Chapter 5: Muddy Stream

It was five in the afternoon, and the sun grew ever closer to the mountainous horizon. The shadows of soldiers stretched across the ground.

In the Empire’s main camp, a young messenger saluted. His lips were pursed, his expression firm, but there was a glimmer in his eyes and a flush on his cheeks. He was so overwhelmed with excitement that he spoke in broken sentences.

“Under the protection of the White Hares! The captives in Grebeauvoir! They’ve left the battlefield on the scheduled route! The mission is a success!”

The soldiers cheered. The battle wasn’t over yet, but some were already screaming “Vive l’Empire!” That was simply how much importance this success held. Some had even believed it a greater challenge than recapturing the fort.

The imperial army had already shown it was capable of using sheer wit to toy with its enemies. The camp was alive with jubilation as if the battle were already decided, but the fortress remained untouched, and the enemy army still possessed more than half its original numbers.

Latrielle and Germain kept silent. They did not see this as an achievement of their own, nor did any of the other staff officers. They spoke up far less after having witnessed what it was like when Regis seriously took command.

When Regis heard the report, he responded with a slight nod, not even entertaining a smile. “My apologies, but we don’t have time to celebrate; we are about to enter the most important stage of our plan. One wrong step and we will suffer a loss so tragic it will make history. Please, take care not to make any mistakes.”

The relaxed atmosphere became tense once again. Regis had initially only been granted command for thirty minutes, but he had maintained that role even as the captives began their escape.

“Advance the White Hares to the center,” Regis said. “I’m sure they’re exhausted, so keep them out of combat. They can retreat if the enemy pushes back.”

“Please wait!”

“Hm?”

“Sir Batteren has been working nonstop. Please leave that role to me.”

The man who volunteered himself was Zemault, new captain of the White Wolf Brigade currently being held as reserves. He was still a young knight in his late twenties, perhaps the same age as Batteren.

Regis paused for a moment, thinking back to the anniversary ceremony in April, when the relationship between Altina and Latrielle had grown complicated, to say the least. The Black Knights of the Beilschmidt border regiment had gone up against the White Wolves, who had subsequently lost their commander and half their comrades to Regis’s own scheme. Presumably, the ones on this battlefield who despised him most were not the enemy, but the survivors of that incident. Even with Latrielle allowing him to take command, would they actually obey his orders? This anxiety was what made him keep the White Wolves on guard duty.

Zemault closed one eye. He seemed particularly sleek, which was to be expected of a general from the capital. “If a battle this grand ends with us having only watched, there won’t be a place for us when we return to the capital. Won’t you give us a chance to restore our name and regain your trust?”

“We’re short on time, so I’ll speak bluntly: are you going to follow my orders?”

Zemault snorted in amusement. “You misunderstand the White Wolves, Tactician. Do you really think we’d seek vengeance?”

“Do you not...?”

“Those who died that day were replaced, meaning half our knights know nothing of this past dispute. I myself was recalled from the south with the rest of my men.”

Regis had read through his documents, so he knew Zemault was unlikely to have any personal grudges against him, but it was easy to get caught up in the negative emotions of others.

“Were I in your position, Sir Zemault...I would feel the need to do something to earn the loyalty of the knights who joined the unit long before me.”

Zemault shrugged. “You’re right. That’s why I’m asking for this opportunity. There’s no better opportunity for me to prove I can lead those men, even under your command.”

They couldn’t waste any more time debating the matter. Batteren’s White Hares were exhausted, that much was certain. Both humans and horses had their limits, so it would certainly be beneficial if the White Wolves were up to the task.

“You might be wiped out if you ignore orders,” Regis noted. He was pushing the point further, and Zemault responded with a reverent nod, as if speaking to a general.

“I understand that.”

Regis glanced over at Latrielle, who was watching from behind. The prince silently nodded.

I assume he’s saying it’s down to me from here on out. Is he testing my abilities?

“Then the White Hares shall remain on standby in the rear,” Regis said, reissuing his orders. “White Wolves, please proceed to the center. You are to draw the enemy army’s attention to aid our other units’ retreat, but only until six. When the clock strikes six, you are to retreat no matter what the situation is.”

Zemault crisply saluted. “Yes, sir!”

And so, the lines were reorganized around the White Wolves. It was almost sunset, and the enemy had not risked going on the offensive.

At this rate, everything should go according to plan, Regis thought. He went over the reports from each unit, nodding at how smoothly everything had gone thus far. At the same time, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

“Colonel Oswald Coulthard... To think he left the entire battle to the king of Langobarti. Can we really expect nothing from him?” It was at that moment that Regis’s eyes suddenly shot open. He turned to Latrielle. “Marshal General, please lend me some troops!”

“Oh?” Latrielle gave Regis a doubtful glance. “Is there a problem?”

“If my assumption is correct, we can still make it in time.”

“We’ve come this far; I won’t refuse you now. What kind of soldiers, and how many?”

“Horsemen! If we can just gather a hundred...!”

But the White Wolves were already en route to the front lines, the White Tigers were currently playing a crucial role as support, and the White Hares had retreated due to exhaustion. There weren’t any horsemen to spare.

“One hundred,” Latrielle repeated with a nod. “In that case, my personal guard should suffice.”

“What?! But then who will protect—?”

“I shall accompany you as well, of course. If you need to squeeze out one hundred cavalry in this situation, there must be quite a bit of value in the operation. How about it?”

“Thank you! We need to hurry!”

Latrielle leaped onto his horse before offering a hand to Regis. “Then come with me! You can explain the details along the way!”

“Eh?! Ah, err... Y-Yes, sir...”

Regis trembled with hesitation for a moment before grabbing the hand presented to him. He was yanked up onto the horse, such that he was now sitting behind the second prince.

“Hyah?!”

Feeling himself already about to slip from the horse’s back, Regis inadvertently clung to Latrielle. To his surprise, the prince didn’t seem to be angered by this. What also came as a surprise was the horse’s composure—any horse Regis climbed onto would always thrash and shake him off, but Latrielle’s steed was as unmoving as a statue. As expected of the finest horse in the Empire.

“Germain!” Latrielle ordered. “I’m leaving you in charge!”

“Understood, sir!” Germain answered with a salute.

Judging by their exchange, it was natural for Latrielle and Germain to switch and adapt their roles where necessary. In that regard, their relationship was completely unlike the one Altina shared with Regis. The fourth princess tried to stay with Regis whenever she could and grew anxious when he was out of sight.

As soldiers, their approach is probably the better one.

Regis pointed at the fort. “General, to the northwest forest!”

“Hm... So we are taking a detour around the battlefield. If the enemy captures us, one hundred riders are as good as done for. Speed is of the essence. Onward, men! Any stragglers will be left behind!”

The knights answered in throaty cheers.

At the Langobart camp—

“Your Majesty, the White Wolves have left the enemy headquarters!”

“For the Empire to be sending in their rearguard, they must be running out of resources.”

The deft movements of the imperial army had initially driven Paul into a corner, but he had since managed to rally his soldiers once again. His unit had gone from nearly being routed to becoming a united force, a sign that he was no fool when it came to leadership. He had already possessed superior numbers and equipment, and now he had supporting fire from the fortress.

“Hm... It’s a close match, but it matters not, so long as our enemy is slain.”

Paul cared only about results—the process didn’t matter. Though I intended to offer Margaret nothing short of absolute perfection.

Those from Langobarti did not hold the High Britannian Army in very high regard. While it was a force to be reckoned with on the sea, where its ships could outperform those of any other nation, it was not seen as much of a threat on land. Its soldiers were weak even with the latest guns, something that had already been proven in battle. Their poor training rendered them incapable of keeping up with enemy movements, and their lines were thrown into chaos time and time again.

...And yet, the Belgarian Army had suffered many a defeat at the hands of the High Britannians. Paul was consequently led to believe that the Empire had grown weak. He believed that he could win as long as he had the advantage.

In truth, the Belgarian commander was toying with him. Each measure Paul made was countered in its entirety, and while his main unit was alive and well, he had lost much war potential.

And the captives have fled as well...

Paul glared at the river—that is, where the river had once been. It had suddenly run dry, making the canals into escape routes. There hadn’t been many lookouts stationed there.

“Why did the river suddenly dry up this time of year...?” his adjutant asked, cocking his head to one side.

“The scholars can look into that later. We aren’t specialists, so there’s no use in us trying to figure things out ourselves.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul could sense that something sinister was at work, but he firmly believed that his duty was to lead the troops and defeat the enemy. He was faithful to his office; he drove from his mind everything that did not concern the battlefield to focus on his current situation. He hadn’t realized the imperial army had set a trap upstream.

“Report! Report!” A messenger raced in.

“Speak!”

“Erk, well... Captain Ricks is dead. The White Hares got him!”

“What...?! Are you sure about that?!”

“He led a hundred horsemen to chase the fleeing captives and subsequently engaged the Hares.”

Paul gritted his teeth. “Absurd!” No matter the reason, why had the unit commander personally charged out into battle?

“Under his deputy’s command, the remaining knights retreated to support the right flank.”

“What of the enemy?! The bastards who got Ricks?!”

“They returned to imperial ground, along with the captives!”

In other words, the captives were now secured.

“Your Majesty,” Paul’s adjutant interjected, “we’re going to be in a tough spot now that we’ve lost the strength of our reinforcements. I propose we retreat to the fortress.”

“Don’t be so foolish! This is our chance! The White Hares have dodged every which way, and now they’ve retaken the captives. The Empire’s horsemen may be skilled, but their horses should now have reached their limit!”

The White Tiger Brigade, which had similarly raced about supporting the lines, was now moving sluggishly. Its forces were just as exhausted. The foot soldiers fought and rested on rotation, but after so many charges, they were no doubt at the end of their rope as well.

The White Wolves are all they have left, and rumor has it that half their forces are fresh recruits.

“Victory is upon us!” Paul roared. “Gather our remaining troops from the fortress, the High Britannians too! The enemy has used up all their strength! We’ll claim victory if we push now!”

With still over ten thousand battle-ready soldiers on his side, Paul could feel a smile playing on his lips. “Heh. To think they would exhaust their soldiers before sunset. The enemy commander has wit, I’ll give him that, but he’s clearly still an amateur! You must consider the long-term when commanding troops!”

He turned his gaze to the western skies, where the sun was approaching the mountains’ peaks. Two hours remained until nightfall.

“This battle is our victory!”

With new reinforcements from the fortress, the High Britannian-Langobart army increased its military strength. The imperial army sent out its White Wolves in response, but their movements were easy to read.

Just as I thought. All those strange predictions were nothing more than coincidence, Paul concluded. He was completely unaware that the man who had issued such splendid commands had departed from camp for another purpose entirely, and understandably so—it was an absurd idea in itself, and speculation was not the king’s forte. He also hadn’t realized that the enemy may have decided such special instructions were no longer necessary.

It was five to six when the king’s adjutant called out. “The White Wolves are retreating! Their other units too! The imperial army is falling apart!”

“Just what I want to hear! Pursue them! Pierce straight through their main camp!”

On his order, the entire army commenced its charge. Paul was certain of victory.

All of a sudden, the ground started to tremble beneath him. At first, he thought it was coming from his own men as they marched onward, but that wasn’t the case. He could hear a booming noise, like thunder, rumbling far and wide. His troops faltered, looking around in a fluster, and Paul joined them in their confusion.

“What’s going on?” Paul asked.

“I-I don’t know...” his adjutant replied, his voice quavering.

Paul gazed out at the imperial army. “They’re...climbing the mountain?”

The fundamentals of combat stated it was advantageous to hold the high ground, but only within reason. Climbing up a slope too steep to even form a proper formation on would only drain the enemy’s already exhausted soldiers. It wasn’t a bad defensive move, but it would dull their movements when they inevitably returned to the offensive, and it would prove much harder for them to coordinate between their units.

“They’re not even taking formation...?”

The unpleasant rumble grew louder and louder, and that was when Paul finally realized: It sounds like a waterfall getting closer and closer. But by the time he recognized the noise as that of cascading water, the muddy brown stream was already encroaching upon him, sweeping up the earth and plants in its path.

A retreat order was meaningless now; the soldiers immediately lost their will to fight and scattered on their own, screaming all the while. Most ran in the direction of the fortress, but with the wave already close enough to see, there was no way men clad in armor would reach safety in time.

The clever ones raced up the slopes. There was an empty moat west of the battlefield, precisely down the path the water was flowing. This left their only escape route as the eastern mountains...which was where the imperial army was already lying in wait. Those blessed with luck managed to flee up while maintaining enough distance from the Empire’s bullets, but that was less than a tenth of the whole.

Paul tugged at his reins. “Run!” he shouted.

“Ah! Your Majesty! Where are you going?! The slope is over—”

“To the fortress!”

“Wh-Why?!”

“I can’t leave Margaret!”

His soldiers were being swallowed up by the current even as they spoke. The river had dried up, and the captives had fled as though they had known what was going to happen. Then came the Empire’s predictable movements, and of course this muddy stream. The enemy had planned it all, and there was no denying it—he had fallen into their trap.

“Urgh... Is this...truly the work of a mere man?!”

Horses were washed away, swirled about like chips of wood. The soldiers in armor were dragged underwater, their screams drowned out by the rush of the flood. The water alone was a threat, yet it carried with it great stones and the trunks of rotten trees. Neither armor nor spears showed any worth here; only the fastest runners would survive.

✧ ✧ ✧

“Paul!” The adjutant quickly caught up, walking his horse beside the king.

“Ah! You’re here!”

“There wasn’t enough water to fill the valley after all.”

Paul turned to see the flood was much calmer compared to when it had first appeared. The banks were still overflowing with water, however, and the overflow from the canals had presumably made a terrible mess of the city.

“What a terrible sight... At least the fortress is safe.”

“The horsemen too, so long as they haven’t fallen from their mounts...” Their numbers were down, but not enough that they couldn’t still put up a fight.

“Good... Good!” Paul exclaimed, his body trembling as he clutched his horse’s reins. “If we center our survivors around our cavalry, we can continue the battle! We’ll never fold to the Empire!”

“Yes, sir!”

“But first, we make sure Margaret is safe.”

His adjutant nodded, albeit with a grimace. “Of course. She is needed to command the High Britannian troops.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Leaving his vassals at the gates, Paul made for the queen’s private room in the depths of the fortress. When he arrived outside her door, however...

“What happened here...?”

A fair number of the royal guard were supposed to have been stationed here, yet the halls were empty. Enough water had assailed Grebeauvoir to flood the rivers, but the surrounding area was vast; while the city was flooded, the fortress had not suffered much damage.

“We can still fight. I can still fight. For you, Margaret...”

He threw open the door, not even pausing to knock, but...they were gone. Not just Margaret and the High Britannian tactician—Oswald Coulthard, was it?—but also the maids and guards were nowhere to be seen.

“What is the meaning of this...? Margaret! Margaret! Where are you?! It’s me! Paul Langschultz!”

The bed she had used at noon, the Belgarian sofa she had described as her favorite, the pure-white tea set from the east, they were all exactly as they had been during Paul’s visit before he had sallied forth. But she was gone.

“Where did you go...?”

“Your Majesty!”

As the adjutant raced over, Paul shot him a sharp glare, condemning the man’s lack of decorum. “What? This is the private room of royalty.”

“Not anymore.”

“...What?”

“High Britannia’s queen left with her associates through the western gate. I heard so from one of the maids who stayed behind.”

“What?! When did this happen?!”

“Around an hour ago. When the captives were escaping.”

The soldiers in Grebeauvoir and those fighting on both sides had undoubtedly focused all their attention on the captives, so hardly anyone had noticed the queen sneak away in the opposite direction.

“This can’t be...” Paul breathed, cradling his head in his hands. “Is it because I fought so pitifully?!”

“Perhaps she intended to run from the start, so that no one could pursue her. We, however, are now in an unprecedented state of crisis.”

Had Paul not opted to join the battle, he could have captured the High Britannian queen and sold her out to Belgaria, or at the very least charged the High Britannian Army a tremendous toll for safe passage. But the Empire’s gaze was now fixed on Langobarti, even with the queen having easily slipped away.

“But why...?” Paul asked through trembling lips. “Margaret...used me...as a disposable pawn?”

“I cannot speak to her intent, but that is where we have found ourselves. The initial plan to use the civilians as shields... Thinking back on it now, that is what has rendered all peace negotiations impossible. Was it not Colonel Coulthard who proposed it?”

“Urgh...”

Under normal circumstances, it would have been possible to demand ransom for the release of the city and its civilians. After using those civilians as shields, however, the Empire would no longer accept any such transactions. Their emotions would not allow it.

“Grebeauvoir had proven to be impregnable for so long. We were not thinking rationally. We played right into the queen’s hands.”

“No...” Paul objected, staring blankly at the floor. “We...simply have to win. The fortress is still sound. The city is wet, but we can still fight...!”

His adjutant did not respond, merely looking at the king with a somber expression. Peace talks were no longer an option. They could only continue the battle, no matter how much they might have opposed the idea.

It was at that moment a Langobart soldier ran over. He stopped short of the door, unable to so rudely enter a noble’s bed chambers.

“I come bearing a report!”

“What is it now?” Paul asked, his voice thick with loathing. He could tell from the soldier’s face that he bore only bad news. He was gasping for air, his face deathly pale.

“The water!”

“Yes. We know.”

“No, sir! I don’t mean the sudden wave! The water isn’t going down!”

“Explain.”

“The enemy built a dam downstream to seal off the river.”

“A dam?! For what purpose?! What is the Empire planning?!”

The soldier remained silent. His adjutant, however, groaned out a response. “Your Majesty, the Belgarian Empire...plans to flood Grebeauvoir.”

“They what?!”

There was of course no way to submerge the entire city—the walls and the fortress stretched quite high—but flooding even just the lowest floors would make Grebeauvoir uninhabitable. Food stocks, cooking equipment, and stables were all on ground level.

Paul turned just as pale as the messenger. “Can we destroy the dam downstream...?” he asked.

“The water has already begun to pool, so the cavalry cannot approach. We will probably need to have the foot soldiers climb the slopes to reach it.”

“I see...”

“But we don’t have the soldiers to spare.”

They had lost more than half their armored foot soldiers in the flood, and it was questionable whether those who remained even had the will to continue.

“I’ll do it myself then!” Paul declared. “I won’t order you to follow me; I just need the ones who still want to fight on! This is the decisive battle!” He raced down the fortress staircase, drawing his sword and raising his voice. “Those crafty Belgarians are nothing to fear! I am Paul Langschultz, king of the Langobarts!”

By the time Paul arrived at the first floor, water was already climbing the steps, reaching up to his waist. While clad in his armor, even making it to his horse was a matter of life and death. He risked drowning if he so much as lost his footing.

The knights who were supposed to have been waiting for him were all gone, having abandoned their horses and evacuated to the second floor. Paul threw his armor off and screamed, bellowing words that he himself didn’t understand as he waded over to and mounted his horse.

“Open the gates!” Paul roared. “The king departs for battle! Come with me if you have the courage!”

“Paul...” His adjutant approached, having similarly cast aside his armor.

“Hah! Nice of you to join me! Mount your horse!”

“Paul.”

“What’s wrong?! Hurry up! The gate should open any moment now!”

“Paul. The device used to open the gate is already underwater. It’s useless.”

“Gah...”

“Let’s just raise the white flag...” his adjutant said, slumping his shoulders in defeat.

The king raised his sword above his head; then he sliced across the water’s surface with an agonized cry. “GAAAAAAH!”