(Updating every other Wednesday)\
Chapter 143: The Taking of Bethla Garrison
Fair-haired Kilix Conphas stood atop Bethla Dam, looking down with hard grey eyes at the tiny turmoil of the men roiling down at the foot of the fortress, and wondered if this was, just a little, how God must feel. From this high up, the movement of the men looked like so much insectoid writhing: their problems small, and petty, and futile. All of them ignorant of the larger plans that loomed around them.
The history of Ivalice was written in tragedy, judgment, and bloodshed. God brought His Judgment like a scourge down upon the unworthy, a cleansing fire to shed corruption from the forest and prepare it for new growth. How lucky Kilix Conphas was, to be an agent of God. How lucky he was, to help usher in a new Judgment that would prepare Ivalice.
Kilix Conphas had always been a godly man. His father had been a Templar trainee, before love of country had called him to the Nanten and the war against the Ordallians. But he had taught his son his faith, and had been a confidant to a number of Church officials who remembered the godly young man who might once have served them. And when one of those officials had claimed the Bishopric of Canne-Beurich, he had come to Symon Conphas' son, and spoken of a dream.
Like the Ydoran Empire before it, Ivalice had succumbed to rot: to tyrants who spat on God and the needy. Like the Empire, it was in need of Judgment. These were not the days of the Saint: their tools would need to be more subtle. But they would still be instruments of God's will.
So Kilix Conphas had waited, as whispers of plans had come down to him from on high. He had been ready to treat Queen Ovelia with kindness, when she arrived at their doorstep: he had made sure the Chancellor's door was unlocked, when the Bishop had asked him to: he had sent word to this soldier, this official, this minor noble: he had killed messengers whose words could never reach the ears they were meant for.
And now...now, he performed his greatest work. His hand, and the hands of his trusted comrades, set the Judgment that would bring low the proud, and restore Ivalice to a godly hand.
He did not understand these devices that had been brought to him by Templars out of the Wastes. But he did not have to understand them to understand his orders. Place this one above the barracks, secure this one besides the southern gate, this one by the supplies, this one in the throne room. A hundred such devices, hidden all throughout Bethla Garrison: hundreds more, hidden throughout the Pass.
The first wave would poison the Hokuten, as they marched on the fortress. The second would ignite when the Nanten marched against their weakened enemies. And the third would choke the fortress, and all within it.
So Kilix Conphas stood atop the mighty Bethla Dam, watching for the moment when the Nanten vanguard would ride out to fight the Hokuten, and bring Judgment down upon their heads. Channels of rushing water poured from the great stone dam and down into the fortress proper, to let it run its plumbing systems. Past that was the lip of the great fortress, the wide pass cut through worn mountains, the mass of men both before and behind the mighty southern gate. The Nanten vanguard were arrayed around that gate, ready to hold the Hokuten at bay. When they rode out into the Pass, and set off the second wave of mines...that would be Kilix's time to strike.
The Ydorans had wrought such wondrous things, but God had laid them low through holy hands. So it would be again.
So Kilix waited, with the detonator in his hand. When word came from below, he would ignite the last weapon. His hand would be the trigger on the Judgment. Just like the Saint's.
There was no such thing as a pleasant battle.
Colonel Peter Ganelon had fought as a squire of the Nanten in the defense of Zeltennia. He had seen his best friend reduced to bloody paste by Ordallian cannon: he had an old burn on his left leg from where he had been just too slow to dodge a mage's searing spell. Fighting another desperate defensive battle would have been unpleasant all on its own: fighting it against the Hokuten, whatever their crimes, was more unpleasant still...
But fighting, knowing that Count Orlandeau languished in a cell somewhere behind him? Ah, that hurt.
The Count was a good man. All these rumors of the plot he'd hatched against the Duke...they couldn't be true. But Colonel Ganelon had no noble blood, no title. The trust he had earned, he had earned in war. Now he was commander of the Nanten vanguard, ready to repel the Hokuten assault as archers and cannon from the mighty mountain fortress behind him cut them to ribbons. The Hokuten would soon make contact with the forces in the Pass: they would be cut to pieces, weakened for the kill.
There was no such thing as a pleasant battle. Today's battle would be one of the most unpleasant of Colonel Ganelon's life. But he would survive it, as he had survived all other battles. Everything else could wait.
"Movement!"
Colonel Ganelon stiffened and started forwards, squinting blue eyes down Bethla Pass and its towering cliff walls. He could not hear any sounds of battle echoing down the high cliff walls. Before the white gate that stood nearly half as high as the fortress itself, his two thousand men stood ready to fight. Where was the enemy?
Wait. There. A young man, striding out from the cliff walls as though he'd just scaled down them. He was several hundred yalms distant from the front of the massed Nanten ranks. He was alone.
"Hold!" Ganelon bellowed, squinting at the man ahead of him. A lone soldier, and well detached from the Hokuten vanguard. If he was an enemy, why make such a public show of himself? If he was an envoy, why approach without a flag of truce?
The blonde man came to a stop, nearly dead-center in the Pass. He looked them over. Then, he shouted, "Stand down!"
There were a few startled chuckles, faint mutterings of disbelief. No one moved.
The young man nodded. "My name is Ramza Beoulve!"
The silence was instantaneous. Every pair of eyes was fixed on him.
"The Church calls me a heretic, to hide their lies!" he shouted, into the silence. "I killed two of their corrupt Cardinals! I set fire to Lionel City, and broke their castle to pieces to kill the demon the Cardinal Delacroix became! And when the Khamja tried to threaten me, I laid waste to Riovanes, too." He had a red-bladed sword slung over his shoulder: he pointed it at them. "I tell you this so you will understand exactly who you face. You will stand down. If you do not, I will destroy Bethla Garrison."
Colonel Ganelon blinked. Who...how...
Movement, from the corner of his eye. "Hold!" he shouted again, too late: one of his archers had already loosed an arrow, and several more followed suit. A half dozen black shafts arced through the golden morning light. Two fell far short of the young man: three peppered the ground around him. The last fell, straight and true.
The young man snatched it from the air, and crushed it one gauntleted hand.
"So be it!" Ramza bellowed, and took a step towards them.
There were several hundred yalms between the young man and Ganelon: there were two thousand Nanten soldiers surrounding him, including four hundred men mounted on chocobos. And in spite of that, Ganelon almost flinched. That one step carried terrible conviction.
Was this really Ramza Beoulve? And if it was...were the rumors true?
"Archers!" he bellowed. "Loose!"
The mass twanging of bows drawn and unleashed. The cloud of arrows this time was thicker: he had a hundred archers spread in a line through his forces, and every one of them fired on his command. A small, deathly cloud arced high and then swooped low, like birds moving for the kill. The young man stepped back just as quickly as he had come. And then-
It must have been a trick of the light. It didn't make sense. But it looked as though he stepped into midair, held up by something invisible.
Then there was a ripple around him, like heat shimmering on stone. A crude wooden cart appeared beneath Ramza's feet. Before Ganelon could make out more, there was a burst of opalescent golden light.
The man who claimed to be Ramza Beoulve stood beside another woman, the two of them holding a staff between them. Of the hundred arrows that had rained down upon them, perhaps fifty were caught in the spell they had woven, as the others speared into the bare dirt around them. A third woman crouched in front of them.
Ganelon stared in disbelief. He had seen arrow wards before: had sheltered inside them, when enemy volleys had come whispering death. But those had been the work of several mages working on concert, designed to hold off far fewer arrows. Just the two of them...?!
The rumors were true. The heretic was a strong as Elidibus. Maybe he really could bring down Bethla Garrison.
"Call for reinforcements!" Ganelon bellowed. "Ready cannon!"
Meliadoul Tengille didn't know how Ramza was still standing.
There was no time to rest. They had to set a rapid pace to make it to Bethla Garrison before the two armies clashed: an agonizing march, ahead of a battle to try and stop two armies from killing each other. They were already exhausted: how much more tired would they be, in the day to come?
One hour. That was all they allowed themselves, between when Olan had finished his story and when they would lurch into motion again. But no one much felt like sleeping. Not with two armies on the horizon. Not with Ramza's half-formed plan in their ears.
"I don't know, Ramza." Lavian's voice was thin. "I'm...tired. And the spell is...hard. Even with you feeding me magic..."
"But it can be done?" Ramza insisted.
Lavian nodded reluctantly. "It can. But only if...if someone else can move us."
"I'll manage." Rafa's voice was quiet, but firm.
"Not if you don't get some rest," Lavian chided her gently.
Rafa shrugged, and closed her eyes. Melia watched her for a moment, then let her eyes flicker back to Ramza.
"It can't work," she said.
Ramza nodded grimly. "I know."
She blinked. Ramza gestured at himself, and managed a rueful smile. "Not right away. No matter how seriously they take me...take us...there will only be three of us. Someone will be smart enough to assume I'm a distraction." He paused. "If we give them a chance to."
"Meaning?" Melia asked.
"The famous heretic Ramza Beoulve will step into the open, and threaten to visit the fate of Lionel and Riovanes on Bethla Garrison," Ramza said. "Someone might take me seriously...but someone else will be looking for the main attack."
Melia studied Ramza for a moment. He was at least as haggard as Rafa was—she could see it in the slump of his shoulders, his uneven step as he staggered from one side of the camp to the other, the slurring of his words when he got caught up in his thoughts. He was exhausted.
But he was still standing.
It was only a handful of weeks since she had met the man she'd once sought to kill, in the name of her dead brother. Ramza Beoulve was not Izlude's killer. But he had killed people Melia had known: men like arrogant Leuke, who had spoken dismissively of any woman who served alongside him, and whose whip-quick blade had backed up his arrogance when Melia had challenged him; women like Carmine, dour and determined, who had seemed to spend every spare hour practicing with her bow. There were probably other names Melia didn't know, stolen the same way they'd stolen the Templar caravan behind them. Their aim was to spoil the plans of Confessor Marcel Funeral, the inheritor of the Saint's will on this earth.
He should have been her enemy. But he had spared her life, when he had every reason not to. He had turned down the poisoned promises of demons. And he had risked his life, over and over again, to do the right thing.
Meliadoul Tengille had been a Templar all her life. She had wanted to be strong—strong enough to protect her living brother, and to shoulder her father's crushing expectations, and to do the right thing, no matter how hard it was. And in Ramza Beoulve, she had finally found someone whose instincts, and passion, matched her own. To do the right thing, even when it was foolish, or hard, or dangerous.
"What do you need me to do?" Melia asked.
Captain Dorothe Hylas was torn between annoyance and relief.
That had been the case since she had received her orders last night. Captain Hylas would not fight in the last battle against the Hokuten usurpers. She would head the one hundred soldiers who guarded the Garrison's northern gate. It was probably a fool's errand—if there were an army mad enough to come marching through the Zirekile Mountains or across the Bethla Wastes, Nanten scouts would have seen them before now. But it wasn't impossible that Hokuten treachery might have prepared some trick, some scheme, to take the fortress from the rear.
So Captain Hylas had told herself, over and over again. To assure herself she might really be needed. To pretend she didn't feel relieved.
Captain Hylas had only been a sergeant when this war began. She had joined the Nanten in the waning days of the 50 Years' War, had kept her position only because she had proven herself useful to the Zeltennia quartermaster during the final battle. She had been a soldier for ten years now, and fought her share of battles—had joined Limberry's campaign against the Death Corps, helped put down the rebellion in Viscount Blanche's lands in eastern Gallione, and helped fight bandits in southern Zeltennia. Now she had spent nearly a year fighting Hokuten.
There were friends she'd made among the Nanten. Some of those friends no longer drew breath. She was eager to end this war. But she was even more eager to survive it. And see the friends she still had survive it, too.
So she paced about the high wall, overlooking the rolling green foothills, and stalked the grounds both behind and before the gate, and scowled at everyone she saw, so they wouldn't see her guilty glee. Until, shortly after dawn, a courier darted up behind her, out of breath. He braced his arms in a salute, then said, "Colonel Ganelon requests reinforcements."
Captain Hylas stared at the courier in disbelief. "What?"
The courier cleared his throat. "Colonel Ganelon-"
"I heard you," she growled. "Explain."
"There is...someone at the southern gate."
Captain Hylas blinked. "Someone?"
The courier nodded. "He...claims to be Ramza Beoulve."
Ramza Beoulve? The heretic Beoulve?
"Has he attacked?" she asked.
"Colonel Ganelon has used spells, arrows, and cannonfire." The courier swallowed. "To no effect."
Disbelief dropped like a stone in Captain Hylas' stomach. Only dim rumors had reached her of the heretic Beoulve—his lies of demons loose in the Church's ranks, and the ruins he left in his wake. But Ganelon would not have called for aid if he wasn't afraid.
"I need fifty men to-" she started.
"Rider!"
Captain Hylas whirled back to the narrow mountain road, gesturing for a telescope. One was placed into her hands: she snapped it to her eye, snapped it down just as quickly. "Ready the gate!" she shouted. "Make ready to capture!"
But the doubt in her stomach had doubled in weight: she felt her blood draining down into her guts, leaving her cold and empty. No soldier who served in the Nanten could fail to recognize Olan Durai.
He stopped well back from the gate, and slid from the back of his golden-feathered chocobo. His hands were raised in surrender, but the expression on his face was fierce.
"Take me captive if you must!" he shouted. "But first tell me: has Ramza Beoulve attacked yet?"
Captain Hylas stared down at him. No one shouted an answer back.
Into that silence, Olan took another step, and shouted, "Please. If he hasn't, there's still time. We can secure the Duke. We can stop him from destroying the Garrison."
Captain Hylas swallowed against the dryness of her throat, and managed to shout back, "How could one man manage that?"
Olan shook his head fiercely. "He isn't one man. The forces arrayed on his side-"
Behind Olan, a great shape rose from the mountains.
Captain Hylas blinked. For a moment, she thought it was a bird. For another moment, she didn't know what it was. But her confusion and disbelief faded into shock, as the beastly form arrowed towards them with every passing moment. She had heard the stories all her life—she could recognize that savage face, and the serpentine neck scaled in amethyst. Even before it opened its mouth to exhale a wave of neon fire, she knew it was a dragon.
But the dragons were all dead. She couldn't move.
Multicolored fire burned from the dragon's throat, and poured towards them like a deluge. But then the fire splashed away, blocked by a slash of night gleaming with stars. Below her, Olan had his hands upthrust, weaving a patch of night in their defense.
The sight of such destructive magic, so close by, broke her stasis. "Archers!" she howled, as the dragon whipped by overhead.
"Watch out!"
Olan's voice was tinny with distance and weakness. Reflexively, Captain Hylas' head snapped around, looking for-
There. A sword without an owner, slashing towards her. She parried, just barely-
Metal shattered behind her. She heard someone scream.
She slashed with all her strength, flung the floating sword backwards and snapped her head around. A figure in a green cloak had just cut down one of her men. His sword was so much shattered metal around him. A Swordbreaker?
And they were not alone. Besides the floating swords, slicing and slashing their way through her men, there were at least two others. One was a slight red-headed figure holding a long silver katana: the other was taller, and carried two mismatched blades. They shimmered as they moved, magic she didn't understand pulsing around them and the swords they held. The soldiers they fought faltered, fumbled, fell: mere moments since they'd struck against her, and already a dozen of her men lay crumpled around them.
"They're trying to take the gatehouse!" Olan bellowed from below her.
Ice in Captain Hylas' veins. She parried the flying sword again, and whirled on the courier who had come from the main gate. "Spread the word!" she roared. "Call for reinforcements! If we lose this gate, we could lose the fort!"
Focus on the danger. Focus on the mission. Focus, and pretend you aren't terrified, as swords shatter and soldiers crumble, as a sword without a wilder comes slashing for your throat, as an amethyst dragon roars overhead.
Malak of Galthena didn't know how Ramza was still standing. He hadn't rested, in the hour they'd taken to gather their strength. He hadn't rested, as they lurched into motion again, hurtling for war. And he wasn't resting know, kneeling in front of them as the caravan rumbled towards war.
"Ramza..." Malak stared at him in disbelief.
"I know," Ramza said softly.
The engine was humming smoothly behind them, as Mustadio and Melia tended to it. Malak and Rafa stared at Ramza, who looked at neither of them. The plan was starting to come into focus. Malak didn't like it.
"You won't survive," Malak said.
Ramza shrugged. "I've put myself in stupider situations-"
"No. You haven't."
Ramza arched his eyebrows. "I walked into Riovanes-"
"And you had Rafa at your side," Malak growled. "And you'd hidden the Gospel, so you still had leverage. It was a negotiation. This...this is a war."
A war. Malak's heart was pounding in his chest. He had trained for war, all his life. He had fought in his share of battles, and won far more than he had lost. He had pushed himself to his limits, more times than he could count.
But there were tens of thousands of soldiers ahead of them. And Ramza intended to put himself between two rival armies.
No. Not just himself.
"It's where I need to be."
Malak's head snapped around. Rafa was leaning against the wall of the rumbling caravan, her bandaged arms folded across her chest. He could see the lines of pain and exhaustion in her face—lines he looked for now, that he'd once tried to ignore. Malak had pushed himself to his limits more times than he could count, but he wasn't sure Rafa ever stopped pushing herself to hers.
"It's where we need to be," Ramza said firmly. "It has to be me, because I'm the one who's got a real price on his head. I need Lavian for her magic. I need Radia's sword. But none of it's gonna work without Rafa."
"You're asking too much," Malak insisted.
Ramza nodded. "Yes."
Malak stared at Ramza. He stared at Rafa. His skin felt tight and too hot. The same restless panic that had plagued him aboard Faris' ship boiled inside him again. He had believed all of Barinten's lies. He had let his sister suffer. He had let his friends die.
What little salvation he'd managed to wrest from that nightmare...his friendship with Melia, Rafa's life, his own chance for redemption...he'd only managed with their help. And with the miracle of the Stones.
Malak still did not understand this other threat—the one that the Lucavi coveted, and that grew with every death in Ivalice. But he had been a part of that nightmare maelstrom, before his friends and a miracle had pried him free. He was so, so afraid, of what the people he loved might suffer. And he knew, first-hand, what a nightmare awaited, for those that died before they had to.
He could help stop it. Whatever it was. He might die. Rafa might die. But-
He stopped. There was a glint in Ramza's eye he'd rarely seen.
"My plan is foolish, Malak," Ramza said. "As foolish as the plan we hatched back in the Archipelago." He shook his head with a rueful smile. "I'm asking all of you to take such...foolish, foolish risks. And for what?" He bowed his head. "We don't even know what we're trying to stop."
He looked down at his hands for a moment. When he looked back up, the glint had turned into a full-blown flame. His green eyes blazed with it. "But they've hurt so many...they've killed so many...and they're going to kill more. Even if there were no demons, I would want to stop this. I would want to stop them."
"But I can't do it alone." He looked between them. "So I'm asking for your help."
Malak stared at the man in front of him. The man he had once sought to capture. The man who had saved Rafa's life, and risked his own to try and save the rest of them. The man who, even now, wanted to plunge headlong into danger, on the off-chance he could save two armies full of soldiers who wanted him dead.
What would Malak's life have been, if Ramza Beoulve had never come along?
"What do you need us to do?" Malak asked
The thunder of the cannons had hardly died before the dark-skinned girl struck crushing blows with either hands. The cannonballs exploded in the earth around them throwing up geysers of dirt: the ones she'd struck shattered, raining pieces of smoking metal down around her.
"Mages!" Ganelon shouted, and when lightning lanced out on his command, Ramza Beoulve stepped forwards. He thrust out his red-bladed sword, and the lightning swirled down into the scarlet blade like water down a drain. He flickered backwards, drew the string of a white bow-
A blast of magic ripped from his hand, pounded against the high stone walls of Bethla Garrison's southern gate. Pieces of rubble rained down among his shouting men.
Perhaps five hundred yalms ahead of them, Ramza Beouvle and his companions stood in the midst of a swathe of ruin, utterly unharmed. How many volleys of arrows had they turned aside? How many spells had Ramza cut from the air? How many cannonballs had the dark-skinned girl broken with her bare hands?
He needed to ride out against them. However strong they were, surely they could not resist two thousand swords and spears. Surely...surely...
But Ganelon hesitated to give the order.
Ramza's strange defiance at their gate confounded every once of his instincts. The kind of magic they wielded against them, the defenses they could raise—they spoke to a level of power and preparation that Ganelon had only seen from genuine legends on the battlefield, heroes like Balbanes and Cid and monsters like Elidibus. Maybe he really was strong enough to face two thousand men and win.
But if he wasn't...what was he doing out there? What was all this nonsense about taking the Garrison? It felt like a trap.
Colonel Ganelon had received no orders to attack. He had command of the vanguard. So he held himself still, and shouted his orders—for volleys of arrows, for cannonade, for magical attacks. Keeping the heretic at a distance, as his terror grew and grew.
"It's a feint!"
Ganelon's head snapped around. A messenger was panting behind him. "Another party is attacking at the north gate! Captain Hylas requests reinforcements!"
Ice in Ganelon's veins. He could not bring himself to look back at Ramza. Of course. While the heretic drew their attention here, another party attempted to take the fortress from behind. That was what he meant, by bring down the Garrison.
"Tell Captain Osric to take two hundred-" he started.
Muffled explosions reached his ears from behind him. Ganelon's head snapped back towards the Pass. In the distance, beyond Ramza Beoulve, green clouds choked the air. More explosions rang out: more bursts of green filled the air.
Ramza Beoulve stared steadily forwards, not looking back at the chaos behind him. Into the silence left in the wake of the explosions, he said, "I have already brought the Hokuten to ruin. The Nanten are next."
There was a terrible roar, echoing down the high canyon walls. Ganelon turned from his post atop the southern gate, and stared in disbelief at the violet dragon winging its way down the great bulk of Bethla Garrison, arrowing straight towards him.
Kilix Conphas stared in disbelief.
Mere minutes had passed, in the golden morning light. Mere minutes, and now everything felt fragile. It was as though stormclouds had rolled suddenly into view, dimming the light within and without.
Kilix didn't understand what was happening in the Pass.
There had been movement—dim, distant movement, too small to be any part of the Hokuten. There had been the shimmering of magic, and a dome of golden light. He had seen arrows swoop down like falcons: he had seen the flash of fire and lightning, and heard the thunder of cannons.
And with every passing moment, the strange movement lingered in the Pass. It transfixed Kilix.
Everything still had its insectoid smallness, but now that smallness felt threatening, like the skin-crawling revulsion that fills you when you notice the poisonous spider creeping slowly up your bare leg. Kilix's mouth felt very dry.
"It's the Beoulve!"
Kilix's head jerked up. Addison, his ally among the Duke's personal guard, was scrambling up stone steps, sweat running down his face.
"The heretic!"Addison repeated, jabbing a hand down towards the Pass.
The cold terror intensified. Kilix had heard little more than the same dim rumors of the Beoulve that the others had—how Lionel and Riovanes alike had fallen at his hand. But he knew that the Bishop always tensed when the boy's name came up. Whatever he was, whatever he had done, he frightened the luminaries of the Church.
"Two attacks!" Addison continued, into Kilix's stricken silence. "The one in the Pass, and one on the northern gate!" Addison came to a stop in front of Kilix. "He's trying to take the Garrison."
Kilix shook his head numbly. Impossible. How could he...
It's no different from what you're planning.
Kilix was on God's side. The heretic Beoulve-
Has already killed one Cardinal. The Bishop is scared of him.
Kilix fingered the detonator in his hand. Use it now? No, no, his orders were clear: he was only to use it once battle had been joined, and the Nanten had triggered the trap laid for them in the Pass.
Another shock of terror. With the heretic holding the Pass...would the Nanten dare to ride out?
"There's something else," Addison said. "They...they say there's a dragon."
Kilix stared at Addison in disbelief.
Muffled explosions in the distance. Kilix's head snapped around, and saw green fog filling the air in the distance. Rocks tumbled from the Pass walls: the writhing dots pitched lower to the ground, as the poison swept over them.
The first trap had been sprung. Nearly half the Hokuten would be choking now. The heretic Beoulve couldn't stop it. Even if he had-
Violet movement, from the corner of his eye. Kilix turned, slowly, as though in a dream or nightmare. The amethyst dragon hurtled into view. Neon destruction burned in its throat.
Magic smashed towards him. Heat and pain obliterated every though in his head, lifted him off his feet and battered him into the air.
Reis and Beowulf sat at the back of the rumbling caravan, as far as they could get from the others. Ramza was crouched in front of them.
"I know-" Ramza started.
"Don't." Reis' voice was firm. Her eyes were closed, and the lines on her too-old face seemed deeper in the dim runelight. Beowulf rested his hand on her thigh: she rested her hand on his, without opening her eyes.
No one spoke for a moment, as the caravan rumbled through to dawn.
"Don't," Reis said again. "I helped you. I helped him. He helped you. You helped him. You helped me." She opened her violet eyes, and a smile crinkled her face. The dim light deepened the lines on her face, but somehow, those lines deepened the glow of her eyes and the warmth of her smile. Saint Above, but she seemed more beautiful every time Beowulf looked at her.
Ramza nodded slowly. "Still feel like I owe you more than you owe me."
"Plenty of time to settle up later," Beowulf said.
Ramza nodded, then caught each of them around the shoulders and pulled them close. They wrapped their arms around each other, and held each other tight. Then Ramza stood up, and moved to the front of the caravan, to keep making his plans.
Beowulf watched him go, and almost smiled. Ramza had always been more of a Beoulve than he'd allowed himself to believe. But more and more, he seemed to wear the name as well as his father.
Then his smile faded, as he looked back at Reis. Her violet eyes were closed.
"I'll need the Stones-" she started.
"There's time for that later," Beowulf said.
She shook her head. "There's not." She opened weary eyes, and offered him a weary smile. "There's not, Wulfie. I don't know how I'm gonna do it, and everything depends on me."
They locked eyes for a moment. The weariness had dulled the light of her violet eyes, and deepened the new lines on her face. But no amount of weariness could obscure the certainty of her gaze.
The Stones were hidden throughout the Caravan (each of them had been told to hide a different one). Reis had hidden Cancer beneath the floor closer to the engine: Beowulf had dropped Aquarius into one of their water barrels (but only after checking with Mustadio that the auracite wouldn't poison them). He retrieved both Stones from their resting places, and handed them to Reis. He pretended not to notice her wince as she accepted them.
"One unleashed the dragon," Reis said softly, holding up the Cancer Stone. "And one leashed it again." She held up Aquarius. "But the dragon is me. I am the dragon. Bremondt was still Bremondt, when he changed. So I...I should be able to..." She looked at Beowulf, and allowed her fear to show openly. "Is this...is this crazy, Wulf?"
Beowulf nodded. "Oh yes." He pointed at the Stones. "You're going to try to use holy Stones to turn yourself into a dragon to stop a soul-harvesting plot hatched by literal demons. Every part of this is crazy." He allowed himself to smile. "What else would you expect from gods damn legends?"
Reis laughed, and leaned forwards to kiss him. He lingered on her lips, electricity mingling with dread in his heart. For all his confident words, he could be wrong. She could lose control. He could lose her again.
He reached out, wrapped his hands around her waist, and pulled her closer. He was Beowulf, who had slain a dragon. She was Reis, who could become a dragon. If she lost control, he would rescue her again. And if she didn't lose control, she would save them all.
"It's a little funny," he whispered, nibbling on her ear. "I'll be riding the dragon again."
She laughed, and nipped his neck, and pulled away from him. When she settled in with her eyes closed and magic shimmering around her, some of the fear and dread had left her face. She was even more the proud, confident woman he'd fallen in love with.
Reis would figure it out. And Beowulf would go where he was needed, and do what needed doing. By the time they were done, they would have thwarted the plots of the Lucavi. And along the way, they'd bring down Bethla Garrison, too.
They were going to lose the gatehouse.
There weren't that many of them—the fighting was too frantic for Captain Hylas to get much sense of what was happening, but there couldn't be more than six assailants, not counting the floating swords that had nearly cut her throat (not counting the floating swords! A hysterical laugh built in Dorothe's throat: she swallowed it down, along with the bile). No more than six, and at least thirty of her men lay dazed and beaten all along the gate.
They had flanked her, too. When she had pulled her men off the top of the wall to hold the gatehouse proper, the blonde man with the two swords and the Swordbreaker had somehow gotten to the floor below them, and started fighting their way up. She had ten soldiers ringing the door, with instructions to stay back so that the Swordbreaker couldn't simply explode the door and take them out in a wave of flying splinters (Kennard was moaning against a wall behind her, his hands mangled from where he'd met just such a fate down below).
No more than six attackers. Ramza Beoulve assailing the main gates. A dragon soaring above them. Another hysterical laugh built in Dorothe's throat: against, she swallowed it down. She had sent the call for reinforcements, before she had been overwhelmed. The gate was still closed.
She didn't know if Olan Durai was still alive. He had warned them. He had saved her life, and the lives of her men. Without him, they might have fallen already.
So much she didn't understand. Olan and his father were accused of treason, but these were not the actions of a traitor. And who was Ramza Beoulve, that he commanded dragons, and soldiers that were worth ten men apiece?
Banging on the door to her right—the door that blocked off the stairwell down from atop the gate. Dorothe whirled, sword extended, as blood dripped down from the cut in her left bicep and pooled inside her gloves.
"Captain!" It was Lieutenant Sommerhild's voice, thin and wracked with pain. "They're gone!"
Captain Hylas stared. Sommerhild had been one of the first to fall, as the attackers had come scything in amongst them. Was she hearing a ghost?
"Hold, Lieutenant." Captain Hylas was barely aware she was speaking. She gestured to the door with her sword: one of her men unbarred it, then stepped back. "Enter. Slowly."
The door creaked open. Lieutenant Sommerhild staggered inside. Blood had crusted in her dark hair, and dried upon her face. But she was alive. And she was not alone. Behind her, moaning and groaning, were at least half a dozen of the soldiers Dorothe had thought dead up above.
"Report, Lieutenant." Captain Hylas' voice sounded very far away to her ears. Darkness rimmed her vision.
Sommerhild nodded. "Felt like...like someone had cut me open." She shook her head. "Think I passed out. When I came too, they were...they were leaving. They had ropes on either side of the gate." She paused. "I...I don't think they were trying to take the gatehouse, Captain. I think they were pinning us here."
But that didn't make sense. Why would you attack both gates with no intention of taking either?
In the distance, she heard a strange sound. Distant booms, like cannonfire. Thin cracks, like a building avalanche. The sound was coming from Bethla Garrison.
Everything hurt.
Kilix blinked, over and over, and only knew he was blinking from the flicker of darkness every time he tried. Scattered sunspots of light and shadow dazzled his vision, throbbing like the sunburnt aching of his skin and the agonizing pulse of pain in his left foot. Fireworks limned in agony gradually resolved themselves into a recognizable reality.
He had been tossed along the edge of the dam, and come to rest at the landing of the same stone steps Addison had taken to warn him of the heretic. Addison was nowhere in sight He tried to lift himself up on trembling hands, then gasped as lightning lanced up from his left foot. He risked a glance down his foot, then looked away: he could not bear to see the mangled flesh and splintered bone.
A dragon. A heretic. And something else...
The Hokuten had walked into the trap. The Nanten would be next. Ajora's Judgment. Where was his detonator?
He took a short, sharp breath, then levered himself into an uneven crouch. Slowly, gingerly, he began to crawl back up the stone steps. Every movement deepened the pain in his left foot: his skin felt tight, hot, and wretched. Embers burned in his knuckles and in patches along his skin—places where he'd been scraped and burned, when the dragon had come upon them.
He could endure it. He had to endure it. His was a holy purpose. Everything depended on him.
He was sobbing when he finally reached the top of the dam. A great mass of the stone was blackened and cracked—the dragon's attack hadn't even been meant for him, but for the dam. Almost, Kilix laughed. This was Bethla Garrison: even a dragon could not-
His almost-laugh died on his lips, as he saw that he was not alone.
A blonde man was busily rigging something he didn't understand—a bundle of metal and wire. It resembled, just a little, the devices Kilix and his men had spirited out of the Wastes. And like those devices, it was part of a larger complex—similar devices, wired together along cracks in the wall.
"Almost ready!" he shouted, over his shoulder.
Kilix craned his head in the same direction of the blonde man. Down near the base of the dam, by the leaning shacks that housed the water wheels, two women stood. One, broad and bulky in dented armor, held up a silver sword. The other, thin and angular, held up a scepter. Even this far away, the magic shimmering around sword and scepter alike was strong enough that Kilix could feel it.
"Then get down!" the woman with the sword bellowed back.
The blonde man nodded, and took off at a dead run for the staircase on the opposite side of the dam.
Kilix stared after the fleeing blonde man. Slowly, as though wading through a nightmare, his eyes drifted back to the devices tethered into the cracks, traced the wires down to matching, ungainly spheres cobwebbing the cracks atop the dam. Finally, his eyes drifted back to the two women near the dam's base. In the short time he'd looked away from them, the power around their weapons had grown still brighter, throbbing as intensely as the pain in Kilix's ankle.
He opened his mouth to scream, too late.
"NOW!" The woman with the sword slashed down, and the energy around her silver sword exploded into a great roaring burst of argent flame and shattering force, at least as strong as the dragon's roar had been. The other woman thrust her scepter forwards as though trying to impale a giant, and a wave of fire and magic crashed forwards at her command. The two attacks mingled together, feeding on each other, building to a frothing tide of fiery moonlight. The dam shuddered beneath Kilix.
And that was before the explosions started.
As the magic found the devices the blonde man had wired into the wall, it set them off: great roaring bursts of gunpowder and multicolored magic. With every explosion, the shuddering in the dam built, like an orchestra building to a crescendo. The cracking of stone filled the air as a low groan hummed in his bones and teeth.
Kilix had started screaming. No one could hear him, over the sound of the dam breaking. Of stone shattering before obliterating magic and carefully-laid bombs. Over the roar of water as Lake Bethla, long dammed, poured into the cracks made by these assailants, and came flooding down upon Bethla Garrison.
There was no such thing as a pleasant battle. Colonel Ganelon had been a soldier all his life: he had seen how nasty and vicious war could be. But never in his life had he seen soldiers who could smash cannonballs out of the air, slash spells to ribbons and catch volleys of arrows. And never had he seen a dragon winging down like death over his troops, spewing multicolored fire and destruction wherever it flew.
It had already destroyed his cannons. Arrows fell far short of it, and it was too quick for his exhausted mages' spells.
He had pulled as many of his men within the safety of the southern gate as he dared. His chocobos and their riders cowered in the stables. Two thousand soldiers, the vanguard of the Nanten, pinned down by a heretic and a dragon of legend.
He stood atop the southern gate, his bald head clammy with sweat. The dragon spun in slow, malevolent circles, right above Ramza Beoulve and his allies. Three soldiers and a dragon, who claimed to be bringing down the Hokuten and the Nanten alike.
But Colonel Ganelon was still standing. Colonel Ganelon would not yield. He turned his head, and took in the reassuring sight of the Nanten, readying themselves for battle.
There were nearly thirty thousand soldiers quarted at Bethla Garrison now, and ten thousand of them were rallying before the fortress. Speartips gleamed in the golden light of morning: two wedges of mages stood slightly apart from the mass, their staffs and staves shining with gathering forces.
The Nanten could not be beaten. Heretics, dragons, even the Lucavi themselves: they would bring them down. Colonel Ganelon felt the embers of his courage sparking back to full flame, and started to shout for his own men to march.
And then, from atop the mighty bulk of Bethla Garrison, there was a flash of silver light. A moment later, and there were a series of booms, like a distant cannonade. And after those booms came a series of cracks, like the shattering of stone beneath spells and siege weapons.
And Colonel Ganelon stared in horror, as Lake Bethla came crashing down the front of Bethla Garrison.
It was a deluge out of of myth, a sudden waterfall of frothing white foam and annihilating force. Great pieces of stone were carried along its descending current, scraping new paths in Bethla Garrison's great carved front. Shouts of alarm rose up from the marching Nanten. Shrill calls for retreat from some, as men hurried forwards, backwards, and to each side. The sound of it was deafening, a roar that shook the air and Ganelon's very bones.
And something else, too. Something Ganelon didn't understand. Sometimes, as the water fel, there were more explosions. Sudden bursts of green fog, like the ones that covered the Hokuten behind him. But then the water rushed over the green, buried it and carried it away.
The soldiers gathered at the base of the fortress were scattering, fleeing to the walls of the pass, fleeing back to the fortress, charging desperately towards Ganelon at the gate. Ten thousand Nanten, sent into a panic. And all by-
Ganelon gasped, and turned his head. But Ramza Beoulve was gone, and so were his allies, and so was the dragon. The only proof they'd ever been there was the wooden cart standing forlorn in the center of the Pass.
But it was exactly as the heretic had said. He had brought low the Hokuten and the Nanten alike. Bethla Garrison was falling.
Ganelon looked up at the faded green clouds in the distance—the clouds so like the ones he'd just seen, bursting across the Fortress. Then he cursed, and whirled back around. "Open the gate!" he shouted. "Send our riders back to help!"
Ramza didn't know how he was still standing. He felt his need for sleep lapping against the fringes of his mind like a rising tide, a darkness that threatened to drown his thoughts. Soon enough, he would let the tide take him.
Soon. But not yet.
He left Reis and Beowulf behind him, and staggered closer to the engine. Melia was tending to it, while Mustadio and Olan hunched together in close conference. A messy array of metal, wire, and gunpowder sat before them. Alicia and Lavian sat together on the opposite side: Lavian seemed asleep, but Alicia was running her scepter over several rune-etched pieces of stone and metal, making them shimmer in her hand.
"Well?" Ramza asked.
"It will work," Mustadio answered.
He looked even more tired then Ramza felt—his eyes were hollow, his face still pale.
"We have the materials," Mustadio said. "We have the spells. No one's ever tried to bring down the dam before. Olan says it's been due for repairs for..."
"For as long as I can remember," Olan said.
Mustadio nodded. "I won't know for sure until I look at it, but...I think we can do it."
"And the Mosfungus?" Olan asked.
Mustadio frowned. "Harder to be sure. We've been hit with it, but I don't..." He shook his head, and fumbled for a nearby sheaf of papers. "But I have Barich's notes. One of the reasons they need the explosive component. The spores are...heavy." He looked back up. "The water should carry it away."
Ramza nodded. "Can I do anything?"
"No." It was Alicia's voice, curt and final. She wasn't even looking at Ramza. "You're going to keep Lavian alive." Her eyes flicked up at him, then back down. "We'll handle this."
Ramza nodded, and headed for the caravan entrance. Creakingly, achingly, he sat down on its lip, his legs dangling over the edge. Boco trotted doggedly to one side, with Agrias marching beside him.
"You should rest, too!" he shouted at her.
"Soon enough!" Agrias shouted back.
Ramza nodded, and looked out into the darkness. He felt the shuddering of the caravan beneath him, felt its rumbling in his bones, felt its trembling in his soul. He closed his eyes.
A foolish man, with a foolish plan. Draw the eyes of the Nanten, before battle is joined. Risk your friends lives against nearly thirty thousand men, risk their souls trying to thwart the shadowy schemes of demons. Make Reis brave the dragon again, so she can bring death from above, and secret your friends here and there across the fotress. Try and bring down an ancient dam.
It was a foolish plan. But his solitary journey to Yardrow had been foolish, too. His march to Limberry more foolish still. His battle against Bremondt, as he tried to save Reis, had been madness. And somehow, at every turn, they had won through. Lives had been lost, yes: Izlude had died, and so had Malak and Rafa's friends: Alma was Saint-knew-where. But they had bested two of the Lucavi, and slain a dragon.
This plan was foolish. But then, the men and women around him had quite a track record of making his foolish plans work.
He heard the creaking of foosteps behind him. Hands closed on his shoulders, and lips pushed through his greasy hair to kiss the top of his head. "Better take care of my sword out there," Radia said.
"Better take care of yourself," Ramza answered, wrapping his hands around hers. He could not quite bring himself to open his eyes.
She pulled away from, jumped away with a grunt. "Agrias, get in here!" Radia shouted. "I'll look after the bird!"
A moment later, and Agrias was pulling herself up into the caravan, grimly muttering to himself. Ramza smiled, but still kept his eyes closed. He had almost started to drift off when he felt someone sit beside him.
"I guess we meant it, didn't we?" Olan said. "We're soldiers of peace, after all."
Ramza opened his eyes. "Finally fighting on the same side." He glanced at Olan. "At least, for a little while." Olan looked about as haggard as Mustadio. All of them, so tired. All of them, hurtling into danger. "You're sure?" Ramza asked. "About...pretending to be..."
Olan nodded. "It's the best way for me to create more confusion. If they believe me enough, I might even be able to feed them some lies. Buy everyone more space and room to move." He smiled slightly, and glanced at Ramza. "Besides. I'm hardly the most endangered in this plan."
They locked eyes. After a moment, Olan said, "Is it true about you and the Corps?"
Ramza shrugged. "Is what true?"
"That you didn't kill any of them."
Ramza looked away from Olan. He remembered Argus' desperate apologies. He remembered Wiegraf's rage, and Miluda's hate.
"They'd been wronged," Ramza said. "And I didn't want to hurt them anymore than I had to."
"And here you go again," Olan laughed. "Trying to kill as few as you have to, to save them all."
Ramza shook his head. "No. It's not the same."
Olan cocked his head. "How is it any different?"
"Because I'm different," Ramza said. "Colder. Harder. Crueler." He said those things because he needed to feel those things. He needed the lessons Gaffgarion had taught him—about how to out-think your enemy, about how to be ruthless and merciless when the moment called for it. Those two years spent beside him had made him who he was today.
But they were not all of him. The foolishness of believing his brothers' lies, that was still part of him. The foolishness of marching into danger, to try and save the people he loved. The anger and desperation that had let him cut down Gaffgarion, and Wiegraf, as much as he admired them, as much as they had done for him. He was still the boy who had tried to fight without killing, yes. But he was so much more than that.
"The man who...who fought the Death Corps..." Ramza gestured around them. "I don't think my friends would have followed him. And if they had...he wouldn't have been ready to lead them."
Olan arched his eyes. "But you are?"
Ramza nodded slowly. "Yes." He looked out at the horizon, thinking of the danger they were racing towards. A ghost of his razor-edged battle calm settled over his exhaustion, but there was something else, too: something like anticipation.
"The boy who fought the Death Corps..." Ramza said softly. "He wanted to live up to his brother's example. To his father's example. But for the first time in..." He paused. He thought. And then he laughed in surprise and delight. "For the first time in my life...I think I can do better." He looked at Olan. "I think we can do better."