I haven't been having the best time right now, readers. But even if this chapter is two weeks later than I wanted it to be, enjoy.
Also, I realized I titled Lycaon as a King in the previous chapters when I should have titled him as Emperor. I guess I have to go back and fix it.
Linkle cringed as she caved another soldier's ribcage in with her boot.
As just as their cause was, it was impossible for her to really feel like a hero in this situation. Monsters were easy to kill (from an emotional perspective, physically it could be a different matter). Yiga were, or at least had been, assassin cultists, and she hadn't exactly lost sleep over killing them. Markus's bandits at least were scoundrels and lowlifes who were content to look the part.
These weren't monsters, or cultists, or bandits and thugs. These were just ordinary people who had been forced to fight a war over a feud between strangers. Killing them might have been necessary, but she couldn't feel good about it.
"You can't do this! You are all inescts!" Conomor Gautier snarled as the Rising Sun Company tore through his guards. "I'll make you bleed. I'll make you all bleed!"
"Oh, shut up, will you?" Linhardt said, as he casted a Cutting Gale spell that tore through the wicked scion's throat.
That was more or less the end of the battle. One of the Gautier knights blew the horn to retreat, and the Gautier forces retreated as best they could. Dimitri picked up Conomor's glaive and threw it at one of the retreating soldiers, catching him in the back.
"It's not exactly honorable to strike down a fleeing enemy," Ignatz admonished.
Dimitri shrugged. "We will have to face Mordred Gautier soon enough. That's one less knight he will bring with him when we do."
Ignatz frowned, but didn't press the issue. Meanwhile, Balthus noticed Linkle's expression. "Linkle, you look like you have something on your mind."
"I just...these people...they're not monsters, or even lowlifes like those bandits we wiped out," Linkle said. "They're conscripts, or people who just wanted to keep the war away from their homes."
"Do not be too compassionate towards them," Dedue said. "If they can protect their homes by burning Adrestia, or keep themselves and their brothers in arms alive by killing us, they will not hesitate to do it."
"I know, but..." Linkle said. "The legends never said anything about this."
"Legends are written by men who know nothing of war," Timotheos said. The Apostle had the same red hair as Hapi, though with a few gray hairs among the red, and his skin wasn't nearly as dark. However, the most notable part of his visage was the massive burn scar over the lower half of his face that had replaced over half of his whiskers. "This is war. It's not glorious. It's not beautiful. It's not even heroic. It's simply standing for what you believe in. And doing it again, and again, no matter how much it costs you."
"I'm starting to see that," Linkle admitted.
"There's something else you may be able to help us with," Cichol said. "But this isn't a problem that can be solved with swords."
"We won't know if we can help until we try," Dorothea said. "What do you need?"
"I have been reading reports, and one of our knight-captains, Grant Bartels, has a tendency to take oddly high casualties," Cichol said. "I'd like for you to find out whether this is due to malice, incompetence, or simply bad luck. If he's a traitor, or if he's unfit to lead, then report it to Horace von Varley. If there turns out to be an explanation that isn't Bartels's fault, then we can simply send him reinforcements."
"We'll find the truth," Dimitri promised.
At the location where Grant Bartels and his men were camped, the Rising Sun company investigated…
"Still no sign of treason," Ignatz thought as he searched through Bartels's tent. "It looks like either he isn't a traitor or he's good at covering his tracks."
But no sooner had he thought that until he uncovered a book. Looking through it, he saw that it was a journal that Bartels had been writing, detailing self-aggrandizing tales of his victories.
He shoved the book in his jacket. Perhaps it contained important information. As it seemed there was nothing else of interest here, he snuck out of the tent.
Hopefully this would make what Dorothea was currently suffering through worth it.
Dorothea oohed and aahed flirtatiously at Bartels's stories. She may have been laying it on a bit thick, but Bartels was so full of himself that she didn't think he would notice.
"And the cowards had hidden forces that attacked us from the sides! But I didn't give up! I kept charging, and cut down the enemy commander, winning the battle!" he kept describing a battle he had won, conveniently leaving out the fact that his unit had taken four-to-one casualties compared to the enemy.
If there was one thing to be said for Grant Bartels, it was that he put Ferdinand and Lorenz back in context. While the two of them did somewhat remind Dorothea of the arrogant, boastful nobility whose egos she had been forced to indulge during her time at Mittelfrank Opera, Dorothea admitted the two of them never made boasts they couldn't back up. Or at lest not intentionally; they had overestimated themselves occasionally, but not often, and never so grossly that it stopped being understandable.
She gestured at Linkle, who filled Bartels's cup with wine, a sour look on her face.
In the medical tent, Flayn and Mercedes were helping treat the injured.
"Thank you, Saint Cethleann, Lady Mercedes," the healer said. "Thanks to you, some of these soldiers may live to see another day after all."
From the doorway, Sylvain came in, a bruised and battered pikeman over his shoulder. "I found your painkiller thief. I hope you don't mind, but I had to rough him up a bit."
"To be honest, I understand why he did it," the head doctor admitted. "With Grant Bartels's poor leadership, practically every peasant soldier here is practically waiting to die in one of Bartels's 'heroic charges.' The man cares nothing for his troops."
"That's awful," Flayn said. "How has he gotten away with this irresponsibility? I know Horace von Varley, and he would be incensed by that kind of behavior."
"Maybe so, but Bartels reports to Manfred von Hrym," the doctor said. "And as far as Manfred von Hrym is concerned, we're all replaceable, while the knights aren't."
"You've told the right people," Mercedes promised. "If Hrym stops us from removing Bartels from his position, we will escalate the matter to Emperor Lycaon."
"You'd think he'd try to keep all of this under wraps around two people with access to the Emperor," Sylvain said.
"He has convinced himself that he's the big important hero. That Lycaon can't afford to replace him," Dorothea said.
"Which is convenient for us," Mercedes added. "As soon as we're well away from his camp, all we have to do is call Lysithea and have her let us speak with Lycaon. Grant Bartels will be sent home in disgrace, and his knighthood will likely be taken away."
Annette looked at Linkle, who still seemed upset. "Is something on your mind, Linkle?"
"It's just…I don't know. I'm just thinking about all the stories I grew up on. Wondering how many of the heroes from them were really like Bartels," Linkle admitted.
"I will not lie to you, most people obsessed with being heroes are like Bartels," Flayn admitted. "True heroes? They don't care about glory, just doing what's right. And doing it again, and again. Even if it isn't easy or rewarding."
That didn't seem to make Linkle feel any better.