year now, but nobles and merchants continuously sent them gifts of all sorts, so the place had gotten considerably gaudy. Vibrant curtains hung over the fortress’s few windows, tapestries decorated the walls, and delicate vases filled with fresh flowers brought some much-needed life to the otherwise dimly lit rooms.
The fortress lacked the gold, silver, and precious gems that one would usually find in the capital, but compared to when they had retaken it from Varden, it was almost unrecognizable.
It was a common belief among the Germanian Federation that minimalism was the peak of artistic accomplishment, and so its people often rid themselves of anything deemed unnecessary. For this reason, it was considered shameful for one to decorate their room.
While Altina detested pointless spending herself, she believed that even modest decorations did wonders to enrich the heart, in the same vein that people could not happily live on bread alone.
Clarisse placed the tea set on a round table adorned with tiles around its rim. “We received a shipment of fresh tea leaves from the capital just this morning. They said that our shipping routes are recovering.”
“So it seems.”
Word had spread about Belgaria snatching the latest ship-of-the-line from High Britannia, and so the pirates who usually targeted transport ships had distanced themselves from the nearest seas.
In truth, these pirates were the navy of the Hispanian Empire to the south. They raised a black flag rather than a flag of war, brazenly using their acts of piracy to benefit their nation. They naturally claimed that this wasn’t the case, though whenever a pirate vessel was seized, their weapons and a large majority of their crew always proved to be from Hispania. These actions understandably led to worsening relations with its neighboring countries, to the point that Belgaria might have launched their own attack had High Britannia not invaded at such an inopportune time.
Altina picked up a white porcelain teacup; a pleasant fragrance drifted up from the light-crimson liquid within.
Clarisse and Eric took seats around the same table. A maid and an escort officer normally wouldn’t sit across from their commander—they would stand by the wall and the door, respectively—though the fact that no other soldiers would see inside Altina’s personal room meant she had no obligation to enforce the standard hierarchy. Here, the princess treated the two as friends.
Clarisse took out the letter. “It arrived this morning with that wooden box over there,” she said, gesturing toward a crate by the door that was big enough to hold a longsword. “Ehe he he... What could it be, I wonder? It might just be a present for you, Princess.”
“If that’s true, there are only going to be books in there,” Altina said with an unenthusiastic shrug. Eric, meanwhile, wore a somewhat troubled expression, evidently having thought the same thing.
Clarisse sighed. “Oh, Mr. Regis... It seems you’ve built up quite a reputation for yourself. Now then, let’s read the letter, shall we?”
She broke the wax seal, opened the envelope, then set the letter down on the table. Three curious faces peered at the paper spread out before them.
“His penmanship is as good as ever,” Clarisse said with a smile. “Ahem. ‘Dear Altina, it is very sunny at the capital today.’”
“Wait! Clarisse!” Altina interrupted. “Why are you reading it out loud?!”
“Is something the matter? I’m quite confident in my impersonation skills.”
“You weren’t actually that far off, but that just made it even worse.”
“Where was I...? Ah, yes. ‘To my dearest Altina. Who would have guessed that a mere day without you would pain me so deeply?’”
“It doesn’t say that anywhere!”
“I believed some creative liberties were in order.”
“You’re reading a letter! You shouldn’t be taking any liberties!”
As he watched Altina and Clarisse’s exchange, Eric cracked a slight smile—something he had barely done since learning about his injuries. The princess knew this, and she had called him here precisely to pep him up a little.
Eric officially served Altina as an escort officer, but he had done more than just keep her safe—he had stayed by her side through even the most troublesome times, and he had only sustained his injury because he had moved to protect her precious comrade Regis.
The first letter Altina had written to Regis was about Eric’s condition, though the considerable distance from Fort Volks to the capital meant it had taken a few days to reach him. To make matters worse, the first correspondences she had received from him were mere status reports.
While she didn’t particularly want to admit it, Altina had cried when she first learned that her faithful strategist was becoming Latrielle’s staff officer. Regis had done his best to assure her that it was just a temporary arrangement, but it had thrown her heart into disarray for quite some time nonetheless. Since then, however, she had finally found peace; the daily letters that she received from Regis were enough to convince her that he was telling the truth.
Judging by the number of days it took for a message to travel to the capital and back, Altina wondered whether it was about time for Regis to reply to the question she had posed in her first letter.
As per usual, the newest letter from Regis began with a status report directed at Altina. He was apparently due to leave the capital in a few days’ time to head in the direction of Langobarti, a kingdom in the Germanian Federation. Given that this correspondence could have been sent perhaps even a week ago, was he already on the expedition? He was a staff officer going into a siege, so there was probably very little chance he would actually face the enemy, but the princess still found herself growing somewhat concerned.
The next section of the letter was directed at Eric.
I understand the situation—you certainly have it rough. I have read a few books on prognosis symptoms, and there are plenty of records detailing full recoveries, so there is no need to give up. That said, the process may take a few years.
Eric had already heard something similar from the lady doctor. “I knew it,” he sighed. “It won’t get better anytime soon...”
I am sure it will prove rather difficult for you to fight on horseback. An escort officer does not necessarily need to ride a horse, but keeping someone who cannot ride in such an important position will impact overall morale. We would not want the others to think the princess is showing favoritism, and in such a case, you might find it disconcerting to be around the rest of the army.
Altina nodded along in understanding—she had received special treatment from the moment she was born, becoming a target of envy before she even knew her own name. She had been stationed as a commander for her very first assignment, despite having never even attended the military academy, so she still struggled to grasp the emotions of normal people—especially their desire to climb the ranks.
Altina, of course, wanted to become empress, but that was only because it was a means to change the Empire. Not once had she actually wanted to improve her title—in fact, she found the very concept of titles rather vague as it was.
Regardless of these views, however, the reality was that the soldiers all had their sights on something or another, and all for their own reasons. Altina needed to avoid showing clear favoritism to Eric; if she did not treat him in a manner that seemed to match his skills and accomplishments, the troops would quickly lose enthusiasm.
She continued reading the letter.
Until his hand has fully recovered, I recommend that you remove Eric from his current position.
“I see... That really is...the only option...” Eric murmured, starting to slump his shoulders. But Altina prodded the paper before her.
“Wait. There’s still more.”
However—and this is entirely up to him—I do have one proposal should he want to stick with the army. They have not been established in the imperial army as of yet, but there is a certain type of soldier that will undoubtedly become a mainstay in the near future. I wish for him to take the initiative to master the craft and instruct those who follow.
“Eh?” Eric leaned in at once, his eyes curiously devouring the rest of the letter.
It is my hope that Eric will become the Empire’s first sharpshooter. The necessary tools should arrive along with this letter. Have you opened the box yet?
Eric squatted down by the box and gripped the lid at one end. The lack of strength in his left hand meant he struggled to pry it open, though even an able-bodied soldier would have struggled; the wooden crates used to transport military goods rarely employed any fancy opening mechanisms, instead being held together with solid nails.
“Leave it to me,” Altina said, crouching down next to Eric and putting her hands beside his.
“N-No, I couldn’t let a princess do such—!”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m strong enough.”
Altina started forcing open the lid. It let out a harsh groan as the nails keeping it secured were torn from the wood, then abruptly snapped in two. The box itself was expendable, so this thankfully wasn’t an issue; it would simply be used as firewood.
“Oh dear...” Clarisse sighed and set down the nail puller she had produced, realizing it might have been wise to mention it sooner.
Inside the box was a cylindrical object, wrapped in cloth that smelled of grease. Had Regis not already hinted at what the item was in his letter, Altina would have assumed it was a sword.
Eric carefully unwrapped the cloth with bated breath. Inside was a breech-loading rifle, as well as some ammunition.
I will send over three of the rifles we have captured in good condition, plus one hundred rounds of ammunition, though I should be able to prepare more if necessary. At present, we only have access to the type made in High Britannia, but we should eventually be able to make guns and ammunition of the same quality here in the Empire. Prince Latrielle has been very proactive in their development. It will not be long before the gun shall rule the battlefield, so we have an urgent need to secure talents who excel in their use.
The rest of the letter was a detailed explanation covering how to use and maintain a rifle. As one might expect from Regis, there were large blocks of text written in tiny letters spelling out nothing but warnings. Altina knew without a doubt that it was impossible for her to handle such a weapon.
“‘Rule the battlefield,’ eh...?” The war against High Britannia had proven the military superiority of guns on so many occasions that Altina had grown sick of seeing them. Belgaria had still managed to come out on top, though it had required a considerable amount of scheming.
As someone who had spent day after day honing her sword skills, Altina found it hard to accept that war was entering a new era. But what about Eric? Surely he too had undergone harsh sword training since infancy. Would he be able to accept a gun all of a sudden?
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Eric.”
“Oh, no. That’s not it. I’m just a little surprised. Guns are only useful for intimidating the enemy at the start of a battle, so how could they become the stars of the battlefield...? I’m sure Mr. Regis has a well-thought-out answer.”
Loading and firing a Belgarian gun was a laborious process, and the resulting shot left much to be desired. Since Eric had never seen how the High Britannian Army fought, he was even more confused about this development than the princess.
Sensing Eric’s bewilderment, Altina explained what had happened during the Battle of La Frenge, when the Seventh Army had suffered devastating losses. The gun before them was the very same make as those the High Britannian Army had used to tear through the Belgarian ranks.
“I don’t know how many guns Belgaria is going to make, nor do I know whether this new style of warfare will really take off, but...Regis seems very confident.”
“I see...” Eric said, having listened with a serious look on his face. “I’d already heard that High Britannia’s guns caused a great number of casualties, but I didn’t realize the battles were that one-sided.”
“Granted, if we had known how dangerous they were beforehand, I think we would have devised a better attack plan.”
Eric thought for a moment. “Mr. Regis does have a point. In my current condition, this might be the most I can do...but giving up the sword will not be an easy decision to make.”
“Why not train with both?”
“Mr. Regis mentions in his letter that he expects me to not only become a gunman, but also to instruct others on how to use these rifles.”
“Right.”
“If my aim is to become good enough to assume such a position, then I cannot afford to take any half measures.”
“Hm... You might have a point there.”
Belgaria already had muzzle-loading rifles known as rifled muskets. They didn’t see much use in actual warfare, but there were still many in the Empire who were well accustomed to using them—most predominantly fresh recruits and conscripts who struggled to use spears, and so were given guns instead.
In the Empire, the cavalry were the blooming flowers of most battles, followed in importance by the spearmen, then the archers. In many cases, gunners and cannoneers didn’t even make the cut; there were a fair number of commanders who believed it was far more worthwhile to carry food than such heavy weaponry. This general apathy meant there were no dedicated riflemen in Belgaria—this was a position that existed only in High Britannia.
“My injury...” Eric muttered. “It was a Renard Pendu mercenary with a crossbow who put me in this state.”
Franziska—Altina had never forgotten the name. She still vividly remembered the events of that night. She had been mercilessly toyed with, then forced into a corner by the mercenary’s nimble movements. Eric had been shot shortly after coming to the princess’s aid, sending her into a frenzy during which she accidentally broke the Grand Tonnerre Quatre.
She bested me without a doubt, Altina thought.
In their most recent battle, the Belgarian Army had managed to capture Gilbert, the head of mercenary brigade Renard Pendu. His sister Franziska, however, had gotten away. Where was she now? The brigade originally hailed from Germania, so perhaps she had returned home. Or perhaps she was near Fort Volks, already plotting a rescue operation.
It seemed that Eric hadn’t forgotten Franziska either. “That mercenary fought with nothing but a crossbow, no matter how close she got to her opponent,” he said. “I could never call myself an instructor unless I reach that level, and when Mr. Regis says that guns will rule the battlefield, I don’t think he’s talking about bayonets.”
“Yes, a musket with a bayonet is essentially a spear.”
Since the type of gun used in Belgaria took far too long to reload, it was decided to attach a blade called a bayonet to the barrel. Thus, after the first shot was fired, the weapon essentially became a spear.
“Of course, I still think every soldier should know how to use a sword,” Eric noted, “but Mr. Regis is counting on me to introduce this new form of combat.”
“Yeah. And as you said, there’s no use taking a half-hearted approach.”
“If we start using these guns as spears after firing a single round, they won’t be any more useful than the ones we have now.”
Using such a strategy would hardly constitute ruling the battlefield, but did firearms truly have a place in an era where swords and spears reigned supreme?
Eric stared at the mass of iron that lay within the box. “I...”
“Hm?”
“I think I’m going to trust Mr. Regis on this one.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know whether I can actually be of any use to you, but...” He lifted the new gun out of the crate. “I’ll put my all into mastering this weapon.”
Altina nodded. “Understood. I’m counting on you, Eric, no matter what you decide to wield.”
“Your words are wasted on me, Princess. I’ll definitely protect you.”
And so, Belgaria’s first sharpshooter was born. This event, which had transpired after a string of coincidences, would greatly influence the spread of such weapons throughout Belgaria. The surrounding nations who had seen High Britannia’s defeat decided that firearms were too risky of an investment, but the Empire, who had witnessed the military strength of these guns firsthand, came away with the opposite impression.
Unbeknownst to Altina, she was widely considered a national hero. Many nobles and soldiers were already eyeing her every action with great intrigue, so her enlisting a sharpshooter to serve as her personal guard did not go unnoticed. The new gun soon developed a reputation as an honorable weapon used to protect the princess and was subsequently sought after by those in power.
Belgaria would go on to embrace the firearm before any of its neighboring countries, and this development alone would greatly alter the fate of the Empire.