Chapter 4: Felicia of the Iron District
Chapter 4: Felicia of the Iron District
It was four in the afternoon, and the sun had almost reached the mountaintops. It was still daytime, but the shadows of the peaks now stretched across Grebeauvoir, steeping the city in darkness.
Word of the water level decreasing had spread among the prisoners over the past few days, but it was easily the least of their worries—their living conditions were so harsh that there was no guarantee they would even survive till sunset.
“Seriously! The water! It went and vanished!”
The astounded cry came from the second floor of a building facing the channel, from a bald man wearing an eye patch over a slash-shaped scar. Anyone would have guessed he was the leader of a band of brigands, but he was actually the chairman of the iron union and the one rallying the imprisoned civilians.
Varèse, who was standing beside the chairman, nodded. “What did I tell you? This plan was devised by Regis d’Aurick, a tactician so capable he was directly appointed by Marshal General Alain Latrielle de Belgaria. You would not find a more perfect scheme anywhere in the Empire.”
“Ah! So that soldier was telling the truth!” the chairman exclaimed. “Right, you lot! C’mon! It’s your time to shine!”
Several people raced outside immediately upon receiving the order—a group composed only of those who knew they could move at great speed. These men were also serving as scouts, so even one slow runner would impede their progress. If the enemy army caught on to their plan, they would most likely focus their guns on the canal entrances.
I wonder if they’ll notice...
That was the one fear Varèse held as he stood with the chairman and watched the runners leave. He was more than quick enough to accompany them, but he had another, more important duty.
Everyone gathered prayed that their efforts would remain undetected.
There was a sudden bang as a gun discharged atop the ramparts, sending out a red flash that tore through the shadows.
“Has something gone wrong?!” Fel shrieked.
The chairman obstinately shook his head. “No, those are just the usual canal lookouts. A shot or two isn’t gonna slow us down! It’s now or never, everyone! Go, go, go! Run while you can! Hurry up! Hurry! Hurry!”
“Hraaah!”
The civilians crowding in the shadows burst forth at once. Taking the lead were the men who were completely unburdened; next came the men accompanying their women; and at the rear were those carrying children or belongings they couldn’t bear to leave behind.
They had wanted to reverse this order to prioritize the escape of the women and children, but that would only lead to their complete annihilation. Lives were on the line here, and not just because of the High Britannian lookouts—one was much more likely to die from being trampled during the rush to freedom, and with the drained channels being thick with mud, it was especially easy to slip. Many were lost among the stampede, but far more managed to trace the dry moats to the outside world.
The chairman of the iron union hoisted a sack over his shoulder. “I should get going too,” he said.
“I don’t want to speak too soon, but with how things are going right now, we should succeed,” Varèse noted. “It is thanks to you that we’ve managed to save a majority of the captives. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Don’t be stupid. If you hadn’t delivered us this information, we might not have noticed the channels drying up. Even if we had, we probably would’ve just stared at them like idiots.”
“I merely carried out my mission.”
“And we’re all thankful for that,” the chairman said with a nod. He then paused for a moment before speaking again. “Hey, are you sure about this?”
“This is also part of my mission.”
“...Got it. Don’t go dying on me, soldier!”
“I won’t. Thank you for lending me such a splendid weapon.”
In Varèse’s hand was a tremendous cavalry lance forty-two palms (311 cm) in length, painted almost entirely black—aside from the tip, which glistened silver. It was made of new-alloy.
The chairman’s lips started to curl, becoming the smile of a bandit chief who had brought down his prey. “Hmph. Just goes to show I didn’t stash that thing away for nothing.” He raced down the stairs to where his subordinates waited, and then he was gone.
Varèse felt a tug on his sleeve. It was Fel. “You’re not going yet...?” she asked.
“Why haven’t you gone? You could have left with the women or the children.”
“I can’t leave without you. I promised to help out.”
“Fool... The mission is—”
“Not over yet. I overheard you,” Fel interrupted. She had a broad, childish grin on her face, one that Varèse was sure he had seen somewhere, sometime before. Despite his words, he did not even consider forcing her to go ahead; he felt it more reassuring to keep her nearby.
“What am I supposed to do with you...?” Varèse said with a sigh. “Just focus on staying alive. Keep close to me whenever possible.”
“Aye, sir!”
Thunderous hoofbeats could be heard coming down the main road. Just as expected, the soldiers had spotted the escaping captives, and now the horsemen stationed in the iron district were coming to intervene. There weren’t all that many riders, but they would still easily cut through the fleeing civilians if allowed to reach them.
Not on my watch!
There were eight horsemen in total. Varèse set his sights on the one riding nearest the back. “Keep your eyes and mouth closed, Fel. And don’t move.”
“Eh?”
Varèse abruptly grabbed Fel by the waist and hoisted her up, taking her under his left arm. He placed a foot on the second-floor windowsill.
“Here we go!”
Fel clapped both hands over her mouth, fighting back the urge to scream as Varèse dove out the window and into the open air.
“Hah!”
After adjusting his posture midair, he thrust with his lance. The lighting wasn’t the best by any means, but he was able to pierce the throat of a rider below nonetheless. His foe was forced from his saddle, allowing Varèse to claim the newly vacant horse. He had to latch on using his feet, since both his hands were occupied.
The horse brayed and kicked so violently that Varèse was very nearly thrown off as well, but he just barely managed to stay balanced using his torso.
“Hold on...just a little longer!”
“Whoa-oa-oa!” Fel cried as the horse continued to struggle.
“Grab her mane!”
Varèse held up the lance in his right hand and placed Fel on the horse, putting her at the front so that she could cling to its neck. With his left hand finally free, he grabbed the reins to gain control of the braying beast.
“All right!”
Varèse urged the horse forward with his heels, having fallen behind the other horsemen. He would need to hurry to catch up, though that wouldn’t be much of an issue—the rider he’d replaced had been running at the back of the group, but there was absolutely nothing wrong with the horse, and Varèse was quite confident in his riding abilities.
Besides, no High Britannian horseman is better than a rider of the First Army!
He rode comfortably, his new horse traversing the path so smoothly that he felt as though he were gliding through the air.
“Good girl.”
It wasn’t long before Varèse had caught up to the other horsemen, who were carefully descending the stairs into the channel. One rider turned to look at him.
“Finally here, eh?! What took—”
The man’s head was torn from his body before he could even finish his sentence.
Varèse made his horse leap down into the muddy depths, not losing his balance in the slightest, already feeling as one with the mare. He swung his lance once more in preparation. The chairman of the iron union hadn’t risked his life hiding it away for nothing—it was able to separate a soldier’s head from his body with a single swipe.
As one would expect, Varèse had experience using a plethora of weapons, but never before had he held something quite so formidable. He knew this was neither the time nor place for awe, but he couldn’t deny how impressive the lance was.
The horsemen chasing down the captives had never considered that they themselves might be hunted. It was a mere instant before another two perished, but it seemed the four in the lead had already made it farther down the channel.
“Fel! Are you okay?!”
“Don’t worry about me! Get them!”
“All right!”
Varèse spurred the horse onward.
✧ ✧ ✧
The captives were running through the mud covering what had once been a riverbed. It really is like magic... Varèse thought. He had received a detailed explanation of the plan beforehand, yet even he was surprised.
High Britannian soldiers opened fire from atop the iron district walls. The gunmen were rather few in number, but the fleeing civilians were largely bunched together as they made their escape, so each shot was sure to hit at least one person. To make matters worse, the horsemen were hot on their heels, taking out those they could reach one by one with their spears.
“Graaah! Damn Galians! Is running all you’re good for?!”
Of course, those in the rear were the ones holding their children and precious belongings. They cried out as they were cut down, unable to oppose the cavalry’s spears. Little did the horsemen know, however, the most dangerous entity on the battlefield was likewise closing in on them from behind.
“Hraaaaaah!”
The battle came to an end so quickly that it could hardly be called a battle at all. In the space of one breath, three of the horsemen who had just moments before been slaughtering the captives went limp. The last one who remained gave a timid shriek and retreated up the riverbank.
Protecting the civilians took priority—of that Varèse was certain—and the battle was far from over. He heard the rumble of yet more approaching horsemen charging down into the emptied river and inadvertently clicked his tongue.
“More Langobart soldiers!”
He started to count how many there were but gave up once he reached twenty. There were likely five times that number, all with their spears at the ready. One hundred horsemen were encroaching upon the fleeing captives, with Varèse being the only one there strong enough to challenge them.
But this isn’t a battle I can win.
And so, Varèse made his resolve. Tensions had been rising over the past five days, and now they had finally reached a crescendo.
“So this is it...” he murmured. “Not a bad place to die, I suppose.”
“What are you giving up for, Varèse?! You have to live!”
“Fel...? I’m sorry for getting you wrapped up in all this, but—”
“You promised me! You said you’d save me! That you’d slaughter them! So save me! And, and...don’t die!”
Could it be that she had accompanied him precisely because she foresaw this outcome? Had she known he would sacrifice himself to shield the civilians? Thinking about it logically, fleeing was the only way for Varèse to ensure his own survival—that was how dire the situation was. He could toss aside his heavy cavalry lance and run past the captives; then he and Fel would make it out alive.
But Fel wouldn’t wish for something so foolish.
Varèse clenched his spear. “Apologies. I need to get a hold of myself. I’ll save you, of course. And I will survive. We haven’t annihilated the enemy yet.”
“Yeah! U-Um... Varèse?”
“Yes?”
“D-Do your best!”
“...Naturally!”
There were over a hundred horsemen coming at him, yet Varèse spurred his horse, readied his spear, and gave a bold proclamation: “I am Jean Juris de Varèse of the Empire’s First Army! I will not let you pass me!”
He started off counting each foe he killed. Soon after he reached ten, however, a blade gouged into his flank and a blow to the head caused him to black out for a few seconds. He stopped counting from that point onward.
Varèse came close to giving up again and again, but every time Fel entered his field of vision, he was overcome by an emotion he didn’t quite understand—one that would spur his body to keep moving.
“Kraaah!”
As yet another rider succumbed to his lance, a furious roar came from nearby. “For God’s sake! How are you being held up by a single rider?! Surround him and attack from all sides!”
“That’s too risky, Sir Ricks!” one soldier cried. “Please fall back!”
Varèse caught sight of a knight wearing full plate armor painted yellow. Is he their leader? I just need to defeat him, and then...
It depended on the competency of their deputy, but there was a high chance that a unit would retreat after losing its commander. Varèse pleaded to his weary horse for just one more charge before placing a hand on the small back of the girl clinging to its neck.
“Hah... Hah... Fel... Are you alive? Just a little more... Hold on...”
There was no reply. Had she fainted from the bloodshed around her? Varèse grew anxious, but her body was still warm.
She’s alive.
Protecting this girl was now the sole reason he existed, the lone thought that drove him forward. His entire life had been dictated by missions. This sense of elation—of purpose—was one he had never felt before.
“Go!”
He spurred the horse into a charge, heading straight for the one they called “Ricks.” The enemy commander grinned, and then he broke into a chortle.
“Bah hah hah! The more cornered they are, the easier they are to read.”
“What?!”
“In a time of peril, of course you’d go straight for the enemy commander. What other choice would you have?”
I’ve been baited...
The horsemen, already prepared for his advance, thrust out their spears, aiming for his mare. Varèse did not know her name, but of all the horses he had ever ridden, she had fought the most bravely. She cried out, spit foaming at her mouth, before collapsing entirely. It had taken three stabs to the torso to finish her.
Varèse was thrown forward onto the ground, into the mud, along with Fel. He got up with his lance in hand, but he was so close to his limit that his legs struggled to even support his weight.
“Fel! Are you okay?!”
“Ngh... I...”
She was clutching her slender stomach. Her clothes were stained with mud, but most noticeable of all was the bright red seeping through her clothes.
Was it a spear? A gun? When did this happen?!
Varèse had blacked out a number of times during the battle. Had he failed to protect her then?
“Varèse... P-Please...don’t die...”
“What are you saying...? You... You can’t just... Fel, you can’t! I won’t permit this!” he yelled, his voice becoming more and more hoarse. His vision blurred, and the next thing he knew, tears were streaming down his face.
Varèse had thought about it, of course. His own death. Would he be taken out by an arrow? Would someone best him in one-on-one combat? He did not want to fall from disease, but he knew that was possible as well. It was something he had pondered time and time again, but not once had he pictured it like this—bawling miserably while clutching a bloodstained girl, immobile right before the enemy. What sort of end was this?
“Fel! You can’t die here! You can’t! Don’t die on me... Please...”
For what reason did this girl suddenly mean so much to him? He could neither understand nor explain it, but that didn’t matter—his emotions were real. Once he knew she was going to die, he could no longer hold his lance.
“Finish him already!” Ricks barked, prompting the Langobart cavalry to ready their weapons. Several spears were pointed right at Varèse.
“Hraaaaaah!”
The earth shook as yet more horsemen leapt into the waterless river. This unit numbered eight hundred, but they weren’t Langobart reinforcements—racing at the lead was Batteren, young head of the White Hare Brigade.
“Chaaarge!” the Belgarian commander yelled. “Scatter those Langobart dogs!”
“What?! Pull back!” Ricks turned his horse around and desperately tried to retreat, kicking up mud in his wake.
“Too late!” Batteren yelled as he threw his spear. The mighty projectile soared through the air, between Ricks’s guards, before piercing through the enemy commander’s back and out his chest.
“Gah?!”
“Sir Ricks! No!”
The Langobart horsemen quickly fell into chaos. They were not weak by any means, but they had merely been tasked with pursuing the escaped captives. Nobody among them had expected they would lose their commander, or that they would find themselves severely outnumbered by Belgarian soldiers. It wasn’t long before their brigade was in pieces.
Varèse clung to Fel, his entire body trembling. He hadn’t the strength to stand; he could only sit there and weep.
A man atop a chestnut horse walked up beside him. “Oi, you. Based on your uniform, I take it you’re a High Britannian soldier?” The only reason Batteren had asked was because this supposed soldier was clinging to a Belgarian child and sobbing heavily.
“Please...save her...” Varèse begged, raising his tearstained face. “Fel is—”
“Wh—? Varèse?! What’s happened to you, man?!”
The Varèse that Batteren knew was a man born to be a soldier, so for him to be so emotional was completely out of character.
Maybe this girl is his family, Batteren speculated. Does he have family in Grebeauvoir?
Batteren pointed up the river banks. “Take her there! We have doctors!”
“Huh...?”
“The tactician sent us every doctor available for the civilians. Looks like she’s still alive. With some luck, she might be saved.”
Batteren felt nothing but animosity toward Regis, but even he had to admit—the tactician had foreseen this too.
“Rr-Rr-Rraaaaaah!” Varèse sprung to his feet, howling and weeping. His legs no longer trembled; on the contrary, he was now sprinting at full pelt, kicking up mud as he went. “Graaah! A doctor!”
His face was red and covered in grime, his eyes were wet with tears, and snot leaked from his nose. He was in a complete state of disarray...but once Felicia had narrowly escaped death, she said he had looked cooler than she’d ever seen him before.