Chapter 4: The Grebeauvoir Rescue Operation
Chapter 4: The Grebeauvoir Rescue Operation
More than half a month had passed since Regis departed from the capital. Camp life certainly wasn’t the most convenient, but the soldiers hadn’t complained too much; sieges were generally expected to last two or three months, with longer ones even stretching on for half a year.
Belgaria couldn’t afford to spend half a year on this rescue operation, however. Second Prince Latrielle himself was at the helm, and with him was the First Army, the Empire’s greatest elites. After three months passed, it would be hard to predict what the other nations might do—there was a chance that the other countries in the Germanian Federation as well as Hispania to the south might launch an invasion.
A long expedition required adequate preparations, which involved securing weapons and food, investigating routes, and hiring a great number of transporters. It wasn’t necessarily the case that the surrounding nations would invade Belgaria the moment it seemed to be in a tough spot, but they couldn’t rule out the possibility that they might conspire in their preparations, or that their invasion schedules might just coincidentally happen to overlap...
High Britannia was already colluding with nations in the Germanian Federation—the Grand Duchy of Varden had attacked Fort Volks as soon as the war began, and now they had formed an alliance with the Kingdom of Langobarti. The other countries seemed to be sitting on the fence, but if the Empire failed to make any meaningful progress through August and September, it would presumably have a lot more company to deal with.
Not that Regis intended for their expedition to continue that many months.
The day’s heat had thankfully dissipated as the sun sank toward the western horizon. The sky had turned a shade of orange, and the shadows of the mountains stretched across the western half of Grebeauvoir, partially shrouding the city in darkness. Soon, the sun would completely disappear beyond the mountains.
No matter where Regis looked, he was surrounded by robust soldiers—troops clad in armor with spears and shields in hand, awaiting the order to advance. Their formation was simple enough: lines of foot soldiers in the center, with cavalry fortifying their flanks.
Regis was stationed at the very center of the foot soldiers, where they were keeping their strategic headquarters. The high-ranking officers wore full plate armor and rode atop horses, but as Regis could not ride on horseback himself, he had to do his best to keep up on foot. He had managed to make enough excuses to avoid wearing armor, but he was forced to equip a sword for the first time in a very long while. As far as he was concerned, it was nothing but a hindrance.
In the Fourth Army, Regis would normally be riding either in his carriage or with Altina on her horse. As one might expect, however, he did not receive such preferential treatment here. Rather than the success of the mission, he was more worried about whether or not he could avoid falling behind.
A bugle sounded, playing the tune that signaled for everyone to keep quiet. Silence descended over the troops before it had even finished.
From atop his horse, Latrielle addressed the two thousand combatants and the sappers behind them. “Soldiers of Belgaria! We are up against not only those underhanded High Britannians, but also the thoughtless Langobarts who so shamelessly abused the war to enter our territory! They deceived the soldiers of the Grebeauvoir fortress, unjustly occupying the city not through strength, but trickery! It is up to us to deliver judgment unto these villains, so full of themselves that they believe they can steal our land with their schemes! Elites of the First Army—justice stands with us!”
“Hurraaah!” the soldiers cried. They thrust up their spears and screamed, “Vive Latrielle! Vive l’Empire!”
Latrielle drew the weapon at his hip as well—the Empire’s second sword, the Armée Victoire Volonté (the Victorious Call to Arms). It was a perfectly straight single-edged sword said to lead armies to victory. He sliced through the wind, turning the blade’s tip toward the fortified city as he let out a cry.
“Avance de l’armée!”
Messengers spread his order, then the bugles carried it further still. The Belgarian Army simultaneously began its advance on Grebeauvoir.
Regis moved alongside the others, matching the pace of the foot soldiers—though keeping up was the most he could do. The men were equipped with heavy armor, long spears, and large shields, and they had to march perfectly in time with everyone around them. Despite all this, they moved at such an impressive speed that Regis had to break into a jog to avoid getting left behind.
The troops hadn’t made it very far at all before Regis was gasping for air. His legs were twisting more with each step, and one thought in particular dominated his mind: he was going to die.
I might actually be the first casualty of this battle, and my cause of death? Trampled by my fellow soldiers. How unfortunate.
Regis was marching at the speed dictated by the bugles, but those bugles were gradually increasing their tempo. He was almost sprinting now.
How could this be? They were still 60 arpents (4,287 m) away from the fortress. The plan was to march up to the 40 arpent (2,858 m) line, and then have only the front half of the foot soldiers advance. If the enemy sent a unit to intercept them, the cavalry waiting along the flanks would then charge.
“Hah... Hah... A-Are we charging already...?”
Regis was starting to grow anxious. Had he made a mistake, accidentally getting himself mixed up with the vanguard charging toward the fortress? He could still see Latrielle on his white horse, so that couldn’t have been the case, but he suspected that the plan had at some point changed to a full-army charge without him being informed.
He fell farther and farther behind until he was eventually with the foot soldiers at the back of their headquarters.
“Tactician?! What’s wrong?!” A heavily armored foot soldier raised a bewildered cry from beneath his metal helmet.
Before the First Army’s plan had been put into action, Regis had been introduced with much applause as the Fourth Army’s tactician—the man who had captured Fort Volks with a mere two thousand men. Many also knew about his achievements in the war, word of which had spread far and wide.
Despite his grand reputation, however, Regis’s breathing was already labored. Rather than an expert tactician, he seemed more like a corpse one would see by the roadside. This was simply the inevitable result of someone who spent all his time reading—rarely even venturing out to stretch his legs—being suddenly thrust into an army march.
“Ngh... Gah... No... I’m just...”
Regis clutched at his chest as it became increasingly harder to breathe. He was at his limit, but stopping wasn’t an option; the soldiers behind him would ultimately just knock him to the ground, and by the time the entire army had passed, he would have been flattened into a pelt rug.
He was beginning to feel nauseous, and it was then that the helmet-wearing soldier suddenly grabbed him by the shoulder. “Hey! Get him to the carriage!” the man yelled to the others. “The tactician’s sick!”
The soldier beside him nodded, then looked at Regis with mild wonderment. “Amazing! D’you see how pale he’s gotten from a little walking?!”
“He can hardly breathe! It’s not lung disease, is it? Oi, hurry! Hurry!”
To the two soldiers, their current marching speed was slow enough for a casual chat; it was like a leisurely stroll. That much was to be expected of the elites that made up the First Army, though perhaps Regis was just unnaturally weak.
There was a wooden two-horse carriage at the rear of the First Army’s headquarters that allowed for the injured to be swiftly evacuated. Regis was promptly shoved inside, and while there was a thick blanket spread across the carriage interior, it did very little to cushion his landing as he stumbled in headfirst.
Inside the carriage was the military doctor. He was short and fat, which was rare to see in the Belgarian military, and no sooner did he notice Regis than he frantically started examining his face. “Are you all right, Tactician?!”
“I’m going to die...”
“My word!”
“Nn... Hah... It’s been a long time since I ran this fast...”
The doctor cocked his head. “Mn? Where were you running?”
And thus, Regis was the very first person to drop out of the Grebeauvoir rescue operation.
✧ ✧ ✧
“Rearguard, hold!” Latrielle barked. “Vanguard, continue your advance!”
Half of the soldiers came to a stop 40 arpents (2,858 m) from Grebeauvoir. By then, Regis had recovered considerably, and he watched the battle unfold from the medical carriage. The canopied wagon allowed him to see so far that it was as though he were riding a horse himself.
“The enemy...isn’t coming to meet us,” Regis murmured to himself.
“Erm, Tactician? Are you okay?”
The doctor’s concern made Regis feel rather ashamed, but he decided to be honest. “I’m fine. I simply couldn’t keep up with the march. I never expected the First Army’s foot soldiers to move at such an impressive speed.”
“I see. Well, I’m glad you’re not ill.” The man offered a very doctorly response in a gentle tone.
Had Altina been there, she would have told Regis to ride on her horse. Jerome, in contrast, would have screamed something like, “And you call yourself a soldier of the Empire?! What utter trash!”
Now that Regis thought about it, was Jerome doing okay? He was currently supporting the eastern front. Perhaps the unfamiliar terrain was giving him trouble, though it was easier to picture Jerome himself being a nuisance to his surroundings. The tactician had considered writing letters to him as well, but he didn’t know whether Jerome would actually respond to them.
There was a sudden boom from somewhere in the distance.
“They’ve opened fire...”
White smoke started to rise from the fortress portion of the city. The advancing Belgarian foot soldiers also had cannons at their disposal, but they were still too far away to use them.
The First Army had acquired Type-41 Elswicks from High Britannia in their most recent battle, and the cannons boasted an impressive range of around 45 arpents (3,216 m). They had a limited supply of ammunition for the Type-41s, however, and their cannoneers were not yet accustomed to using breech-loaded cannons. For these reasons, they had instead brought with them their traditional mid-sized cannons that could only fire 28 arpents (2,000 m).
Firing from atop the city walls granted the enemy army an even greater firing range, meaning the First Army would need to endure being one-sidedly fired upon before they could even get within range of using their own cannons. That said, Belgaria’s losses from this bombardment would certainly be nowhere near as severe as those from La Frenge; the Seventh Army had experienced firsthand how dangerous it was to approach in a tightly knit formation, so the foot soldiers this time around were deliberately spread out.
Those in the imperial army were not fools—they had since researched and trained to deal with enemy cannon bombardments. The Belgarian foot soldiers were maintaining a good distance from one another as they advanced, and, in the case that the enemy attempted to intercept them in a more closely knit formation, they were prepared to come back together right before making contact. Such was the strategy they had devised.
In the Fourth Army under Altina’s command, only Regis would have proposed such a plan, but the First Army had strategists like Germain and wise generals among its ranks. They were the ones who had analyzed the tactics that resulted in the Seventh Army’s defeat and devised countermeasures, and it was for this reason that Regis had spent so many of their meetings listening in silence.
The commander of the cannoneers gave the order. Belgaria was finally within range.
“Commence fire!”
The air thundered with cannon fire, and moments later, a barrage of shells struck the walls of Grebeauvoir. Gray clouds of sand and smoke burst forth from each impact, eventually clearing to reveal missing fragments of stone and collapsed enemy soldiers. It seemed that hitting the walls delivered more residual damage than hitting the ground, as the shattered pieces of stone would often take out those nearby.
Belgaria was surpassed in both range and firepower, and its opponent was firing from a much higher position. Anyone would have expected this to put the First Army at an overwhelming disadvantage, but this was far from the case; in fact, their bombardment was completely overwhelming High Britannia. There was no secret to this development—it was simply down to the excellence of the cannoneers.
It was only natural to assume that High Britannia’s troops were sufficiently trained, but the cannoneers of the First Army, handpicked from the Empire’s two hundred thousand soldiers, truly were the crème de la crème. They could overturn their technical disadvantage using nothing but skill.
Regis stood on the cabman’s perch, watching the battlefield in amazement. To think that trained artillery could make such a difference!
The cannons available when he had worked under Marquis Thénezay had served as little more than a deterrent against barbarians, while the Fourth Army—or rather, the Beilschmidt border regiment—instead focused its attention on spears and swords, meaning its cannoneers were largely untrained.
Regis was aware of how wide the gap was between a skilled and an unskilled archer, and while he had assumed a similar logic would apply to cannons and guns, he was surprised to see just how superior the First Army’s cannoneers were. The enemy was weakening before his very eyes, and at the same time, their attention was gathering on the First Army’s artillery.
It’s about time...
Regis stumbled down from the cabman’s perch, alighting from the carriage just as the first wave of casualties was being carted in from the front line. It was a sight he could never grow used to; witnessing the bloodied men with missing limbs always snatched away his willpower.
Even so, Regis mustered his resolve and broke into a sprint. He slipped through the foot soldiers on standby and returned to Latrielle at the troop headquarters. This time, he didn’t have to travel far enough for him to almost collapse.
“Your Highness!”
“Mrk... Regis. I was just wondering why I couldn’t see you anywhere.”
“My apologies. I, err...admittedly could not keep up with the march, so I had to be moved into the medical carriage.”
Latrielle cocked his head to one side. “The march...?”
“Are you feeling under the weather?” Germain asked. “Or did a stray bullet get you, by chance?”
It seemed that neither man could comprehend the idea of someone being unable to keep up with a simple march.
“Well, I do feel a bit... No, not exactly... I-In any case!” Regis enthusiastically pointed toward the enemy camp. “This is our chance!”
Latrielle nodded. “Yes, I see. Their cannon fire is all concentrated on our artillery. All right, Germain. Mobilize the siege weapons!”
“Yes, sir!”
A messenger was sent out at once. The buglers changed their tune a short moment later, spurring a portion of the infantry stationed in the rearguard to advance. They weren’t formal soldiers but hired sappers—victims of the enduring war. Belgaria already boasted that its men were the strongest on the continent, and these men were additionally furious at High Britannia for having burned down their houses and destroyed their crops. They had volunteered to join the expedition themselves.
The men roared as they pushed the siege weapons—massive platforms and devices made of wood and springs. They were catapults.
These weapons had frequented the battlefield prior to cannons entering the scene, but now they were relics that rarely saw use. The kickback of the springs could be used to send stones flying through the air, but the devices themselves were incredibly feeble when compared to their modern counterpart. The stones were heavy but lighter than cannon shells, and as the projectiles varied in size and weight, they were harder to aim. They would also do considerably less damage.
When the High Britannians saw these outdated weapons being moved onto the battlefield, they had presumably pointed and laughed.
“Halt!”
The order was given once the six catapults were brought to the agreed-upon distance. They were pointed toward the iron district, and with how far they were positioned from the fortress, it was unlikely that the enemy’s guns or cannons would reach them. If the First Army could secure a base within Grebeauvoir, they would have a greater advantage in the siege.
That was when High Britannia opened fire on the catapults.
There was a massive crack as one of the catapults was immediately destroyed. It had been struck at the base, then collapsed as its wheels splintered from the sudden force. The sappers tasked with moving it screamed and retreated.
The sun was already sinking behind the mountains. While the sky was still red, the world below was growing increasingly dim.
The heat from the cannonball quickly ignited the struck catapult, emboldening the silhouettes of the fleeing construction workers. The First Army concentrated its fire on the cannon that had managed to hit them, then High Britannia promptly retaliated. Once again, the two nations were exchanging shots.
As this went on, the remaining five catapults went largely ignored. Regis had assumed the enemy wouldn’t attack such ancient devices; he had thought that their attention would instead be drawn to the cannons, which were perceived as much more of a threat.
“Fire!” Latrielle ordered.
While sappers were tasked with moving the catapults, trained soldiers were the ones actually operating them. On the order, they pulled the fasteners one after another. The compressed springs were released, and wooden arms longer than carriages swung with enough force to lob the stones in their buckets.
These weren’t just any stones, however—they had ropes fastened to them, and as the projectiles soared through the air, the heaps of rope a short distance from the wooden arms were dragged along with them. They had been intertwined, much like the shrouds of a sailing ship. The extra weight and air resistance shortened their range, but...just like that, a crisscross of ropes spanned from the bank of the wide river to the very top of the city walls.
The sappers cheered. Their plan had succeeded.
The foot soldiers who had already advanced to the riverbank flooded toward the shroud bridge. They had one-sidedly endured cannon fire up to that point, but now they could finally switch to the offensive. They brandished their spears and then began to sprint, all the while screaming as though they were already victorious.
These rope bridges were far from stable ground; running on them was no easy feat, and a single wrong step would send the troops down into the fierce river below. And yet, a great many soldiers made it across.
“Hraaaaaah!” they roared.
Regis had seen the soldiers traverse such bridges many times before as they practiced for the assault, but it was still an impressive sight. What astounded him the most was that they had managed it when the sun was setting and it was hard to see even one’s own feet.
Once the soldiers had rushed inside the city and opened the gates, the First Army could send in the cavalry. Then, at the very least, the iron district would be secure.
Looking on from afar, Germain nodded. “Your Highness, our soldiers are breaching the walls. With how things are headed, we might be able to secure the gate.”
“Hm... What do you think about the enemy’s movements?”
“They’re fighting back, but...it shouldn’t be much of an issue, even if their cannons and guns sever a rope or two.”
“I see.”
Despite Latrielle and Germain’s exchange, Regis felt that something was...off. Even so, he refrained from voicing his concerns. What mattered most right now was how High Britannia would respond.
What will they do next...?
The First Army had formed a bridge using siege weapons that were thought to belong in a museum. The enemy’s guns could most likely do some damage to the ropes, but not sever the bridge completely.
Soldiers continued to cross the bridge. Once they were inside Grebeauvoir, it was only a matter of time. When the battle turned to close-quarters combat, the High Britannian soldiers had no chance at defeating the infamous warriors of Belgaria.
Evening had almost turned to night. Moving under the cover of darkness, the soldiers of the Belgarian First Army finally neared the top of Grebeauvoir’s ramparts. They had already whittled down the enemy troops atop the walls with arrows and cannon fire, and now but one man remained, holding his gun at the ready.
“Graaah!”
One of the Belgarian soldiers roared as he thrust out his spear, forcing its head straight through the High Britannian’s heart. Fresh blood splattered across the stone below, and the enemy soldier collapsed with a pained yelp before vomiting up a mass of red and black.
“Hurraaah!”
The first Belgarian to reach the top of the ramparts let out a mighty cry...but his jubilations were short-lived. A sudden cacophony of gunshots tore through the air, and the next thing he knew, his armor was riddled with holes.
“Hrk—?!”
His pole arm still raised in misplaced celebration, the soldier looked down over the Grebeauvoir iron district to see thousands of sharpshooters lying in wait. Their commander raised a hand, then gave an order in High Britannian.
«Fire!»
The echoing shots immediately resumed, and the Belgarian soldiers were cut down one by one as they came into view.
“Dammit!”
One man leapt from the wall and into the city, but dropping from such a high altitude while wearing armor was a recipe for disaster. His knees let out a sickening crunch as he landed on the foot-hardened soil.
“Gaah! E-Eh...?!”
«Belgarian sighted!»
It wasn’t until after the soldier struck the ground that he realized there were High Britannian spearmen waiting at the base of the walls. There was nothing he could do; he wasn’t even able to stand.
“N-No... I surrender! I yield!”
«Get him!»
Despite his pleas, the Belgarian soldier was surrounded at once and mercilessly stabbed to death.
Germain was watching the First Army’s attack from afar, and he practically shrieked as the battle started to unfold. “Your Highness! Our men are being fired on from inside the city! The enemy must have a great number of soldiers stationed in the iron district!”
“So it seems...” Latrielle twisted around to look at Regis, shooting him a glare that demanded to know what they’d do next.
Regis produced a small watch from his breast pocket. It was already dim outside, so even when he squinted, he could just barely make out where the hands rested. It wasn’t quite time yet, but the death toll was soon to reach an unignorable level. Once night completely set in, even if a retreat was ordered, the soldiers who had crossed the shroud bridge would no longer be able to return.
A chill ran down Regis’s spine. Retreating now was the easier option, but it would mean that all those who had given their lives thus far had done so in vain.
“...Please wait a bit longer.”
“Gah... How many minutes?!” German cried out. “Our infantry’s going to be completely annihilated!”
There was a limit to how many people could cross the shroud at once, so that was almost certainly an exaggeration, but there was no denying that giving the order too late could cost the First Army several thousand men. Regis stared fixedly at his watch. His knees trembled under his weight, and his stomach churned as an intense wave of nausea rolled over him. The hands seemed to move so slowly that he wondered whether his watch was running slow. But how could he make it go faster?
When he raised his head, he was standing alone in a field littered with corpses. It was only a momentary hallucination, but when he went to check his watch again, it had finally struck the agreed-upon time.
“Retreat!” Regis shouted.
“Retreat!” Latrielle echoed, spurring Germain to follow suit. The army’s runners sprinted out to have the buglers sound the command.
Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!
No sooner had the order been given than Belgaria’s soldiers began racing back down the shroud. Some dropped into the river below, unable to be saved due to their armor. The catapults were abandoned; calls of victory rang out from inside the fortified city as the First Army took distance with its tail between its legs.
“A losing battle...” Germain muttered.
The groans of the injured turned into vengeful curses as they trudged back through the darkness.
✧ ✧ ✧
At the center of the tent was a table topped with a large oil lamp, around which stood Latrielle and his officers. Their faces were stained with fatigue.
One of the officers sighed. “We don’t have exact figures yet, but...we’ve lost around two thousand soldiers. Meanwhile, we only destroyed around thirty of the enemy’s cannons.”
The enemy army was known to have had more than a hundred cannons at their disposal. It was unknown how many they had needed to abandon on their journey to the fortress, but this was not a worthwhile military gain.
“The plan...failed,” groaned another officer.
At those words, all eyes turned to the foot of the table where Regis stood stock-still, a full step away from the others. His skin prickled, and a weak “I’m sorry” was the most he could manage.
“You think an apology solves anything?!” one of the officers yelled. “Weren’t the enemy soldiers supposed to be concentrated in the fortress?!”
Regis had no rebuttal.
An elderly officer stepped in to mediate the situation. “Calm down,” he said. “You’re speaking before His Majesty.”
Regis had no trouble reading between the lines. The elderly officer no doubt had a few choice words to say about the matter himself, but being in the presence of the second prince was compelling him to bite his tongue. It made sense that he would hold some strong feelings about the failure; the First Army had lost many good men.
Once his officers had quieted down, Latrielle opened his mouth to speak. “Regis, what are your thoughts on our casualties?”
“Th-That’s... I would rather they stay as low as possible, of course.”
“Hm. Perhaps I phrased that poorly. In your humble opinion, were these figures beyond your expectations?”
Regis looked rather daunted; it certainly wasn’t an easy question to answer, but he knew that lying wasn’t an option. “No, they were within my expectations.”
“What?!” One of the younger-looking officers attempted to lunge at Regis, only to be grabbed by the shoulders and pulled back by those around him. He seemed as though he might draw his sword at any moment.
Germain cleared his throat. “I understand that you might be seething at the loss of your troops, but should our focus not be on ensuring their lives were not lost for nothing? Please keep a level head.”
The officer took a deep breath, then harrumphed. “I know that’s what we should focus on, but I can’t let this slide! He said that he anticipated these losses! In other words, he expected the enemy gunmen to be stationed in the iron district!”
Once again, the officers’ eyes homed in on the tactician. Regis wasn’t sure what to say; he didn’t want to lie and make excuses, but saying that he had anticipated the counterattack seemed to rub everyone the wrong way. What he sought was a rational discussion.
Latrielle shrugged. “I doubt Sir Regis chose a plan that would produce unnecessary casualties. Saying too little can sometimes lead to misunderstandings, Regis. I ask as the commander of this unit that you address my men’s suspicions.”
The prince made a valid point—perhaps it was time that Regis finally spoke his mind. The more he thought about it, however, the more anxious he became. His usual lack of confidence had caused the words to catch in his throat. What if voicing his plan only invited more antipathy? Would they understand his reasoning?
When Regis had served as Altina’s tactician, those around him had seldom requested that he explain himself. The captain of the artillery had said nothing when ordered to fire upon a fortress his cannons would never reach, nor had a single question been asked when he requested the regiment spread oil around the capital or freshwater over the plains. Altina, Jerome, and the commanders of the other units merely ordered their subordinates to do as he suggested.
Actually, that’s not quite true... I did usually explain my plans to them, but they hardly ever listened. Maybe they thought getting into the specifics was just too much hassle.
There was no use overthinking it. Regis needed to explain himself purely because he wasn’t yet trusted within the First Army. That was all there was to it.
Regis took a deep breath. Those gathered here with him were the imperial army’s greatest elites, the sort of people he would never have gotten the opportunity to converse with a year ago. That thought alone put him on edge, but it also meant they were more likely to understand his views—at least, that was what he told himself.
“I expected that a majority of the enemy’s forces would be stationed within the fortress,” Regis began. “That much seemed to be common sense, and it was proven to be correct. The questions were, how many men would they spare for the iron district, and how were they going to position them? Had they put them atop the ramparts, we would have been able to gauge their numbers, but they instead formed a line inside the city as though they already knew our plan.”
Latrielle’s expression turned grim, while Germain cocked his head. “Are you by any chance raising the possibility of a conspirator...?” he asked.
The officers exchanged glances. It seemed that not even the elderly officer could maintain his composure anymore, as he furiously shouted, “Are you doubting our loyalty?!”
Regis winced and shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it. It was only this morning that we set our sights on the iron district. I had admittedly considered it my first priority from the moment I heard the civilians were being kept there, but I had only made the proposal and you all had only received your orders right before the plan commenced,” he explained. They surely remembered that much.
Latrielle was remaining silent, while Germain nodded along and made the occasional noise to indicate his understanding. It seemed that he was acting as everyone’s representative. “You’re right about that,” he said. “We marched out as soon as we were informed of the plan.”
“Yes, and the army marched as one shortly after. It is surely inconceivable for someone to have so quickly relayed this information to our enemy sealed away in the fortress; it would take a letter or a messenger to convey a plan as complicated as our repurposed catapult.”
“And both those methods would prove quite conspicuous on the battlefield.”
“Indeed. It would be impossible for anyone to pull off such a feat without being noticed, and it is foolish to fear the impossible. This means we must turn our attention to the real danger—a threat that is far more terrifying.”
“What could be more terrifying than a conspirator?”
“...I believe my plan was anticipated. Presumably by Oswald Coulthard, shadow commander of the High Britannian Army. He foresaw my proposal to make a shroud bridge using catapults.”
“So what you’re saying is...he out-strategized you?”
Germain was essentially asking whether Regis would take responsibility for this failure, and understandably so. The strategist had no ambition and almost no self-respect, but he still feared execution; a demotion surely wouldn’t be enough to punish his error this time. However, he had to accept the truth as it was.
“There is no denying that I was outwitted. High Britannia took near perfect measures to intercept us. Any normal army would station its sentries atop the ramparts to attack us from above; their formation inside the city walls would only make sense if they knew we were going to scale the ramparts from across the river. And from what I heard, they invested a considerable number into that formation...”
There were no objections to his explanation so far; everyone present knew about their plan, and how it had turned out.
Latrielle finally spoke up again. “That seems to match up with our current predicament. Regis, you mentioned that you foresaw these casualties. Do you mean that you expected to be outdone?”
“I thought it might be possible... Their scouts would have told them we were building catapults.”
“We kept the shroud under tight secrecy, though.”
“Either he was able to predict our scheme through simple deduction, or he knew about it beforehand.”
Regis merely drew his plans from the books spread all throughout the lands; he hadn’t a novel invention to his name. If the enemy commander were an intellectual as well, it was very possible that he had already been familiar with their scheme.
“Hm... It happens to the best of us,” Latrielle conceded.
Much to Regis’s surprise, not a single officer voiced any criticisms after his explanation. There was, however, still unrest and impatience growing among them.
“Who exactly is this Oswald...?” Germain groaned.
It was because of Oswald that the First Army had suffered such heavy losses at Fort Boneire, and now Belgaria’s fear of the enemy had been roused once again. It was as though the man’s wit were more terrifying than anything the latest guns and cannons could manage.
The young officer smacked the table. “We’re Belgarians! Aren’t we supposed to be the strongest on the continent?! Why can’t we win here?! We’ve lost on the defense, we’ve lost on the offense, and now even our tactics are inferior?!”
“Calm down,” the elderly officer chided. “You’re before His Majesty.”
“Urghh... And that’s precisely why I feel so worthless! So ashamed!”
With that, the elderly officer was at a loss for words. “Y-Yes. Perhaps you’re right...” he murmured. Another man chimed in soon after.
“What’s our next move, Tactician? Or are we all out of cards to play?”
“Well... I think I’ve already played a decent hand,” Regis replied. He took out his watch from his uniform pocket. Is it time yet...?
“Report! I come bearing a report!” came a sudden cry from outside the tent.
Regis looked at Latrielle, but the prince remained completely stone-faced. Germain answered in his stead, telling the new arrival to enter.
The messenger slipped through the tent flap, then courteously dropped to one knee and produced a wooden dagger. “Here!”
As the person standing closest to the messenger, Regis took the unusual object. “Where did you find this?” he asked.
“In the net you ordered the sappers to set up downstream!”
“I see... That’s good.”
The surrounding men peered into Regis’s hands. “It’s just a wooden dagger...” the young officer said, sounding openly doubtful.
At a glance, it was indeed just a wooden dagger, but Regis pointed to the lone word carved into its hilt: “succès.” It seemed to suggest that some feat had been accomplished, but then again, a wooden dagger was the sort of trinket a father might give his son; it wouldn’t be strange for such a word to have been added for good luck.
“Even if someone spotted this drifting down the river, I doubt they would think it was being used for correspondence,” Regis noted.
“Hm? You mean to say this is something of a letter?” the young officer asked.
“Precisely. I had an officer try to infiltrate the iron district. He was told to send this down the river if all went to plan.”
“I’m sure you’re all familiar with him,” Germain added. “The man who received the rank of chevalier for standing out even among the elites of the First Army: Third-Grade Combat Officer Jean Juris de Varèse.”
“Oh, yes! Him!”
While trying to find the right candidate for the operation, Regis had heard that, excluding Latrielle’s own staff officers, Varèse was a cut above the rest when it came to both swordplay and written test scores. He was an incredibly skilled man at only seventeen years of age.
The elderly officer stroked his chin. “I see. Meaning...Varèse has managed to sneak into the Grebeauvoir iron district.”
Regis nodded. “I took a few extra measures just in case the shroud bridge failed.”
“Oh... Color me surprised. When did he manage to slip in...?”
“While the enemy’s attention was focused on our troops crossing the wall. Of course, the ideal situation would have been for the attack to succeed and our men to capture the gate, but I sent a soldier to infiltrate the city just in case we failed. The winds are strong in these parts, so I considered sending a message on the breeze...but that would be too conspicuous, and the enemy might have realized what we were trying to signal.”
Regis had also contemplated using a marked cannonball, a bird, an instrument... The stories of the world proposed countless means through which one could convey information to their allies, though none were more certain than sending a messenger.
The young officer’s expression seemed to loosen. “Then today’s battle wasn’t for nothing... We failed to secure the gate, yes...but it served as a diversion. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Phew... I see. Then our dead may find peace. Still, Tactician... And you too, Germain... That was quite callous of you. You could have told us if you were taking such measures.”
Germain lowered his head. “My apologies, but if we had, it might have led some to believe the shroud bridge was doomed to fail from the start.”
“Certainly!” the young officer exclaimed, sounding more and more convinced. “If news of a backup plan had reached my ears moments before the attack, I may have hesitated to order my men at the most crucial moments. Such indecisiveness would only be our downfall, and the diversion might have failed too!”
“Indeed.”
Regis nodded along as well. “I’m just glad you understand.”
There were, of course, other reasons he had kept silent on the matter. There was no guarantee the infiltration would succeed, so there was still a chance that so many soldiers had died in vain.
The battle was far from over; a daunting mission now awaited Third-Grade Combat Officer Varèse.
“The citizens of Grebeauvoir were presumably stripped of their weapons and sealed somewhere in town,” the elderly officer mused. “Can Varèse really save them alone?”
“It would be impossible for the civilians to escape on their own, so...”
Regis went on to explain the plan, though he made sure to leave out as many details as possible. He had arranged things so that even a conspirator standing among them wouldn’t be able to act in time, but there was still cause for concern. He would need to be wary, while also choosing his words carefully so that the staff officers didn’t pick up on his concerns.