Final Chapter: Varèse

The sun had already started to disappear over the horizon when the Belgarian Army fired a makeshift bridge onto Grebeauvoir’s ramparts. The troops of the First Army struggled to see their own feet, but they pressed on nonetheless until they were atop the walls overseeing the iron district.

«Fire!» came the order, followed almost immediately by a barrage of gunfire. The Belgarians dropped like flies, spouting blood as they plummeted toward the ground below. Even those who managed to survive the fall and made their way into the city were soon met with spearmen ready to finish them off.

It was a one-sided battle the likes of which High Britannia had never seen before.

The Empire’s soldiers were recognized as the strongest on the continent. High Britannia had superior weapons, but even in engagements where they managed to inflict far more damage than they incurred, they still ended up losing several thousand of their own men. Were the walls to be breached and the gates opened, Belgaria’s cavalry would flood in, and all would soon be lost. There were fewer than five thousand currently stationed in the iron district, while Belgaria’s First Army boasted three thousand horsemen.

There was no denying the cavalry’s strength. During the Battle of La Frenge, the five hundred horsemen who attacked the High Britannian Army from behind had managed to break through its ranks with barely any casualties. They had then proven just as troublesome during the siege on Fort Boneire, when the High Britannians were forced to retreat the moment the horsemen charged onto the battlefield. Of course, the High Britannians had planned to retreat during the siege anyway—they needed the Belgarians to carry the human-containing barrels of gunpowder into their fortress—but such was the presence of these mighty units.

Horsemen were known to be threatening opponents, but this was especially the case in Belgaria, where the horses were larger and the soldiers expertly trained. They were declared the strongest on the continent, and the First Army the strongest among them.

High Britannia’s gunners fired shot after shot, overcome with the maddened drive to survive another day as they killed any imperial soldier who appeared atop the walls.

Countless waterways ran through Grebeauvoir, coming in through holes at the bottom of the city walls. The crucial role that running water played in processing iron meant that considerably more waterways were found in the iron district than in the fortress and the central city, but there were no bars in place to keep outsiders from climbing through—any metals used to this end would simply rust once submerged in water, while anything made of stone would be eroded by the current. There was also the fact that sand, wood chips, and fish carcasses would clog any grate in no time at all.

To compensate for the waterways being completely open, there were lookouts stationed around each hole to ensure nobody swam through. When they saw the Belgarian soldiers appearing atop the ramparts, however, they all quickly abandoned their posts; dealing with the enemy right before their eyes was a much greater priority than watching scenes that hadn’t changed for days.

High Britannia’s surveillance thus let up once the Empire’s soldiers began climbing the bridge, and that was the First Army’s chance to send someone in...

In the dim channel—

For most, remaining submerged for two whole minutes was an impressive feat, but Jean Juris de Varèse could quite comfortably manage ten. He was using weights to keep himself underwater and discarded them whenever he needed to surface. His clothes had also been painted with grease to ensure they took on less water and didn’t impede his movement too dramatically.

By following the current and entering through a hole just before the gate, it was possible to swim quite some distance into the city. Varèse stuck his head above the water just once around the center of the channel.

“Hah!”

He unwittingly let out a small gasp as the air flooded into his lungs. He quickly scanned his surroundings, then once again disappeared underwater. That momentary examination had been enough to convince him there were no enemy soldiers around, so he promptly discarded his weights and flippers before poking his head up again.

There were steps here and there leading into the waterway, where the women would do laundry and draw water for daily use. Varèse cautiously made his way over to the ones nearest to him, moving from stone to firm earth. He could hear the ceaseless gunfire to the east, which thankfully meant he wouldn’t need to worry about the sound of the water dripping from the High Britannian uniform he was wearing for the covert operation. His ability to speak High Britannian wasn’t perfect, but he had learned enough to convincingly insist he came from the countryside.

Varèse combed a hand through his short hair to push out the droplets. “Infiltration successful...” he whispered.

He took a wooden dagger from his chest and tossed it into the water. The current wasn’t quite as strong inside the city, but it was fast enough that the weapon soon disappeared from sight. There were a number of paths it might be dragged down, but they all ultimately led into the river via a drainage vent to the north.

The waterways also controlled the city’s sewage, and so they were constructed in such a way that ensured all the water—and everything in it—was safely expelled. As long as the dagger didn’t catch on the edge of the riverbank, it would flow all the way downstream.

The gunfire continued, now mixed with curses and screams. The Belgarians were no doubt continuing their charge, and the High Britannians were putting their all into pushing them back.

The nonexistence of a waterproof watch meant Varèse didn’t know the time, but the fact that the battle still raged on meant he was right on schedule. Perhaps the Belgarian troops had made it over the walls and were now occupying the gate, in which case his role was now unnecessary. Either way, his duty did not change.

Not until the citizens of Grebeauvoir are secure...

He worked out his position using the map in his head. First, he needed to check the locations where the hostages were most likely to be—presumably to the north.

Varèse started along the path, staying wary of everything around him. Not a single candle illuminated the district, meaning his surroundings were deathly dark; he relied on the light of the moon as though he were walking a desolate mountain path. A majority of the nearby buildings appeared to be residential, yet they didn’t seem to be lived in.

The gunshots died down. Varèse listened closely for the sound of a gate being opened, but nothing came. In other words, the Belgarian Army had retreated after an unsuccessful attack. Their mission had failed, making his own far direr. He would need to work cautiously, yet quickly...

No sooner had the gunshots faded than Varèse heard footsteps approaching from nearby. He stopped just short of a corner, but he was too slow to avoid the figure who appeared from the shadows of the nearby buildings.

A woman!

She was notably short and exuded the air of a town girl. A kerchief was wrapped around her head, and she wore a frilled apron atop a Belgarian commoner’s tunic. She widened her eyes in shock upon noticing the man now standing before her, then her lips parted ever so slightly.

Varèse launched off the ground in an instant. His left hand clamped over the woman’s mouth, while his right went straight for her throat. He would have mercilessly crushed her windpipe had she been the enemy, but this girl was most likely one of the civilians he was here to rescue.

He pushed her back against the wall. “Make a scene and you’re dead.”

“Mff—?!”

“Struggle and you’re dead. Refuse to cooperate and you’re dead. Listen well and answer my question.”

“Mnf...”

The woman’s eyes were brimming with fear, and she accidentally dropped the basket in her hands. Out rolled a loaf of hard bread and a bottle of wine.

Is she a peddler?

It wasn’t rare for the citizens of a captured territory to conduct business with the enemy army; in fact, there were plenty of merchants in Belgaria who had made a fortune dealing with the Empire when their territories were initially invaded. Varèse was surprised to see their goods hadn’t been outright plundered; it seemed the High Britannian Army was more upright than he had assumed. Perhaps it would be possible to negotiate for the citizens’ release if all else failed.

“You. Are you Belgarian?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m Jean Juris de Varèse of the First Army. I’m here to rescue you. Understand?”

“Mm...?!”

While the woman’s eyes were full of disbelief, it seemed that she did indeed understand.

“You might be a civilian, but if you make too much noise, you’re dead. Got that?”

“Mhm.”

Varèse released the woman, then immediately reached for his dagger with his right hand. Unlike the one he had thrown into the river, this was the real deal, sharp enough to draw blood at a mere touch. He hadn’t been able to bring any other weapons with him underwater.

He glared at the woman’s neck, slender and delicate like that of a doll. He would have no choice but to kill her if she made a ruckus, but he couldn’t imagine the blade would stop at her trachea—there was a good chance it might completely remove her head.

Thankfully, the woman was wise. She didn’t scream, nor did she speak needlessly.

“Answer me,” Varèse said. “Where are the civilians being kept?”

“...They’re all in the northern district, living in a few of the houses there.”

That matched up with Varèse’s intel. It seemed the hostages were being kept in the same location, even after some had escaped.

“Any lookouts?”

“A few in the area.”

“I need precise information.”

“There were four on the path I took today, all armed with guns.”

Four. Varèse was sure he could stealthily take them out, but it would be a mess if even one man managed to fire a shot. If possible, he wanted to avoid combat entirely.

“I want to meet a civilian representative. Can you make that happen?”

“A representative? You mean the mayor? I hear he’s already dead... Right now, I think some big shot from the iron trading union is the closest we’ve got...”

He now knew who to talk to, but not how to reach him.

“How did you manage to leave?” Varèse asked.

“I’m doing business. The food and other goods I receive as payment were originally ours anyways, but you’ve gotta do what you can to survive.”

She brushed aside her curly blonde hair and neatened her clothes that had become somewhat disheveled. Given that she was about as scrawny as a child, physical labor was likely out of the question, and with their goods having been stolen, she probably wasn’t selling anything material. Presumably, she was earning her keep by doing maid work—that was Varèse’s conclusion.

In any case, this was no time to get hung up on such details. He needed to slip past the guards and meet the civilian representative.

Varèse considered leaving a message with the girl, but...that was much too dangerous. He couldn’t yet say whether she was trustworthy; there was a chance she might sell him out to the High Britannians for personal gain. There were more than enough people in the world who would sell even their own allies due to fear of the enemy.

«You over there! What’s going on?!»

A voice in High Britannian sounded out in the distance, and Varèse immediately felt his blood run cold. He turned to see a lone soldier running down the road toward them. The fact he had been mid-conversation, coupled with the soldier having been by himself and quite some distance away, meant he hadn’t been able to hear his footsteps.

Even so, this development wouldn’t pose a problem for Varèse; he could easily take the man by surprise, kill him, then hide his body in the shadows... Or so he thought. The soldier was soon joined by another ten who were trailing behind.

Varèse tutted in his head. He could run, but that would only put the men on guard, and he was far less likely to accomplish his mission if contacting the civilians became any harder than it already was. Killing them was also an option, but he wasn’t confident he could take down eleven gun-wielding soldiers before any of them could fire a shot.

“Ghh...”

“Leave this to me...” the girl whispered. She removed her kerchief, allowing the night breeze to tousle her golden hair, then turned her greenish eyes to the approaching men. “Oh, soldier. This guy here isn’t doing too well.” She lightly dabbed at Varèse’s face with her kerchief, though she was short enough that she had to stand on her toes to do so.

The High Britannian captain running at the lead cocked his head. “Not doing well, you say...?” His accent was thick, but he was evidently able to speak Belgarian. The puzzled looks on his men’s faces suggested that they weren’t quite so talented.

The girl shrugged. “He started feeling ill when he heard the gunshots, and then, before my very eyes, he wobbled and fell in the waterway! See? He’s sopping wet.”

“He hasn’t been drinking, has he?!”

“Like a certain someone I know, you mean? He was in the middle of walking me home, but maybe he was weak to begin with. Ah... Do you think he might have caught something?”

“Wha...?!” The captain stepped back. «A sickness?» he asked in High Britannian, spurring his soldiers to take their distance as well.

Those in the army often gathered in cramped spaces, at times even having to share muddy water and rotting food. They had little selection in the clothing department, and their sleeping conditions were far from sanitary.

It had been over a month since the High Britannian Army had set off on their expedition, and it seemed more men were growing sick with fear and fatigue by the day. Worse yet, some were contagious. Nobody wanted to chance being anywhere near such danger, as catching an illness in these foreign lands could very well spell death.

Varèse started to cough and wheeze, deciding to play along with the woman’s ruse. «Hac! Hac! No, I-I’m fine...»

«Which unit do you belong to?!» the captain demanded.

«Oh, I’m with— Hgh! Hac! Hac!» Varèse went into another coughing fit.

He knew the names of the High Britannian units from the soldiers they had taken prisoner during the siege on Fort Boneire, but his cover would certainly be blown if the soldiers actually took him to one. There was also a good chance that he might say a unit not actually stationed in the iron district; most were holed up inside the fortress, so the odds weren’t in his favor.

Bluffing ultimately wasn’t an option. If possible, Varèse didn’t want to commit to an answer at all.

“Hey!” the woman interjected, rubbing Varèse on the back. “Don’t push yourself too much. You wouldn’t want to throw up again, would you?”

The captain looked utterly disgusted. “He...what...?”

“Oh, don’t worry. It was only a little.”

“Oi, Galian!” the captain barked, using the purposely mispronounced abbreviation for “Belgarian” that was so commonly used in High Britannia. “Take him to the medical team! You know where that is, right? We’re busy with our patrol.”

Just like that, it became the woman’s responsibility to deal with the “sick” Varèse. Her efforts had proven successful, but for some reason, she looked troubled and reluctant.

“Are you serious?” the woman asked. “They told me I could go home already. This guy’s a soldier, so shouldn’t a soldier take him?”

“Grr...”

“I’m already starting to feel feverish just being near him. I really must be getting home...” she continued with a sigh. She truly was a splendid actor.

The soldiers were already pulling faces that made it clear they were eager to leave, not wanting anything to do with Varèse. The captain waved them off, then pointed at the woman.

“That was an order, missy! If you want compensation, demand it from your new friend here! You got that?!”

“Mn, well... I did want some soft fruit to take home. I have my sick mother to look after and all...”

“Yeah, yeah. Settle it between you!” the captain spat, clearly fed up with all the talk of sickness. He barked an order at his men, then they all marched off, following the waterway upstream.

Given that there were now soldiers patrolling the waterway, Varèse couldn’t help but wonder whether a lookout had seen him in that brief moment he had come above the water for air. No, surely not... If that were the case, they would’ve been more thorough in questioning me. Everything’s fine.

It seemed that Regis d’Aurick’s diversion had proven successful. Even so, Varèse kept up the act until the soldiers were completely out of sight, just to be safe.

«Hrk! Hac! Sorry, little lady... Grk!»

“Oh dear... What am I going to do with you, hm?”

Varèse leaned on the woman’s shoulder and started to hobble as the two walked away. They continued onward until eventually slipping into a house with the door left open.

“Phew... You saved me,” Varèse said in a hushed voice.

The woman chuckled, keeping her voice equally low. “It sure is nice being able to pull a fast one on those blokes who are always so full of themselves.” She now wore a more relaxed smile, and—perhaps due to the slight change in lighting—she looked considerably younger.

A faintly metallic odor hung in the air, so Varèse started to wonder whether the house they were in belonged to someone who worked in the iron district. It didn’t look like whoever lived here was very well-off, but interestingly enough, their table and chairs were made of metal.

Varèse took a seat across from the woman. He would have loved a warm coffee right about now, but starting a fire or using the stove wasn’t an option lest he attract someone’s attention. The room was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight shining in through the window.

“Thanks for your help back there,” Varèse said. “I will save you and your mother—I can promise you that.”

The woman sighed. “Mn... My mother’s passed already. One of the soldiers kicked her when they booted us out of the house, and she was gone. Just like that. Wasn’t even on purpose.”

“Wha—?!”

“Having a sick mother was the worst. Couldn’t get married, couldn’t find any live-in jobs, and no matter how much I worked, all our money was eaten up by medicine fees. I was always asking myself why I put up with it all...”

“I see...”

“But still... She was my mother...”

The woman hung her head, causing her blonde hair to drape over her eyes. Her shoulders had started to tremble.

Varèse didn’t have any family himself, so he wasn’t sure what to say. He had been made a war orphan before he could walk; then he was picked up by the church, where a priest taught him how to use a sword and ride a horse. There were plenty of people in the church who he considered to be his brothers, and the priest was somewhat of a father figure to him, so he could at least draw from those experiences...but he didn’t really know much about mothers.

“...I see,” Varèse repeated.

The woman looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes damp with tears. “So, that big shot you’re looking for... Is meeting with him going to help you save us?”

“That’s right. I’m here under the direct orders of Marshal General Alain Deux Latrielle de Belgaria. His adjutant Beaumarchais was there as well, and I’ve heard the plan was thought up by Regis d’Aurick himself—a man who already has a number of victories against High Britannia under his belt. There couldn’t be a more foolproof scheme anywhere in the Empire.”

“I see... I don’t really follow, but I think I’ve heard those names before.”

“One of those men is set to become the next emperor, you know.”

“Aha ha! Why should a commoner care who the next emperor’s going to be?”

“I suppose you have a point.”

“Hey. If you manage to save the civilians, then...after that...”

“Hm?”

“You’re going to cut down the enemy, right? You’re going to butcher the lot of them?”

Varèse gave a firm nod. “Naturally.”

The woman wiped her eyes before standing up. “Got it. In that case, I’ll help out where I can. I’ll take you to that union guy. Everyone seems to listen to him.”

“That’s the sort of person I’m looking for. But there are going to be lookouts, right? What do you intend to do about them?”

“Mn... Well, I’m sure things will work out.”

“Fine. So, err...”

Varèse suddenly realized that he didn’t know the woman’s name, and it was surely too late to ask her for it now. He hadn’t deemed it necessary to request the name of a random civilian he had encountered during his mission, but it was a different story now that she was a collaborator.

A bitter smile played on the woman’s lips. “I know what you’re thinking. My name’s Felicia. Laughable, right? My mother gave it to me, thinking I’d share some of that royal luck or whatever. Funny thing is, since I’m a commoner out in the middle of nowhere, calling me by that name is considered disrespectful. That’s why everyone just calls me ‘Fel’ instead.”

Varèse nodded, and it was then that it struck him. He stared at the woman closely. Fifth Princess Felicia Sis Célia de Belgaria was still a minor at fourteen years of age. For the person before him now to be named after her, she would need to be even younger than that.

“You’re still a brat!” he exclaimed.

“Aha ha! You should see the look on your face!” Fel cackled, now wearing a broad grin that made her youth more than apparent.