Chapter 4: The Sun Begins to Set

The resonant thunder of cannon fire echoed across the battlefield, interspersed with the screams and yells of men. High Britannia’s southern unit—the First Division—were continuing their scathing bombardment, but this did little to deter Belgaria’s Seventh Army, who continued to march toward them.

They were about 1000 yards (914 m) away—still too great of a distance for the High Britannian Army to start using their rifles. If angled properly, their shots might have been able to reach, but a lead bullet shot upward would not be enough to take out an armored soldier.

While the new Snider had an increased shooting range compared to their old muskets, this only went as far as 200 yards (182 m) at most, and it was unknown how many shots they would be able to get in while the imperial army charged them.

The Belgarian Army came ever closer. Having lost so many comrades to cannon fire, they moved like a wild beast driven only by rage and revenge. Their murderous intent almost seemed to appear as a pitch-black shadow around them. What’s more, even though High Britannia had managed to kill thousands in the bombardment, the imperial army still outnumbered them.

The newest Elswicks were by no means omnipotent—in fact, they would be near unusable once the enemy was in close enough range, as the risk of friendly fire would be too great. The cannons could be angled to shoot over their own troops, which would allow them a minimum firing distance of roughly 500 yards (457 m), but their immense weight meant that they took a long time to reposition, and aiming them any lower would undoubtedly lead to unwanted casualties.

The monster-like visages of enemy troops could finally be made out in detail, trampling over death and devastation to deliver it in kind.

A bugle sounded, and the platoon commanders started issuing orders.

“Ready! Aim!”

The riflemen on the front line loaded their Sniders, swinging open a hinged lid on top of the barrels—the breechblock—to reveal the chamber where the metal cartridge was inserted. Loading was complete once the breeches were closed and double-checked to make sure they were locked, at which point they could be aimed at the enemy. The simplicity and brevity of the process was worlds apart from the old flintlock models.

The soldiers took aim at the Empire’s ranks. Their guns felt several times heavier than they had during practice; their trembling arms and legs were making it hard to keep steady. They didn’t feel guilty about the killing—in fact, most of the High Britannian troops saw foreigners as no different than beasts. It was the knowledge and the fear that they would be the ones losing their lives if they didn’t pull the trigger that snatched away their rational thought.

The imperial army continued to advance, but the order to open fire didn’t come. The High Britannian troops grew more anxious by the minute. Once their guns were up, these men weren’t even permitted to wipe the sweat from their brow.

Behind this line of infantrymen was the First Division’s main camp, where a man in white knights’ clothing was stationed. He was tall with proportionately long limbs; his hair was ashen gray, and his eyes were an icy blue. His right wrist was wrapped in a bandage, but this couldn’t be seen under his uniform.

This was Oswald Coulthard. While he only held the position of strategy officer, he essentially conducted himself as the commander. He had just finished receiving a report from a subordinate, to whom he gave an understanding nod before responding.

“It seems that things are proceeding quite smoothly... In that case, as per the schedule, have the riflemen open fire when the enemy is 200 yards (182 m) away. The imperial army will have already started their charge by then, so take care not to panic and shoot too early.”

His tone was courteous, even when speaking to his men.

“Yes, sir!” The messenger touched his right hand to his temple in salute before making a dash for the front unit.

A general and several other high-ranking staff officers were also stationed at the main camp, but they were all just nervously watching the enemy. They weren’t particularly competent as far as Oswald was concerned, but they had been granted considerably important roles, and were thus meaningful pieces to him.

The state of the war was progressing smoothly. Soon, the crucial moment that would decide the victor would be upon them.

That was when Oswald heard someone say his name from behind him.

“Hey, Oswald... Aren’t you going to start shooting?”

The listless voice came from a cabriolet—a light, two-wheeled carriage for two. It was small enough to be pulled by a human, but was instead fastened to a single horse. While the carriage was painted an inconspicuous black, its silver ornaments and silk interior made it obvious that this was the vehicle of a noble. And inside, on her sofa throne, a beautiful young woman was seated with one knee drawn up.

Her skirt was raised enough to reveal her pale legs, and her scarlet dress would have greatly exposed both her shoulders and chest had she not also been wearing a white shawl on top. Her glossy black hair flowed down her torso like a waterfall, and as she narrowed her amber eyes, her expression became similar to a mischief-loving cat.

She was Margaret Stillart, the new queen of High Britannia.

“Oswald, you really should just start shooting already. I’m sure our new guns will be able to reach them from here. I’ve grown weary of the sound of cannon fire.”

It was true that the bullets would travel far enough to reach the approaching Belgarian soldiers, but there was no guarantee that they would actually strike their targets. And even if they did manage to, it was very unlikely that the injuries would be lethal; the enemy was simply too far away.

These new guns had two major flaws:

First of all, the metal bullets took considerable time and labor to manufacture, so High Britannia did not have many in reserve. Firing in an arc was always an option to increase the firing distance of rifles and cannons, but it was much harder to shoot accurately while doing so. Oswald wanted to get in as many shots as possible before the enemy reached them, but as ammunition was in such short supply, he needed to avoid wasting rounds. For this reason, it was necessary that he wait until the enemy had started their charge before giving the order to open fire.

Second, the bullets scraped away at the spiraling grooves carved on the inside of the barrel—known as the rifling—when fired, which lowered the gun’s durability compared to smooth barrels.

I cannot open fire so recklessly just because Her Majesty is bored, but...

Oswald reverently lowered his head. “You ask for me to begin firing? Certainly. The words of the wise Queen Margaret are akin to a revelation from God. They are the flame that drives away the darkness that is ignorance from one as crudely unenlightened as I. Indeed, were this petty officer to equate it to something, it would be like sailing the seas without a moon or stars to guide me, only to come across a lone lighthouse that—”

“Just fire already.”

“As you wish.”

Oswald gave a deep bow, then beckoned over a messenger who had been waiting quietly nearby. The young messenger ran up and saluted, ready to receive an order.

“An order for the line of riflemen,” Oswald began. “‘Please open fire at once. If you all run out of ammunition, then split down the middle and make a detour around our unit as you retreat. At that point, the second line should then step forward to take your place.’”

Had they followed the plan, it was near impossible that High Britannia would have run out of bullets; the charging enemy would either reach their ranks or crumble beforehand. They had already practiced what to do on the off chance that they did run out of ammunition, but this unlikely outcome was starting to seem more and more likely—after all, they were about to start opening fire on the enemy from a much greater distance than they had accounted for.

The young messenger looked doubtful. He repeated the entire order to verify that he had memorized it, then loudly proclaimed, “Thus are the details of my message! Shall I proceed, sir?”

The officers in the main camp started murmuring to each other nervously, but not a single one spoke up against the decision. This was what made them pieces—not assets—in Oswald’s eyes.

As the disgruntled whispers continued, the young messenger spoke up again. “Err... Do you really want me to deliver that order? I reckon the enemy’s still pretty far away...”

“Oh? Is the messenger questioning an order from this petty officer? An order that is in accordance with the wishes of Her Highness, the supreme Queen Margaret? What is your name? Where do you come from?”

“Erk! I-I’m... Lance Corporal William McColley. Born and raised in Queensthames, sir.”

Queensthames was the city that housed the royal palace of Queenstower. If this young messenger had been born there, then that meant he was probably the son of some well-off family, and a true High Britannian in heart and mind. He was probably around eighteen years old.

Oswald glanced over at Margaret, who was staring back at him rather amusedly. Not just the firing order, but the entire war with Belgaria was simply a means to stave off her boredom, and having her demand questioned by the likes of a mere messenger was simply a small, entertaining bonus. However, she was quick to grow weary of such one-off occurrences, and was prone to seeking out cruel conclusions to them that would make everyone around her scowl in disgust.

Oswald pointed toward the enemy army. “Worry not—this order is just, and shall lead our forces to victory. Please fulfill your duty and pass it on.”

“Understood, sir!” At that, the young orderly, William, ran off. A few moments later, the riflemen started to open fire.

The enemy was approximately 500 yards (457 m) away—quite a bit further than the 200 yards (182 m) they were originally going to start shooting at. They would need to prepare to move soon.

The cabriolet only seated two people, meaning one of them would have to drive. Once Oswald had climbed in, taking the leftmost seat to accommodate the longsword on his hip, Margaret let out a delighted laugh. She immediately snuggled up to him, grabbing his right arm and pulling it into her chest, forcing Oswald to hold the reins using just one hand.

“My humblest apologies; the carriage will be a little shaky. I hope you can forgive me for the inconvenience.”

“Fufufu... You think I’m a real pain, don’t you, Oswald?”

“...What might you be referring to? You believe that this petty, lowly officer sees the magnificent Queen Margaret as a pain? What could have possibly transpired for me to be accused of such insolence?”

“I mean, I do keep intruding on your grand plans... Surely you’re annoyed that I’ve ruined everything. You see me as a stupid pussycat who makes a mess of the house whenever you leave me home alone.”

She was so self-aware, and yet continued to interfere... This girl clearly wasn’t normal—after all, losing this war would mean death.

Oswald shook his head. “This petty officer’s sole reason for existing is to carry out the one and only Queen Margaret’s divine will. If Her Majesty were to reach out her hand to accomplish a task, would her fingers ever voice their opposition? No, that would be simply unheard of.”

“Hm? You mean to say that you’re like my fingers?”

“That is correct.”

“Fufufu... You say that, and yet you never touch me. Isn’t that strange? If you’re a part of my own body, then where might these reservations come from?”

Margaret looked up at Oswald, moving her face close enough that he could feel her breath touch his cheek. While Oswald was wearing a full military uniform, Margaret was in nothing more than a thin silk dress and a light shawl, so her body heat could easily be felt as she pressed herself against him. Her skirt had rolled up her raised leg, exposing her pale thigh.

A heated breath leaked from Margaret’s lips as she whispered in his ear. “Hey... A lot of people are dying.”

“That is correct.”

“...It’s making me all hot and bothered.”

“I see... Well, we are only halfway through May. All this exposure to the cool air must be taking a toll on your health, so please, for the sake of peace and prosperity in our country, take extra care of yourself.”

Oswald reached into his seat pocket and pulled out a silk lap blanket embroidered with the flag of High Britannia: two red stripes across a white background. Margaret puffed out her cheeks as he draped it over her knees, clearly dissatisfied.

“Hmph.”

“The time has come. Now, let us intercept the Belgarian Army.”

“Hm. Am I going to see anything interesting?”

To his mild surprise, Oswald found his lips curling into a smile. I see... So I am sharing in Her Majesty’s elation.

“There will be much to see, and it will all prove that spears and swords have no place on the modern-day battlefield. War has changed, and the total annihilation of the antiquated imperial army shall prove that.”

“You know, Oswald...”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Fufufu... You never give the most important orders when I’m around.”

“...That is definitely not true. I have simply delegated the finer details to First Lieutenant Glenda Graham. That is all there is to that matter.”

“Hm...” Margaret offered no more than a small noise in response, reaching out her hand and pressing a finger against Oswald’s lips.

✧ ✧ ✧

The Seventh Army’s fighting spirit had reached its climax. Chief Strategist Vicente rode atop his trusted steed, following closely behind his foot soldiers. He was clad in light, silver-colored armor, and brandished a sword of dark steel. Beside him, the commanding lieutenant general Barguesonne urged on his black warhorse in a show of expert horsemanship not expected of a man as old as he was.

Despite being a noble, Barguesonne detested unnecessary expenses and would make use of whatever scraps he could. Then, once those scraps were unusable, he would have them repaired so that he could continue using them; even when they had deteriorated to a point where they seemed to be beyond hope, he would work his wit to somehow keep them operational. This was a philosophy that had worked for him throughout his entire career thus far.

This mindset even applied to the plate armor he was currently wearing: it had been gifted to him thirty-five years prior so that he would look presentable during his first campaign, and while its design was now antiquated, he continued to wear and maintain it. Plate armor was expensive, so this behavior was expected of regular knights who would usually pass their armor down to the next generation as a family heirloom, but Barguesonne was the head of a duke household—it was expected that someone in his position would simply have their armor remade whenever it showed signs of wear.

Ten years ago, back when Emperor Liam XV had played a much more active role in the nation’s affairs, a parade had been held to evaluate the Seventh Army. In all truth, it was more of a show than an inspection, as the army would simply march down the main street of the town they were stationed in. Not only was His Majesty himself going to be in attendance, but also the nobles and commoners had gathered for the spectacle.

It was normal to wear elaborate, decorative attire to these events, and a general such as Barguesonne would surely want his weapon and armor to be no less impressive than a fine work of art. And so, a great number of merchants decided to seize this wonderful opportunity, touting their services like their very lives were on the line. But Barguesonne simply drove them away, firmly declaring that “A man’s vanity does not keep a nation safe.”

As their commander had decided to put on the same old armor he always wore, the men of the Seventh Army didn’t dare to dress themselves up; the vast majority just gave their usual iron armor a good polish and took part in the parade wearing that.

The nobles from the capital snickered among themselves at the abject lack of elegance. “How can one have dignity without beauty?” they scoffed.

But when Emperor Liam XV was asked for his opinion, he merely answered, “I have seen many armies in my time, but this is the first one that is truly going to war.” Was he praising them for their extreme discipline, or was he perhaps criticizing their uncouth attire? One could surely argue either way.

No matter how many years passed, Barguesonne’s stance remained unchanged; frugality and practicality were as important to him as the blood that coursed through his veins. He valued tradition, respected pedigree, and, above all, revered consistency, for a consistent world was one in which the Empire would never fall.

These values were the reason he had appointed the still-young Vicente as his chief strategist. Vicente’s father had served as Barguesonne’s previous chief strategist and close aid for many years, and while they had admittedly only ever fought against the small nations in the east, he had proven to be both indomitable and undefeated as a tactician. Barguesonne expected the same indomitability from Vicente, and enough had happened in the three years since the young man had been appointed to convince him that these expectations had not been misplaced.

This engagement with the High Britannian Army was the perfect opportunity to make Vicente a household name—not only on the eastern front, but across the entire empire. He was a confident strategist, so much so that the troops and officers of the Seventh Army fully believed they were going to come out victorious.

A scout sprinted over to Barguesonne. “Report! Our vanguard has crossed the 7 arpent (500 m) line!”

Barguesonne gave a nod. “Very good.”

“Even with the latest cannons, there is nothing they can do to hinder our advance,” Vicente said, unsurprised that his strategy was proceeding so smoothly.

But no sooner had the words passed his lips than an unexpected sound echoed across the battlefield. It was a loud crack, like a massive dry branch had just been snapped—a sharp contrast to the heavy thundering of the High Britannian cannons.

Gunfire!?

Vicente was stunned. For a moment, he was certain that his heart had stopped. He focused his gaze on the enemy, and noticed white smoke rising from the guns held by their front line. “Inconceivable! They’ve started firing already!?” he exclaimed.

Barguesonne narrowed his eyes. “None of our reports mentioned that these new firearms had this much range...”

These guns were beyond all expectations; assuming that this wasn’t just a bluff, their firing range had to be more than double what the Seventh Army’s intel had suggested. Vicente had anticipated perhaps five thousand casualties at most, but now there was a good chance that this number would be twice as high.

But changing course here wasn’t an option—not only would the Seventh Army’s defeat be all but inevitable, but Vicente would be deemed fully accountable for having drafted and coordinated such a naïve plan. Sweat soaked his clothes. His stomach started to churn and he swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, burning his windpipe and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

“...How many casualties have we suffered so far?”

“Someone go and take a look!”

On Barguesonne’s order, one of the knights whipped his horse and raced to the front. All the while, the sound of gunfire continued. Just how many men had fallen? How many more would follow?

But when the knight returned, he looked terribly unconcerned. “Damages are light, sir! There is nothing worth reporting!”

A wave of relief washed over the senior officers gathered, striking Vicente harder than anyone else. In his head, he was practically jumping for joy as he cursed the enemy army. All that worry over nothing! You absolute buffoons! High Britannian blockheads!

“Ha... It seems that our advance was so intense that the enemy lost their nerve and ended up making a foolish mistake. Or perhaps they simply don’t understand the basics of warfare.”

“So their guns really couldn’t reach us. How... anticlimactic.” Rather than looking relieved, Barguesonne actually seemed quite displeased by the enemy commander’s failed ploy.

“Oh? Were you hoping for a decisive battle in which both sides put everything on the line, sir?”

“Defeating an oblivious fresh recruit is nothing to be proud of.”

“Well, there’s little we can do about that. It just goes to show that the High Britannian Army is little more than a gathering of new conscripts. We’ll proudly display their corpses as proof that we have defended our great nation.”

“I was hoping for an enemy with backbone. It’s been quite some time...”

The commander had full confidence in himself, longing for a far more formidable foe, while his men burst into laughter at the enemy’s overeagerness. An anxious air still hung over the troops due to the considerable losses they had taken from the cannons, but everyone was now certain that any result other than victory was impossible.

Vicente had been nervous for quite some time now, but even he patted his chest in relief. “Then we shall proceed on schedule.”

“Indeed. There is no need for us to match the enemy’s failure in kind. Make certain there are no fools among us who panic and decide to begin the charge prematurely.”

“Understood.”

On Barguesonne’s order, Vicente called in a messenger. “Relay this directive: Troops are to maintain their current speed until further orders are given! Any who take independent action will be harshly reprimanded!”

“Yes, sir!” The messenger thumped his right fist against his chest in salute, then ran off.

The roar of gunfire continued. The Seventh Army would no doubt suffer considerable casualties once they were close enough, but their enemy’s actions were working to their advantage—it was harder to load bullets into a gun that was red-hot from repeated firing, and barrels that ended up bending from the heat could hardly be expected to hit their mark.

Barguesonne firmly squeezed his horse’s reins, certain of victory.

Soon, the distance between the two front lines was only 4 arpents (286 m). Injury and death had brought the Seventh Army down from nineteen thousand men to fifteen thousand, while the High Britannian Army had suffered no casualties and remained at ten thousand. But this didn’t seem to have weakened the Belgarian soldiers’ certainty that they would win.

Barguesonne raised his hand. “Charge.”

The bugler immediately began to sound the assault, but was quickly drowned out as frenzied cries tore the heavens asunder—screams as primal as the roar of a wild animal. The air seemed to shake harder than it ever had from the cannon fire, and the ground rumbled so ferociously as the assault troops trampled across the battlefield that even Vicente could feel it atop his horse.

“Move! Move!” The officers urged the troops forward, and, like starved beasts released from their cages, they charged toward the enemy with spears in hand. The second and third lines of soldiers were running closely behind, followed by the heavily armored soldiers defending the main camp.

Barguesonne whipped his horse into a gallop, and Vicente beside him did the same.

✧ ✧ ✧

As the death rate of assault troops was terrifyingly high, their ranks were often composed of sinners or farmers who couldn’t pay their taxes. Dukas, who would turn thirty this year, was no exception—his fields had been ravaged by a pest infestation, and the financial hardships that resulted had ended in him being forced to join the military.

Why did such a huge battle have to happen the one bloody year I couldn’t afford to pay up? I really am outta luck...

While the imperial army was known for its strength, that was mostly due to its overwhelming numbers and well-trained standing soldiers. Neither changed the fact that spears and bullets were lethal.

As soon as the charge began, the man running beside Dukas was shot. He was a good-natured fellow who had willingly shared the salt he brought from his hometown back when they were in training together. A single bullet to the throat was all it had taken to kill him. A short while later, the voice belonging to the head of the platoon—a man who had generously offered Dukas some fruit when he caught a cold—disappeared.

Everyone was dying.

Dukas pictured the face of his wife, who was waiting for him back home. She was pregnant with their fourth child, and had energetically waved as she told him to come home safe. He remembered his three beautiful children, and his elderly parents as well.

“GRAAAAAAH!!”

He screamed at the top of his lungs, trying to drown out his fear as he continued to charge. His iron spear and chain armor felt so heavy, but stopping would mean certain death. He was growing closer to the enemy, and each step made him an easier target. The last thing he wanted was to become a sitting duck. That was why he had to take down the enemy. Unless he killed this man, he would be shot.

His breathing turned shallow. Once upon a time, he had been so impatiently waiting for the order to charge... but now he suspected that it had been issued too early. There was still a ways to go before they reached the enemy camp.

The soldier beside him ran ahead. Am I not running fast enough? Dukas wondered, doubting himself. He knew that a slow soldier was a soldier in the way, and that those who failed to keep up could expect a spear in the back. He didn’t want to die, but he could feel his legs tangling beneath him. If he fell, he would be trampled by those charging behind. But that was far too dishonorable—in fact, it was deemed the most deplorable way to die.

Dukas was terrified that he would be deemed nothing more than a hindrance and then stabbed by the soldiers running behind him. Don’t write me off just yet... I can still run! I just stumbled over a rock, that’s all. I can still run, I tell you! I can keep up!

The enemy soldiers were in sight. They screamed something as they fired their guns.

I see the smoke, so... Ha, the bullet didn’t hit me? You lousy shot, where are you aiming!?

If what he had been taught during training was right, then the reloading process that was about to follow would be a long one. His foe would need to stand his gun vertically, then insert gunpowder and a bullet, ram them both down the barrel using a ramrod, then pour gunpowder into the priming pan where the flint would spark and...

That wasn’t the case. The High Britannian Army’s vanguard, paying absolutely no heed to the scorching-hot gun barrel, opened the breechblock and inserted a round from their pocket. They were aiming their weapons again in no time at all.

Goddammit, you’ve gotta be screwing with me! It’s that easy!? Why the hell is it that easy!? You cowards! You bloody cowards!

The guns fired once again, and a sudden, excruciating burning sensation spread through Dukas’s left ear.

H-He hit me? I’ve been shot!?

Something detestably hot poured down his nape, accompanied by a sound—a burbling from his left side, like he was standing near a waterfall. What was happening?

For a brief moment, he could have sworn that he heard someone scream, “No, don’t stop!” And so, his legs continued to move. He knew that he couldn’t stop running; the moment he did, he would be trampled to death by his own allies.

“Get back at them!” a different voice cried out.

That’s right. My ear hurts like hell. I’ve gotta return this pain. I need to avenge my fallen comrades!

The enemy soldiers were close enough that Dukas could see the whites of their eyes. He remembered the soldier who had ran ahead, only to realize that he was nowhere to be seen.

Where did he go...? No, there’s no time to think about that.

His foe was right before him—a young soldier with blond hair and blue eyes, stationed on the High Britannian Army’s front line.

This is the enemy I need to kill. He’s holding up his gun. He’s going to shoot me again.

...He missed. Hah! How are you expecting to hit anything when your hands are shaking that much!?

The young soldier pulled another round out of his pocket as he once again opened the rifle’s breech... but the bullet slipped through his fingers. Dukas immediately thrust with his spear, screaming so loudly that his throat ached.

“Meurs, salaud!”

Its tip extended toward the young man’s torso, then pierced straight through his stomach, right below his ribs. The spear went in much easier than it had gone into the wood he had practiced on during his training, but offered more resistance than a bundle of straw. Then came a sudden, hard impact; he had struck bone.

«Gah...» Bright red blood spurted from the soldier’s mouth as he let out a subdued cry. His eyes were open wide, frozen in terror.

Dukas immediately retracted his spear; he wouldn’t be able to deal with the other enemies while it was embedded in the young man’s stomach. Blood gushed from the deep, open wound as soon as the spearhead came out, and the enemy soldier immediately crumpled to the ground.

«Momma...» One final word leaked from his lips, and then he moved no more.

A fierce sandstorm continued to surge in Dukas’s left ear as it throbbed with pain. It’s all because this bastard shot me... Wait, was it even his bullet? Doesn’t matter. On to the next one.

Behind High Britannia’s front line of riflemen was a row of soldiers carrying oversized shields. With only a few steps to build up momentum, Dukas thrust his spear forward once again. It simply let off a dull twang as it struck the shield, not piercing through.

It chipped the tip!?

The enemy soldier retreated back a step.

You’re running away!?

If they allowed the enemy to retreat, then the imperial army would have to go through another marché de la mort to approach them. The Belgarian bugle sounded once again, signaling them to continue their charge.

When the enemy pulls back, march forth! March forth!

“HRAAAAAAH!!”

«You damn brute!» A curse in Britannian came from beyond the shield.

“Kill them! Don’t let them get away!”

Dukas thrust his spear forward again, but his attack was again blocked by the barricade. Then, another gunshot rang out. Were they firing from behind their shields? Another ally was taken out.

The enemy retreated, farther and farther back. Normally, stabbing a fleeing foe in the back was easier than hunting a beast in the backwaters, and yet... these large, sturdy shields, reinforced by the gunmen who were firing through the gaps between them, seemed almost impenetrable.

“Damn it! Damn it! Don’t run! Die! You cowards!”

«Retreat! Retreat! Pick up the pace!»

Dukas boldly stepped forward. Like hell I’m going through the march of death again. I have a family waiting for me. All I need are my fields!

“Tsaaaah!!”

He slammed his full bodyweight against the shield, pushing it over. This was his opportunity—there was a gap in the enemy’s ranks. He immediately thrust out his spear, its tip just barely skimming the shield’s rim before sinking into the chest of the enemy soldier hiding behind it.

«Guh!?»

The enemy line grew rowdy.

«I’m down!»

«Fall back! Fall back!»

«Close the gap! Don’t break formation!»

Seeing the opening, one of Dukas’s comrades trampled over the fallen soldier, throwing down his spear and pulling out the sword at his waist. Perhaps he thought that, so long as there was a gap in the enemy’s formation, their tall, hard-to-maneuver shields could easily be dealt with by slashing the soldiers behind them from the side. But the Belgarian soldier was quickly met with a wave of concentrated fire from even farther back, and a bullet tore through his head before he could slice even a single foe.

The hole that Dukas had made quickly disappeared as the shield bearers closed in from both sides. Their pace at which they were retreating hadn’t changed. He was back where he had started, and yet, for some reason, Dukas found himself laughing.

“Pff... Hahah! I’ll kill even more of you, you cowards! I just need to do the same thing! That’s all I’ve gotta do!”

Once again, he threw himself at one of the shields, keeping his spear at the ready. So long as he lunged at the soldier behind it head-on, using him as cover, he wouldn’t need to worry about the bullets. His weight was enough to knock over the shield bearer, and, with a triumphant laugh, he thrust out his weapon once more.

“Fwahahahahah!”

That’s the third one! We can do this! We’re gonna take down their shields!

The next moment, another scream was raised—this time, in Belgarian. “We’re surrounded!”

We’re surrounded? Who’s surrounding us?

Dukas couldn’t understand what the man meant; the enemy troops with their shields were standing right in front of him.

The sound of gunfire continued to thunder all around.

✧ ✧ ✧

“Our men keep fleeing, Oswald. Are we going to lose?”

“The elegant Queen Margaret need only take care not to bite her tongue. We will stand our ground soon.”

“Oh dear, so you don’t need to run away anymore?” Margaret asked, brushing off some dust with her hand as she continued pulling Oswald’s right arm into her chest.

“We were never running away; these movements were all a part of my plan. Our forces face Belgaria’s assault troops head on while falling back—that is the role played by our shield bearers. Meanwhile, the units behind them divide themselves in two, then flank the enemy on both sides.”

The High Britannian army took on the shape of a “U,” enclosing the Belgarian troops.

“When a pie crust is too thin, its contents will burst out, Oswald,” Margaret said quizzically, cocking her head to one side. While this girl often acted like a fool, she truly did understand war. As a child, she was too wise, too skillful, and too blessed—so much so that she quickly grew tired of the world. Perhaps this was only a matter of course.

Oswald nodded. “Certainly. Not only is the Belgarian Army known for its unrivaled strength, but we are attempting an encirclement while we are at a numerical disadvantage. Most might consider this to be a terrible move, but I would argue that they are too caught up in the era of the sword and spear. Our army carries firearms that can be reloaded in no time at all. A spear can be blocked by a shield, but what can block a bullet? With enemies closing in on both sides, the Empire’s army will be forced to regroup. In a battle of spears, they could simply have those on the outermost edge hold the enemy back while those inside changed their formation... but how effective would that plan be if they’re being assailed by bullets?”

“Fufufu... I can’t help but laugh as I imagine you at your desk, racking your brain over these silly notions.”

“That is more than this petty officer deserves. I am unable to bear the shame of having my sorry state weigh on the mind of the gentle Queen Margaret. Let us pray that this plan is more than just an empty theory that only works on paper.”

“You sound confident.”

“This is a war held in the name of the radiant Queen Margaret. This petty officer spared no effort in his preparations.”

Oswald wasn’t one to rely on theories and speculation alone; the effectiveness of using shield bearers alongside the latest firearms had already been thoroughly tested during High Britannia’s internal conflicts. He had provoked a rebellion in a bordering territory with which they already had strained relations, and then sent in his riflemen under the guise of suppressing it. In essence, Oswald had been using the people of High Britannia as test subjects, and he was deliberately making sure that this despicable truth didn’t reach Margaret’s ears...

As far as Oswald was concerned, it was a necessary sacrifice. New weapons could be used quite freely, but exposing a new strategy too early would lower its practical value; testing it on other nations just wasn’t an option. This time around, he had opted to use shield-bearing soldiers as living—or, perhaps by this point, dead—impediments, but anything would work so long as it slowed the enemy’s advance. Once the tide of battle turned, even the corpses of the Belgarians’ own allies would become obstacles working to his advantage.

“That’s a big no-no, Oswald,” Margaret whispered into his ear. “To think that you would spark a civil war, killing the nation’s—no, my people for your little games...”

“...That is...”

“I won’t forgive you for monopolizing something so amusing...” she continued, before biting down on his ear with enough force that Oswald feared it was about to be ripped off.

“I-I hope you do not find it audacious of me to presume that you are referring to our recent efforts to suppress internal turmoil... I must offer my humblest apologies for being so late to report on the matter. I will henceforth exercise the utmost caution to curtail the loss of our breth—!?”

His words were cut short as Margaret swiped her tongue over his bite wound. A stinging pain coursed through his ear, and the sound of gunfire was quickly muffled by a wet squelching noise.

Squirch... “Dear me, you’re bleeding...” Slurp...

“As it was done by the sacred Queen Margaret, I could not be happier. Even if you were to rip out my entrails, this petty officer would consider it a blessing.”

“Hey, Oswald...”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“How many people have we killed?”

“...Four thousand before the Belgarian Army began their charge, two thousand during... and I would anticipate another three thousand since our troops encircled them.”

“Don’t withhold information from me, Oswald.”

“My deepest apologies. We are also expecting two thousand deaths on our side.”

“Oh, that’s quite low...” Margaret responded, sounding disappointed. Even Oswald wasn’t sure whether he should apologize for that.

The High Britannian vanguard had been deliberately composed of line infantry, both to cut down the number of Belgarian soldiers during their advance and to bait them into charging, Oswald had estimated that their death count would be close to one thousand, but once they swapped places with the shield bearers to protect them from the Belgarian spears, they would be able to kill three times that number of imperial troops.

Simultaneously pitting the Empire’s spearmen against shield bearers and riflemen put the High Britannian Army at a clear advantage—while a spear could be blocked by a shield, a bullet could pierce even the thickest parts of plate armor. The Belgarian Army had surely thought that their better-trained soldiers would lead them to an indisputable victory in close-quarters combat, even if they lost their numerical advantage during the charge, but the reality was that the High Britannian Army had completely overwhelmed them.

Oswald had even prepared a second line of shield bearers and gunmen in case the first one crumbled, though these troops were intended to serve as little more than a distraction while the other soldiers flanked the enemy. Meanwhile, the cannons had been repositioned so that they could now begin firing again, and the Belgarian Army’s tight-knit formation made this bombardment especially effective.

There are around ten thousand Belgarian soldiers left, and eight thousand High Britannians...

Oswald had to laud the enemy forces; they were clearly in an unfavorable predicament, and yet they continued to fight with order and discipline. When he had tested these tactics during internal disputes, the opposing army would always flee in fear of the gunfire the moment that the assault troops fell. The Belgarian Army would have no doubt realized that their defeat was inevitable by now, but even so, they fought on.

Such wonderful morale. What thorough drilling they must have gone through.

Oswald was overcome by a slight feeling of intoxication. It was as though he had stumbled across a ceramic masterpiece—one that was the product of an unspeakable amount of time and passion—and could take great pleasure in shattering it with his own two hands.

✧ ✧ ✧

Vicente let out a gasp as the Seventh Army was driven into numerical inferiority. It was his role to compose the plans, but when it came to the battle itself, he was no more than the commander’s adviser. The fact that he had fallen victim to unforeseen circumstances already made him second-rate as a strategist, and if the entire Seventh Army crumbled as a result, then he would be unable to escape punishment—assuming he even escaped the battle alive, that is.

“Don’t falter! Show them the true might of an imperial soldier!” Barguesonne barked.

“Yes, sir!”

But despite their spirited reply, those who answered were blocked by the enemy’s shields. There was little they could do to turn the tide of war, and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, their main camp was also being assailed by gunfire. The Seventh Army was being fired at from three sides, and while many soldiers were lucky enough to avoid the storm of bullets, they all knew that it was only a matter of time before one found its mark. What’s more, the enemy’s shots were oftentimes fatal, while it took the imperial army a number of successful strikes to take out just one enemy.

Vicente’s lip quivered. “Th-This can’t be... Aren’t Belgarian soldiers unparalleled on the open plains?”

Up until this battle—no, up until the moment when their assault troops had been mowed down by the enemy’s line infantry—he had envisioned a glimmering future ahead, in which he would be showered with words of praise and admiration. But now, that once certain future had been sealed away in darkness.

“This... is all wrong...”

While he could understand being late to react when fighting in the forest, on the sea, or on other unfamiliar terrain, this was a clash on the open plains. Belgaria’s infantry was supposed to be undefeatable.

Didn’t we have an absolute advantage? Haven’t we won all of our battles on the eastern front? ...What were we so proud of?

“...That’s why... I proposed and believed in... a direct confrontation...”

“Vicente! Quit spacing out!” Barguesonne yelled.

Disappointing his lieutenant general was the one thing that Vicente knew he would never be able to live down; he saw the man as a second father. Flustered, he quickly began to make excuses.

“‘If we can just get close enough, then the newest cannons and guns will mean nothing! The Empire’s soldiers will overwhelm them!’ That’s what the battalion captains told me! That’s why I—!”

“What are you on about!?”

“That’s why I... I didn’t do anything wrong, Lieutenant General Barguesonne! I mean, it’s the others who were wrong!”

“......” Barguesonne looked at him, deep sorrow in his eyes.

“Th-That’s right! It was Regis from that remote regiment of who-knows-where! It’s because his pessimistic words decreased the morale of our troops! That’s why this happened! I knew that we never should have taken those outsiders under our wing! It’s possible that he colluded with the enemy out of envy of my success. Yes, that must be the reason! That’s why things have ended up like this!”

“That’s enough.”

“Do you see it now, Lieutenant General!?”

“I see that I need to teach you how to show some backbone!”

“Guh!?”

Barguesonne’s criticism was so harsh that Vicente felt as though he had just been sentenced to death. It was like the old man’s spear had gone straight through his heart.

“...And that’s why I can’t let you die here.”

“H-Huh...?”

“With those of proven bloodlines as my staff officers, I earnestly held discussion after discussion, and entered this war with the plan I thought best. I am the commanding officer, which means this outcome is mine to bear. You, on the other hand, are merely a chief strategist. Do you honestly believe that the blame rests on your shoulders? Know your place!”

“Barguesonne...”

The lieutenant general turned his back to Vicente, signaling that their conversation was over, then addressed his soldiers in a loud, powerful voice. “Ignore the small fries to your sides! Divide the enemy in two, so that you might live to die another day! Show them just how much valor and dignity the Seventh Army has! All troops, march forward! Even if you do lay down your life here, know that you are doing so for the sake of your country!”

“UOOOOOOH!!”

His fearless order even rekindled the fighting spirit of those who had lost all hope. If death was inevitable, then the least they could do was die as heroes, giving up their lives for the sake of their country and comrades. And now that the farmers and sinners had fallen, the Belgarian front line was composed of professional soldiers who had spent years honing their skills, which only further bolstered their confidence.

“Charge! Attack! March on! Crush the enemy beneath you! Trample those who can no longer press on! All troops, move out!” As he screamed, Barguesonne personally made for the frontmost line. The officers and guards he overtook hurriedly raced forward; this was never supposed to happen.

Word spread among the soldiers like wildfire.

“The general went to the front line!”

“He’s leading the charge!”

“We’ve gotta follow him!”

Barguesonne called out once more. “Forward, men! This country shall be safeguarded by none other than the Seventh Army! No death will be in vain! Lay waste to our enemy!”

The assault infantry on the frontmost line closed in on the barrier of shields, desperately forcing their spears into whatever gaps they could find. Their attacks were met with gunfire. One Belgarian soldier was shot through the head, only for another to immediately surge in from behind, kicking aside his lifeless body and taking his place.

Another cast down his spear and grabbed an enemy’s shield with both hands, using as much strength as he could muster to raise it above his head. A bullet immediately caught him in the flank, but his rushing adrenaline and unyielding sense of martyrdom numbed the pain. The enemy soldier released his shield in a panic the moment that his feet started to leave the ground, and within seconds, both he and the rifleman hiding behind him were pierced by several spears.

Crush the enemy beneath you.

The Belgarian Army had been gradually losing troops since the battle started, and while their numbers were now decreasing at almost double the pace, they were managing to break through the enemy’s line of shields. That was when a shout came from among High Britannia’s ranks.

«Retreat! Retreat!»

The realization that they just might succeed reinvigorated the Belgarian soldiers, lessening their fatigue and bolstering their concentration. The force of their charge truly had reached its peak.

As close as could be to the front line, Barguesonne raised his voice. “March forward! Do not falter! Just one more push! One more strike! Crush—!!”

All of a sudden, he felt a searing pain in his torso, as if someone had poured hot coals into his chest. A bullet had pierced Barguesonne’s breastplate. He could no longer breathe.

They got me in the lung, did they?

A punctured lung was almost always fatal; no matter how much the wounded person tried to breathe, they would only suck in blood. It was said to be a death as terrifying as drowning.

Barguesonne had taken the lives of a great many foes on the battlefield... and he realized that his own time had come. He instantly tightened his legs around his warhorse, before fixing his spear under his arm so that its tip would continue to point forward. Then, instead of grabbing onto the horse’s reins, he gripped onto its mane to ensure that his torso stayed upright.

Blood had filled both his mouth and lungs, making it so that he could no longer speak. His lips were firmly sealed. His eyes were wide open. His mind was slowly fading to nothingness. And so, entrusting his trusty steed to continue to advance, Barguesonne secretly slipped away.

✧ ✧ ✧

A messenger raced up to Oswald and Margaret’s cabriolet. “Sir! The enemy army continues to push forward!” he exclaimed.

“That does seem to be the case.”

“Our front won’t hold!”

The High Britannian Army had organized their formation in the shape of a “U.” In response, the Belgarian Army had maintained a square formation, completely ignoring the enemies on either side of them in an attempt to break through the front. They knew that being shot at from three sides meant certain death, and so they were doing all that they could to escape.

“Dear, oh dear... How bothersome. They’re going to get through at this rate,” Margaret said blankly, her tone making it clear that these were nothing more than empty words of concern. She would have surely sounded a little more involved if she had left her laundry out in the rain.

“That they are. In which case, it would be a gentleman’s duty to let them through.”

“You’ve thought this through, I see.”

“Naturally. The principle has held since ancient times to let a cornered enemy flee, for, when cornered, an enemy knows that they must fight to their last breath. Furthermore, while the Belgarian Army excels in charging straight ahead, they are terrible when it comes to changing their course. By reinforcing the units attacking their flanks and thinning out our front line, we can easily control where they’ll attempt to breach.”

Just as planned, the High Britannian front line opened up like a leaky bucket. The Belgarian Army, believing that they had broken through, raised cheers as they continued to advance.

Oswald gave a wry smile. “I had expected true war to be just a little less predictable. What a shame...”

“Am I going to be bored again?”

“Let us pray that is not the case.”

Right on cue, the soldiers firing on the Belgarian Army from either side gathered in orderly rank and file, and the High Britannian Army’s main camp slowly started to move. In no time at all, the U had been reversed, now wrapping around behind the Belgarian troops.

Everything had gone as planned. The enemy was exhausted from their charge, dragging their feet as they lugged their heavy armor and spears. All that the High Britannian Army needed to do now was shoot their retreating foe in the back.

“I wonder why they didn’t simply retreat from the start...” Margaret said over a yawn. “Perhaps they were too proud. It’s quite a bother when such things are valued more than one’s own life.”

“They are soldiers, you see.”

It was true that immediately pulling back would have been the proper course of action for the Belgarian Army—while they would have lost the battle, they would have suffered far fewer casualties. By deciding to force their way through the High Britannian Army’s front line, they had played right into their enemy’s hands.

Perhaps the Belgarian Army did not fully understand the situation they were in. Or perhaps they thought that the High Britannian Army’s main camp was still within reach, just beyond the barricade—that their charge would amount to something. But Oswald had long since moved the camp into his army’s left flank. The front line, where it was easy to concentrate the enemy’s attacks, was no more than a decoy; it was intended to be breached from the very start.

Oswald gave an order to a messenger. “There is no reason to drag this out any longer. Annihilate the enemy at once. Move the riflemen up front and give pursuit.”

“Yes, sir!”

But just as one messenger departed, another frantically rushed over, yelling at the top of his voice. “There’s an ambush! An enemy attack! From the flank— Err, no, since you’re here, I guess that would mean they’re coming from behind! Five hundred horsemen!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I-It’s the imperial army’s... Black Knight Brigade!”

“Hm!?” Oswald shot forward so suddenly that, had Margaret not been gripping his right arm so firmly, he might have fallen from the carriage. He quickly tried to compose himself, taking a deep breath to clear his mind and calm his restless heart. “Phew... Those numbers are nothing we can’t handle. Tell the left flank’s fourth battalion to inter—”

He was interrupted by a sudden cacophony of screams.

They’ve already made their way through!? Just how wide do you think my surveillance net is!? This is all happening too quickly!

“How...!?”

“Ahahaha!” Margaret started to laugh as she saw the look on Oswald’s face, causing him to immediately put a hand over his mouth in an attempt to hide it.

To think that I would speak so inappropriately and show such an unsightly expression in her presence...!

As the clatter of hooves grew nearer and nearer, Oswald contained his surging emotions and raised his voice. “Tell Glenda’s unit to provide urgent backup. The guards here must protect Her Majesty until they arrive.” Then, he delicately removed Margaret’s hand from his right arm and nimbly jumped down from the carriage. “Your Highness, it may get a bit noisy, but... please wait here.”

“That’s unfortunate, Oswald; you were finally starting to look like a man. What shall I do now? How will you compensate me for this?”

“Oh... I offer my deepest apologies for letting you see such a deplorable side of myself,” Oswald said, forcing a remorseful expression.

Margaret lay down across the cabriolet seat. “As you should. You’re unsightly when you’re not smiling. It’s hilarious, in a way—you’re like a little rabbit that should be cowering in its hole, but is instead trying to be a lion.”

“...For the radiant Queen Margaret to bestow such words upon one as undeserving as myself... I truly am humbled.” Oswald offered a gentle smile, then gave a reverent salute before heading behind the cabriolet.

The Black Knight Brigade had already engaged those guarding the main camp.