The Last Charge

It was barely half an hour after dawn and already it was damnably hot in the city of Gregminster. A middle-aged man was making his way up the street, his hair more gray than red. He was tall, but stooped, penance for years of bad posture, and he walked with a slight limp in his right leg. That he had got by falling out of his saddle in the middle of a military review.

"The damn surgeon botched the job setting it, I'd warrant," he muttered, grimacing at a twinge of pain.

"Good morning, Minister Silverberg!" a voice called.

Caesar Silverberg looked up, startled out of his reverie. The lane that he was on was wide, leading away from the Plaza of the Golden Goddess. Wide lawns and mansions greeted him on either side of the road, and, on his side of the street, was the man who had spoken, one of the many senators of the republic. Caesar suppressed a frown. He always hated it when people he didn't know tried to be friendly with him. Still, he managed a polite nod when they passed. Long ago he'd learned not to antagonize people he might have to work with some day.

He picked up the pace, trying to ignore the increased discomfort, both from sweat and his old injury. There were many things that he had to do today, and he wanted this, his habitual first chore, out of the way as quickly as possible.

"I sound just like Grandfather," Caesar mumbled again. "Hell of a thing to call visiting an old friend."

As he had so many times before, he found his way to a certain mansion on the street. It was technically his property, especially after the Senate dispossessed Albert, but he didn't reside here. There were just too many ghosts for his tastes.

Caesar shuffled up the long driveway as best he could, finally arriving at a pair of wooden front doors. Though he could've walked straight in, he lifted and let the iron knocker fall twice. The knocker was a twisted gargoyle's face. Some distant ancestor's attempt at humor, he supposed. He found it a little creepy.

The door opened carefully and the face of a haggard woman looked out, one of the maids. With a wan smile she opened the door further, allowing him to enter. "Good morning, Minister Silverberg."

He hated that. Win one war for a nation and they wouldn't stop swamping you with appreciation when all he really wanted to do was retire somewhere quiet and rest under a tree. True Rune bearers, sure. Military strategists, no. They were held to a higher standard: death or service.

"It's not like I wanted to die during the last battle, anyway," he muttered.

"What was that, Minister?"

"How is he this morning? He seems unusually…quiet."

The door closed behind Caesar, cutting off the light from outside, plunging the house back into gloom. Every window was shuttered, the curtains drawn, and only a fraction of the lamps were lit, barely enough to define the furniture, the stairs, the high ceiling. He rotated the staff through here on six month shifts. That was all anyone sane could stand in this place.

"Quiet, you say?" The maid had a touch of manic energy on her voice. She was due to leave within the month. "Oh, he's quiet now, but he was up all night, wailing at the top of his lungs. He'd go on and on, for hours, then stop, all sudden like, for a minute or two, then start up again as ever before. Not to sound rude, but it'd be a mercy if someone took a pillow to him and escorted him into the care of the Runes."

Caesar drew himself up to his full height, a move made only with difficulty and the creaking of joints. He set his shoulders. "That will not be done. In fact, I won't hear of it. I have placed him in the care of this staff, and I expect you to care for him. He's a hero. He deserves no less."

Was he soft? Perhaps. Albert wouldn't have put up with this. "A broken tool is best discarded." Caesar heard the disembodied words in his head. Grandfather would've felt the same way. Keeping the old man alive was a waste of resources that could be put to better use. Neither his brother nor his grandfather would've acted in malice, but act they would. With the best of intentions, they would kill a man. Caesar wouldn't.

He climbed the stairs, listening for any sounds from his destination. Silence. Had the old man died during the night? Caesar's hand paused on the doorknob, then he shrugged. It was his responsibility; he'd be the one to find out. He turned the knob.

The interior was sparse. Caesar had redesigned the room in accord with the current occupant's needs. The walls had been thickened, reinforced with concrete, both to muffle the sound and to reduce the potential damage. There was a bed in one corner. The covers had been tossed to the floor. A bookcase stood in another. Caesar would sometimes read to the room's occupant, during that man's more lucid moments. They were the occupant's own words, after all.

The man in question wasn't dead. He was sitting in a wheelchair in the middle of the room, apparently staring at the little light that trickled through the heavy curtains of his window. His disheveled hair was completely snow white and thinning in places. His skin hung loose on his neck and arms. A tattered cape was draped around his shoulders, the blue long ago faded by countless campaigns.

"Good morning, Flik of the Blue Lightning," Caesar said.

Flik gave no indication of hearing. His empty sword scabbard was belted on awkwardly. Caesar had regretted that, but after a few unfortunate "incidents" he'd had to take Flik's old weapon. He still approached cautiously, moving deliberately into Flik's line of sight. There'd been no way to remove the thunder rune short of chopping the warrior's hand off, something Caesar wouldn't do. Numerous scorch marks on the walls attested to Flik's continuing ability to use the rune.

Caesar edged closer, now getting a whiff of the smell. There was no helping it. It was impossible to get Flik to sit still for any kind of true bath, and the summer heat didn't help matters. He could see a week-old growth of white, patchy stubble on Flik's chin. And lines of tears trickling down his face.

Flik suddenly turned, staring straight at Caesar, and pleaded, "Please doctor, save him! Save Viktor!"

Caesar sagged. It was always this one. Always this battle. Instantly the images played out in his mind, that glorious, awful battle. Under a hot summer sun, lines of infantry and cavalry clashed back and forth, banners and pennants rising, falling, and rising again. New machines of war, some mad fancy of Albert's, spitting out arrows faster than a trained archer. Ten long, horrible hours of stalemate. Silverberg against Silverberg.

"Please!" Flik cried.

And Caesar on his hilltop, directing the madness. His lines were buckling, his men unable to stand against the relentless onslaught of the machines. All that was left was one final gamble. He ordered them forward – Flik, gray hair flying, blue cape streaming out behind him, sword held aloft catching the sunlight, riding at the head of his cavalry, straight into the mouth of death. Viktor, his shoulders broad, hair as black as ever, following behind, leading the infantry that were to exploit the gap Flik would create.

Didn't they know it was suicide? Didn't they understand that it was the last gasp of a general who had lost his army and was just trying to disengage and save the remnant? In Caesar's mind they rode on, two old warriors flying into a storm of arrows.

"Doctor!"

It was the greatest victory of Caesar Silverberg, they said. Sheer brilliance, committing the reserve at the right moment, in the right spot. What did they know? Did they walk down onto the field afterwards? Did they see the dead, bloating in the summer heat, piled up in twisted mounds, covered with flies. Did they hear the wounded calling out for help? Did they see men dying of thirst drinking the water of that damned stream, already fouled with the blood of the dead?

Were they there when he finally found Flik, the general who had served Mathiu, who had served Shu, and now had served under his own command, cradling the already dead form of his greatest friend, begging piteously for someone to come and save him?

Caesar knelt down and hugged Flik, the old man's cries suddenly cut off. "I'm sorry, Flik," he answered, voice breaking. "There's nothing I can do. There's nothing that anyone can do."

Twenty thousand dead. Twenty thousand dead because Caesar Silverberg ordered it so. Because Caesar Silverberg ordered men to fight and then stood on the safety of a hill and watched. Because Caesar Silverberg finally got his greatest victory over his brother and saved the Toran Republic to boot.

Flik stirred at Caesar's side, the wheels of his chair creaking slightly. "Where am I to deploy tomorrow?" he asked in a soft voice.

Caesar pulled out of the hug, his head swimming in the heat. Where had Flik gone to now? Which war was he fighting in his head?

"You can't leave me out of this battle," he said. "I won't stand aside in the critical battle."

Caesar shook his head. It didn't matter which battle it was, for that was where Flik would be. Albert had once told him that in some distant future there would come a day when machines of war would replace men on the battlefield. Then there would be no more casualties, no more suffering. Only perfect military maneuver would remain.

Twenty thousand dead. And two men, flying up that hill, leading one last charge.

No, Albert's vision was wrong. There would always be a need for Flik. There would always be a need for that one man who could lead his soldiers out to face the enemy. For that one man who was willing to pay the price in blood and tears so that his comrades might live.

Let strategists claim victory. Let politicians talk of righteousness and causes. Let Viktor bleed and Flik cry.

There was a soft tap at the door. The maid peeked her head in, a tray of food in her hands. Caesar climbed back up to his feet, slowly, painfully, and waved her in. Flik was still looking at him, still waiting for an answer.

Caesar put on a smile and said, "I think I can find a place for you, Flik. Let's eat a little breakfast, and we can talk about it."