CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Power
ERASMUS, RICHARD (C.Y. 219 – 280) Galvenian historian, and founder of the Galvenian Society of Lore and Legend. Unlike his contemporaries, who argued for a rigidly scientific approach to history based solely on official records and artefacts, Erasmus and his fellow scholars at King's College defended the 'legendary' approach, in which even an outlandish story could be pared down to its historical kernel. Such stories, he held, were passed on from generation to generation through oral tradition, and were therefore a valuable – if contaminated – source of historical material…
…Erasmus also was one of the few Galvenian historians to study religious and spiritual history, including primitive Arlian religion. His contributions to the study of demonology (q.v.) earned him a commendation from Pontiff Jerome of Itaria, and the honourary title of Knight of Hermanus. His son Colin (q.v.) was Mayor of Alton during the events of the Terran War…
- ENCYCLOPEDIA GALVENICA, 24th Edition, C.Y. 347
"Pontiff," Hunermann said ironically, as Archbishop Gruner – now Maximillian I – walked through the corridors of the Palace, a sad frown on his face, "enlighten me for a moment, if you can."
"I have no time for your taunts, Hunermann," Maximillian said sadly. "I fear we have acted too soon, and endangered our chances of success."
"Do not be a defeatist," Hunermann replied. "These uprisings are mostly local phenomena, and are easily being suppressed by the Territorial Army. Those who call you the Anti-Pontiff are being summarily dealt with. In fact, General Shimura – surely you know Shimura, who is leading the second wave of assault on Itaria – suggests that we revive some of the old punishments if they remain obstinate. A little bonfire in Caledonia, perhaps…"
"Enough of your horrors!" the unfortunate Pontiff said angrily. "Do you not realize that we are on very dangerous ground? Our agents have news that Pious is planning to unveil the entire text of the Secret Prophecy as the new year dawns, if we do not withdraw from his country before that."
"Why should that bother us?" Hunermann said. "Truly, it was a fortunate day when that foolish old woman had her vision. Global war, punishment – and then, a righteous ruler. Meaning His Imperial Highness, Charlemagne III, Defender of the Faith, Pillar of the True Pontiff. He is like putty in our hands, Pontiff. Why are you suddenly turning timorous?"
"Because if he unveils the whole Prophecy, people will start noticing – discrepancies," Maximillian replied. "Besides, what are these horrors I hear of at Victoria? I warned you not to touch that place, Hunermann. It is a place of ill omen, and no good can come of what we do there. Look how the Galvenians decimated our forces there. Pious can easily claim that the thunderstorm which undid your men was a work of God."
"You can just as easily claim that the magical weapon used by Prescott's forces – if that was what it was – is a tool of the Devil himself, Pontiff," Hunermann shot back. "Don't tell me you, of all people, are suffering from a guilty conscience."
"Absolutely not," Maximillian replied indignantly. "What do you take me for, Hunermann? I agreed to help you, despite the flaws in your plan, because I want a strong Church united to a strong Empire. Pious XXI's pacifism, and his maunderings about tolerance and mercy, are unworthy of a true Pontiff. He condemned himself by his own actions, and by his chaotic leadership and populism. But as they say, Hunermann, the devil is in the details. Unless your troops can successfully win wars on three fronts, we are – pardon the vulgarism – in a devil of a mess."
"Have no fear, Pontiff," Hunermann replied. "Only stand firm, and remember that you, and not Anti-Pontiff Pious, are the true Commander and Head of the Church of the Infinity. As long as you do not forget this, we can still win."
"Still?" Maximillian shook his head. "May the Infinity have mercy on us all."
"Don't be an old woman, Pontiff," Hunermann said stoutly. "The prophecy will be fulfilled, won't it?"
"That is what I am afraid of," Maximillian replied.
xxx
A month had passed, and despite the major reverse they had incurred at Victoria, the Zion continued to fight. While their ranks were swelled by returning forces from Varaldia – who were now writhing under a nation-wide plague, despite their attempts to continue the fight – the Galvenian army was augmented by recent conscripts. Victoria and the bay were now controlled by Galvenia, as was Darington, but further incursions had been stopped by the force of numbers, and their grip over the latter appeared to be slipping. It was in this context that the leading minds of Galvenia's armed forces assembled at Alton for a confidential meeting.
"We must confiscate that weapon, Sir Prescott," General Freeman argued. "A man with an object of that sort is a loose cannon."
"Perhaps," Prescott said. "What is more interesting is how he obtained it."
"He claims it was given him by an Intelligence agent named Jason Schenk," Sir Cornelius Fairfax said. "Schenk was one of our Covert Operations men. He disappeared in the Varald Directorate two years ago, and there was a strong suspicion that he had gone rogue. It now appears that he was acting on his own initiative."
"Our men from the Museum have had a look at it," Sheffield added, "and there is no doubt that it is both ancient and magical. However, they were unable to get much purchase from it themselves."
"That is why I have asked my friend to join us," Fairfax replied. "He knows more about this matter than we do."
"Is that wise, Fairfax?" Lord Freeman said anxiously. "This is already a sensitive issue, and the fewer people know about it, the better."
"Do not worry, Lord Freeman," Fairfax replied. "Colin is the soul of discretion."
"Colin Erasmus?" Freeman snorted. "What could he do to help us? I remember his crank of a father. Demons here, magicians there, ancient conspiracies everywhere – no, Fairfax. The man was as mad as a hatter."
"I suggest we hear him first," Sir Prescott said calmly. "If he is a lunatic, we will listen to him politely and give him a small reward. If he is not, we could stand to learn from him. Knowledge, gentlemen, is power."
"Send him in, Cornelius," Prime Minister Sheffield said quietly.
Colin Erasmus entered, wearing his Mayor's robes and exuding calm common sense. "Good evening, lords and gentlemen," he said. "I hear you have an interesting problem for me."
"It's about that sword of Lieutenant Eramond's," Sheffield explained. "While we are indebted to it for helping us rout the Varald, we are also unsettled."
"Men are disturbed by the unknown – they always have been," Erasmus replied. "That is why, when faced with the sun or the storm, they assumed both were the work of gods. Fortunately, we have rational explanations for both of those phenomena today. Now, let us be frank. You are talking about a particular sword, which you believe to have magical powers. What do you wish to know about it, Prime Minister?"
"Two simple questions, Erasmus. First, what exactly does it do? And second, is it safe to leave it in Eramond's hands, or should we retain it for ourselves? If it is an instrument of great power, we would not want it in a young officer's hands – it could either be lost to the enemy, or it could tempt him."
"I happen to have met the lad in question," Erasmus said. "He did my town a good turn, and I don't think he's the kind to let power go to his head in general. However, in this case, I believe you do have cause for concern. Give me the sword, Cornelius."
Fairfax handed him the weapon. In the setting sun, it looked like any other sword. He weighed it carefully in his hands, studied the blade with a lens, and then took a small device out of his pocket.
"A loan from the School of Proper Thought," he explained. Running it over the blade, he examined its dials carefully, and noted down figures on a notepad that he was carrying. At the end of his examination, he sat down, and looked grave.
"Gentlemen, I believe in the truth," he said, "and in this case, the truth is slightly awkward. Do not dismiss what I have to say because I am Richard Erasmus' son. Though my father and I were quite different persons, we both had a passion for the truth, and if I quote him to support me, do not dismiss me."
"Covering your bases, aren't you?"General Freeman said sharply. "Get on with it, Erasmus."
"As you please, Your Lordship," Erasmus replied calmly. "First, the blade is an alloy of Quarium, Suffite and Kibor. While Quarium is mined in Galvenia, the other two can be found only in Zion. Second, the sword is ancient – its design, and the condition of the blade, both testify to this. Third, if dozens of historical documents are correct, this is a Journeyman's sword."
"That's an interesting theory, Erasmus," Sir Prescott said. "Do you have any proof of it?"
"The composition of the blade is similar to that attested to in all reliable histories of the Journeymen, including my father's, Aramondrius' book, and Nealus Hessen's memoirs. Moreover, the craftsmanship is similar to swords crafted by the Order during this time." He took a book out from his briefcase, flipped it open to a bookmark, and showed them various illustrations, all of which closely resembled Ryan's sword.
"I must say, the resemblance is quite striking," Sheffield said. "How did a renegade like Schenk stumble upon a treasure like this?"
"If we go by Aramondrius' history, Schenk was the original surname of Kaleb the Journeyman," Erasmus replied. "Your agent must be a descendant – or at least a distant relative – of the Journeymen, and the sword must be an heirloom."
"Hmph," General Freeman snorted. "Pretty talk, indeed! Journeymen, heirlooms – bah! As if commoners have heirlooms. Tell us what we must do with it, Erasmus, and stop beating around the bush."
"A magical sword, my lord," Erasmus replied, unruffled, "can be wielded only by someone who possesses the gift of magic – either overtly or latently. Your friend Eramond probably had a mage ancestor somewhere along the line – which is not far-fetched, considering that not too long ago, Albrut and his breakaway faction of Journeymen settled in Galvenia and joined the army. Somewhere in his genetic code, the tendency lies dormant."
"Is that bad?" Sir Prescott asked, looking at the Mayor with approval.
"Not necessarily, Sir Prescott," Colin Erasmus replied. "If anything, you ought to investigate this Jason Schenk, who hands over a priceless sword to a perfect stranger without any obvious reason. If you want my advice – and you're a soldier, so you'll take it – give that young man back the sword, and use him in any mission where you suspect the Zion are using magic. Even if he possesses the 'gift' only in small measure, with a weapon of this sort, he is more than a match for a troop of Zionese hedge wizards." He laughed.
"Hedge wizards?" Lord Freeman said, puzzled.
"Men with weak magical powers, often of low birth and dubious background," Fairfax explained. "It's a common insult in historical plays, but that's the actual meaning."
"I do not have time for such frivolous diversions," Freeman said virtuously.
"If that is all, gentlemen," Erasmus said, "I thank you, but I must go now. I have a speaking engagement at the School of Proper Thought."
"Yes, that will be all, Colin," Prime Minister Sheffield replied, shaking hands with him. "Thank you. We shall do as you say."
"I agree," Sir Prescott says. "After all, when our enemies are using magic, a little counter-offensive cannot hurt."
Colin Erasmus left the room, and walked slowly and purposefully towards the School. As he entered the vestibule, he was met by a man with a large smile.
"Well met, Erasmus," Jason Schenk – or Jason Lugner, to give him his other name – said. "How did the meeting go?"
"I have told them the truth in part, and advised them to let Eramond keep the weapon," he replied. "They seemed quite satisfied."
"Excellent!" Jason clapped his hands. "And did you ask them to investigate me?"
"Indeed, I did. I suspect Fairfax might take you up on that, but at any rate, it was what you asked me to say. How are things in Issachar?"
"Ugly," Jason Lugner replied. "That paper Pontiff is firing off ecclesiastical penalties right and left, presumably egged on by Hunermann. There are not a few who are still loyal to Pious XXI, but they're kept silent by force of arms."
"And Charlemagne?"
"The man remains a mystery. After his public appearance to appoint Maximillian – the poor man looks like a nervous wreck, from all I've heard – he has once again withdrawn from the public eye, though the Council of Viceroys keeps claiming that he is getting better. We can neither confirm nor refute what we suspected at this moment. Instead, we are going to try a little misinformation."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Mother Anna is now in Galvenia, and that consequently, we can try a certain line to unsettle the good souls of our Zionese neighbours."
"Be careful, Jason," Erasmus said. "I know you and Jacob enjoy playing with fire, but at a time like this, you need to be careful."
"Careful?" Jason laughed and shook hands with the Mayor. "Oh, I'll be careful all right. Right now, the one in the firing line is Eramond, and I don't envy him."
"Very well, but – Is it true about him and the Princess?"
"Only emotionally and spiritually, Erasmus," Jason said, with a disapproving noise. "Very Itarian. You Mayors have such dirty minds."
"You're a laugh riot, Jason," Erasmus said, as the two men bid each other goodbye. "Take care."
xxx
"Darington will soon fall," Sir Prescott observed, after he had dismissed Ryan and his men for the night. "It worries me."
"Why, Sir Prescott?" Captain Rawley enquired. "We've been at it for months now. They realize that the winter is coming soon, and that they cannot hold this position forever."
"That's not it, Rawley," he replied. "As a soldier, one sometimes acquires a sixth sense about the enemy – an impression that is based on intuition and experience rather than hard intelligence. Of course, winter will soon be upon us. And the fact that the Zion Empire is starting to face internal dissent – thanks to their folly in installing a counterfeit Pontiff – means that even their armed forces are likely to break ranks in a crisis. Yet, I am not happy, Rawley. It is almost as if they had deliberately overextended themselves."
"To what end?" Rawley said, shaking his head. "The Zion are no fools, but anyone keeping track of the past one and a half years would doubt that. Their recent victories in the Directorate are fortuitous, and the result of disease."
"Maximillian I, to give him his current name, would probably call that an act of God," Sir Prescott said mockingly. "I wish I knew what was going on in the head of Viceroy Hunermann – or, assuming he is conscious, of Charlemagne."
"At any rate, we will launch a further raid on the eastern wall of the town tomorrow, using the rookies at Victoria as a support," Rawley replied. "We are wearing them down slowly but surely."
"Indeed, we are," Sir Prescott said. "And if the Zion mages bother us, we now have Kibor shields to protect us, thanks to Sigmund Regale. International trade is a wonderful thing. Well, enjoy your rest while you can – we have to rise early tomorrow, Rawley. Good night."
"Good night, Sir Prescott," Captain Rawley replied, as he saluted and left his commander's tent.
Sitting down on the edge of his cot, Sir Prescott allowed himself to smile.
If I succeed, even Freeman's word will count as nothing compared to mine. He may be a Lord and a General, but his policy of caution and containment will be rightly execrated once we capture Darington and force the Zion to sue for peace.
And seriously, what more do they have? Even if they recall all their troops from the Varald, I wish them good luck making the trek to Galvenia in winter – not to forget that the CSF is handing out heavy punishment to them in Itaria. And if they plan to give up Itaria as a bad job and concentrate on us, the draft has taken care of that. I could go down in history as the greatest Commander of the Rough Riders since Lord Chester himself.
He shook his head. Of course, it's not about my personal glory. This is about Galvenia and her army. After the humiliation of Darington, the Zion deserve every bit of what we're giving them. I must keep an eye on that Eramond, though. He certainly has matured – he's no longer the cocky boy I crossed swords with – but he has a streak of ruthlessness in him, an aggression that is both useful and unnerving. Perhaps he had a Varaldian ancestor. Still, I shouldn't complain – he's a useful man. I remember what it was like to be that age – to be younger, and hungry, waiting for my dreams to come true.
He lay down on his bed and stretched himself out. And yet, for all my power, for all my ability, can I claim that I have fulfilled all my dreams? That's a rhetorical question – no one can claim that, not even the Pontiff or the King of Galvenia. But some dreams are more valuable than others, and we realize that only with hindsight.
Like many Galvenian noblemen, regardless of what he felt, Sir Prescott's external demeanour was always calm and formal – he prided himself, like his forefathers of the House of Chuselwock, on not readily betraying his emotions. But this night, for some reason, self-control was difficult for him. His face was strangely contorted, and he let out a sigh.
I never ought to have accepted. I never ought to have let you go.
Infinity knows I am a brave man. I would have fought for you. I am not a coward. I thought I was safeguarding my career, my position in the Army, and the good name of my family. And I refuse to believe that those things were unimportant. But I was young and easily swayed, and I allowed myself to be talked into – into preserving the status quo. I have done well. Though there are some things I owe to my position, there are many more I owe to my talent, to my innate drive for excellence. I am proud to be the Knight Commander of the Rough Riders. I would not give it up for the world.
But there are times – and tonight is such a time – when I feel I could have given it up – ought to have given it up – for you.
Prudence? Cowardice? Perhaps only God can judge me. All I know tonight is that I am alone despite my victories, solitary despite my successes. And if I am so, it is by my own choice. I could have had something precious, and now, it is lost - perhaps forever.
I only hope that, come what may, you will be happy. I do not have the right to ask for more. Even I, with my pride and position, can expect no more.
He closed his eyes. Visions of a young, sorrowful face looking at him reproachfully still remained, until he fell into a troubled sleep.
xxx
"Good morning, Major-General," Premier Josen of the Republic said, looking at the Varaldian envoy speculatively. "It is a long time since we have met. Please take a seat. If you would enjoy a cup of our very own Republican tea, I would be glad to offer you some." He sipped at his own cup.
"Indeed, it has been over a year, Premier," Andrei Gerhardt observed, sitting down and leaning forward. "And I am afraid you have been remiss in honouring the terms of our agreement."
"In what way?" Josen asked, surprised.
"First, you promised us access to the mines at Inderness, to obtain your well-concealed reserves of Kibor. With the Zion dogs using magical weapons in battle, Kibor shields are our best hope. Instead, you played us off against the Galvenians."
"I did no such thing, Major-General," Josen said austerely. "All I told you is that your companies were free to trade with those of our miners who still dared to venture there, especially once the Commonwealth forces were withdrawn by President Hipper. It is not my fault if those miners have more than one trading partner. Remember, in our country, free trade is a cherished ideal. The concept of a Premier regulating the activities of every corporation in every town of Fulton is an absurdity for us, though it may be a reality for you. Besides, Sigmund Regale has been a good friend of ours for a decade, and his investments are always welcome."
"Is that so?" Gerhardt said hotly. "Why not admit the truth – that you sold your precious Kibor to the highest bidder, and seriously crippled our efforts in the process."
"Business is business, my dear Major-General," Josen replied. "You have not studied economics, and you fail to see that competition in a market is crucial for economic growth."
"Economic growth be damned," Gerhadt retorted. "Do you not see that if we lose this war, the Zion could soon be on your doorstep? Their actions all over Terra show that that filthy swine, Hunermann, will stop at nothing; it is a simple accident of geography that has spared you so far. It is in your interests to collaborate with us."
"And violate the unwritten code of conduct that we all live by, Major –General?" Josen frowned. "I am neither a hero nor a soldier, but even I would refuse to do that."
Gerhardt glared at him. "Very well, let us move on to the second point. You are aware of the disease that is ravaging our country, and that is now lapping at your heels. What can you tell me about it?"
Josen smiled. "If some of your sailors are dallying with some of the girls on our borders, and exporting this famous plague, then I must be the one to censure you, Major-General."
"Do not jest with me," Gerhardt said testily. "Our scientists, including Professor Kuzhnetsoff at the Zhemu Institute of Sciences, have isolated the germ responsible, and find that it closely resembles one from your own country. What do you say to that, my dear Josen?"
Josen shook his head. "Are you accusing me of spreading a disease in your country? Surely, if that were true, it would have struck you near our border, not near your frontier with the Zion. Besides, though our scientists are among the best on Terra, we are not a warlike people, Major-General. If that is your idea, please disillusion yourself."
"I am warning you, Premier," Gerhardt said, rising from his seat, "that you cannot toy with us for too long. I know that you are beginning to break our ancient trade agreements, in pursuit of dollars from the international corporations in Zion and Galvenia. But be assured that you cannot mock us endlessly. If you do not attend to these two issues, Premier, then we will be forced to do with you as we did with the Zion."
"Threats, my dear Major-General?" Josen said sharply. "You disappoint me. I thought we could discuss this like civilized men."
"I am warning, not threatening," Gerhardt replied. "Stop giving your Kibor to the Galvenians. Collaborate with our scientists in defeating this disease. If you fail to do so, remember that unlike you, we Varald are a warlike people."
"As you wish," Josen said, sighing and closing his eyes. "Good day to you, Major-General."
Annoyed by the Premier's unruffled manner, Gerhardt stormed out of the room. Tariq Khan, who had witnessed this entire scene without saying a word, raised his eyebrows.
"They can't do it, of course," he said. "They're weaker than they want to let on, and they are desperate for remedies. My friends have kept me well informed."
"You mean that man Lugner," Josen said, with a laugh. "I could tell from his bluster that he was on shaky ground, but I didn't quite want to call his bluff yet. Should we have some additional Divisions guard the border, just in case?"
"It would be a useful form of prophylaxis," Tariq replied. "But mark my words, interesting things are going to happen here as well. Our scientists need to study that plague in earnest."
xxx
"I guess this is goodbye for now," Henrik said slowly, adjusting the cap on his head. His uniform felt stiff and uncomfortable, but he could not help feeling a little proud at wearing it, though it was an unbecoming shade of orange.
"Good luck, Spenson," Noah Ibrahim said, as they shook hands. "I don't have a dog in this fight, but you've always seemed like a 'good guy' to me, to borrow your own phrase. I hope you return safely."
"Can't say, old chap," Henrik replied. "Given that the Zion are bringing men back from the Varald border, and that winter will set in soon, we could be in for a long fight."
"You could have obtained a deferment, couldn't you?" Noah enquired. "Many of the boys opted to do so."
"I know," Henrik said, "but the way this is going, we'll all have to go sooner or later – or so I think. Mark my words, there's a method in the Zion's madness. This war could easily undo several centuries of understanding between our nations, and that makes me sad. But if we need to defeat them to make them back down, I have to help out."
"I understand," Noah said. "And look at it this way: when your children ask you what you did in the war, you can answer them with pride – unlike, say, that imbecile of a Galt. The way he goes around grinning and pontificating about the evils of war is enough to turn even me, a man of Fulton, into a militarist."
"Thanks, Noah. I don't know when I'll see you again, but take care."
"You too, Spenson," Noah replied, as they shook hands once more. Henrik, picking up his haversack, began to head for the gates of King's College.
Completing basic training wasn't that hard, thanks to Colonel Whitworth, he thought. Good thing I had to come back to college to finish with the paperwork – they'll let me come back and complete my course when it's all over. I wonder what he'd say about this war!
Heck, Ryan and I might even team up again. He's quite the veteran now; his mother said he'd been promoted to Lieutenant, and would soon make Captain. I'm going to miss it all: Davenport, King's College, our teachers, Noah, Viola – heck, even Father. It's a pity she's attending a lecture; it would have been nice to say goodbye in person, though I did leave her a note at her room.
As he drew near the gate, he saw her. In her gray cloak, she seemed as if she was dressed in mourning.
"Good morning, Henrik," Viola said, lowering her hood. "Goodness, it's cold out here."
"Tell that to the Marines – or to the soldier, since you have one here," Henrik replied, with a laugh. "It's nice to see you, Viola. But don't you have a class right now?"
"I was waiting for you," she said simply. "I know it sounds silly, but – I remember the last time I saw Daddy. I was thirteen. I was sitting near the gate of our home, looking at my Memory Crystal, and he was coming out in his uniform, carrying his bag – just like you were."
Henrik nodded, but said nothing.
"He told me that he was going far away, but that he'd always carry me with him, in here." She tapped her breast. "He said he knew that I'd do the same, too, and no matter how far away he was, he would always be my father, and I his child."
Strangely moved, Henrik stepped closer to her. "And he is, isn't he?" he said softly. "I know what you mean. Mother said something very similar when – when she knew she wasn't going to recover, and wanted to let me know. I guess parents are like that."
"Indeed," Viola said, smiling at him. He held out his hand, and she took it. "So where will you be headed now?"
"Not too far away, don't worry," Henrik said with a laugh. "We're all assembling at the Military Academy, and from there, we'll travel to Checkpoint Alpha, from where Captain Rawley of the Rough Riders will brief us. The furthest we can possibly go right now is Darington."
"That's sort of reassuring," Viola replied. "Henrik…."
"What is it?" he said, sensing her hesitation.
"Henrik, stay safe, all right? When I came here, I was lonely – it was the first time I'd ever been away from home. You and Noah and Ivan helped me – and it was thanks to all of you that I stayed on here and made more friends. I owe you three a lot – especially you, Henrik."
Henrik flushed. "Hey, what are friends for, anyway?" he replied. "And don't worry, Colonel Whitworth's boys don't get knocked out that easily. I'm – going to miss you too, Viola. Life's always pleasant when you're around."
"Hmm, is that supposed to be some sort of compliment, Henrik?" Viola said teasingly, as he flushed again. "But I'm flattered all the same. Just…I mean, we've known each other for a year now. We've shared all sorts of things, even frightening ones. I feel I know you well…."
"So do I," Henrik replied. "We've certainly had our adventures together, and you've always been a good friend, even when danger was involved. I know it'll be hard for you to watch us all go to war, but hopefully, it won't last too long."
"I hope so too," Viola replied. "I hope we'll meet again then, without this cloud of war hanging over our heads. Good luck, Henrik, and may the Infinity protect you."
"Thank you, Viola," Henrik said.
"It's just that…" she went on, and her voice faltered. "Just like Daddy…." She shook her head, and tried to smile again. Henrik, stricken, was seized with a sudden urge to hold him to her, to reassure her that he would return, that he would not die in combat.
And that is what he did.
"Henrik," she said softly, as he patted her on the back. "Thank you, Henrik…"
He smiled at her, then pulled away, embarrassed. But she did not seem to be offended; rather, she was smiling at him gratefully.
"Till we meet again, Viola," he said, as they shook hands. "Stay safe too. I would hate it if anything happened to you."
"I'll be all right," she said, waving goodbye as he disappeared down the road that led back to the city – to the Military Academy – and to the war. A wind blew at her heels, and she shook her head impatiently, then clasped her hands together. "I'll be all right."
xxx
"Thank God we're getting reinforcements," Colonel Stein – now promoted after a year in the Itarian campaign – observed with satisfaction, as he surveyed the troops assembled outside the walls of the city. "This has gone on long enough, what with losing Itaria City, then recapturing it. If the CSF forces from the Varald and the Republic join us as scheduled, this winter will be the last one we'll spend in Itaria."
"And not too soon, Colonel," Major Fareed, his second-in-command, observed. "We've successfully secured the coast, thanks to the Galvenians loaning us ships that could withstand those devilish projectiles. If we can recapture the city and send some of our men across the hills to join the ships landing on the opposite coast, then we can recapture the hinterland. But what happens once we're done?"
"Good question," Stein replied. "The Zion have followed a scorched earth policy quite ruthlessly – even when it was apparent that they were outnumbered, they devastated whatever the good people of this country had. Reconstruction is going to be long and arduous, and our victory means little unless we can assist them with it."
"We certainly will, Colonel," Rear Admiral Radulov, who would be commanding the second wave of attacks along with the Commonwealth's marine troops, replied. "But we need to get this over with."
"What of the Pontiff?" Fareed asked. "We have been informing him of developments here, but he is still wracked with guilt at abandoning his post – yet he says that it was necessary for him to do so."
"Of course it was," Radulov scoffed. Though a loyal member of the Commonwealth forces, he was a Varaldian, and religion was anathema to him. "Let's face it, the Pontiff is not just a priest in funny clothes: he is the Head of the State of Itaria. If he were to die, what would stop the Zion from imposing Maximillian I – or Eduard Gruner, to give him his real name – as his replacement? He is not a soldier, and he is worth more alive than dead."
"Still, he will have an uphill task, though he is doing well with his radio broadcasts to his people. He certainly does not pull any moral punches. And the people, despite the devastation wrought by the Zion, are still hopeful. It is enough to make one wonder," Stein mused, "if there is, indeed, something to this Itarian religion."
"Very funny, Colonel Stein," Radulov said sarcastically. "We're not going to win this war through religious means. Come, let us prepare ourselves, for tonight may mean life or death for the people of this country."
xxx
As autumn slowly slipped away, news of the recapture of Itaria by the Commonwealth spread throughout Terra. The Pontiff, in a series of radio broadcasts to his beleaguered people, encouraged them to stay calm, to forgive, and to cooperate with the CSF forces in the long reconstruction that would have to follow.
In the meantime, racked by a plague that had now reached their capital itself, the Varald had slowly been forced against a wall. Rumours of a cease-fire were imminent, as were rumours of secret negotiations between Zion and Varald ambassadors to allow the latter an honourable defeat. However, these rumours were soon put to rest by the second public appearance of Emperor Charlemagne. This time, the amelioration of his mysterious illness was evident even to the most jaundiced eye: he walked without support, managed to smile at the adoring crowds, and delivered a slightly longer speech, asking his people to support the war effort with all their might. He condemned Pontiff Pious XXI's illegitimate "rule in exile", and warned that his ships would block any attempt on his part to return to Itaria. He urged the Itarian people to be loyal to the true Pontiff, and asked the Galvenians to surrender before they, too, suffered the fate of the Varald. The people cheered, while those who knew better could not help but applaud Hunermann's daring.
However, there was to be no easy victory for the Council, or for its apparent figurehead – the Emperor. The Varald began to fight even more fiercely – suicidally, truth be told – in an attempt to take down as many of their loathed Imperial enemies as possible. Disturbing rumours began to circulate throughout Zion, warning that the Pontiff would release the true text of the Secret Prophecy of Geraud, and crush Maximillian and Hunermann with one blow. And there still was Galvenia to contend with.
The siege of Darington had finally led to a breach in the eastern city wall. While the bulk of the Galvenian forces stormed the city, their rearguard was attacked by Zion troops emerging from the southwest, near the towns of Issachar and Hayako behind Darington. Reacting quickly, the Galvenian rear had regrouped near the Citadel of Derren, their nearest base, where they were supported by the new conscripts, trapping the Zion ambush between two divisions. After a pitched battle, the latter were forced to retreat, though the men at the Citadel suffered significant losses.
In the meantime, Darington itself was hotly contested, and the Zion embarked upon a desperate measure, setting fire to houses and farms. However, following a quick deliberation between Lieutenant Eramond and his superior officer, Captain Rawley, it was decided to fight fire with fire.
"It's dangerous, Eramond," Rawley warned. "But it's our only chance."
"The fires will confuse the enemy as much as us," Ryan replied. "If we head directly for the arms depot and the Viceroy's residence and capture them both, they will lose the will to fight."
This was easier said than done, as both those locations were strongly defended, but the Assault Corps continued to charge forward. Finally, dodging swords and fire from almost every direction, they launched grenades and shells at the ammunition depot, then set fire to its walls. The explosion that followed deafened several members of the troop, but they proceeded – decimated, but still fighting – to the Viceroy's house, overpowered his shocked guards, and captured Viceroy Frederikson of Darington, bringing him and his retinue to the Citadel of Derren as prisoners of war. The Galvenians had won their victory at a heavy cost – Ryan himself was seriously injured, and was on his way back to the military hospital at Alton even as the Galvenian flag flew over Darington for the first time in thirteen years. But their position, barring a miracle or an act of God, was now nearly impregnable; if they could now capture either Issachar or Hayako, a Zionese surrender would be imminent. However, as any Galvenian who had studied the War of Independence knew, it was dangerous to dismiss an adversary as dangerous as the Zion, even with such an advantage.
The long winter was close at hand.
xxx