Chapter 3: Death Upon the Plains
The 50 Years' War was too expansive a conflict not to have far-reaching consequences. Ivalice saw three kings during its course, each worlds apart. Romanda and Ordallia, too, saw their leadership and armies broken, reshuffled, and reordered. These consequences stretched far beyond the war itself, but Ivalice in particular paid a high price. In order to retain its territory and stave of further war, Ivalice was required to pay reparations to Ordallia for violating the Zelmonian peace. Each province paid their share, however they had to. For this reason was the Corpse Brigade discharged, minus a full year's backpay delayed in good faith for the sake of Ivalice. For this reason did the nobility of Ivalice travel incognito, lacking the resources to move in force and keep the peace among a rebellious and resentful populace.
-Alazlam Durai, "Larger Consequences of the 50 Years' War"
The tentative golden light of a new dawn found Ramza and Delita in the stables on the training ground, checking their bags and examining their chocobos. The birds were stock beasts, well-trained but of poor breeding, and the stable staff of the academy were not particularly good. Still, they seemed friendly enough, nuzzling their orange beaks against Ramza's hand and preening a little as they cleaned their dirty brown feathers.
They both knew how to ride, both from their time on the Manor and in the Academy, but neither were especially good riders and anyways the birds were not really for them. The only reason they were even allowed to take them was to reinforce the riding garrison at Igros.
It was admittedly nice to have the option—otherwise they were looking at finding some convoy or caravan to get to Igros, or walking and turning a two-day ride into a week-long slog across the Mandalia Plains. A hard place at the best of times: monsters of all kind roamed its rolling hills, and now the Death Corps raided as it willed.
Well. If they ran into danger, they wouldn't be defenseless.
Ramza fingered the hilt of the sword on his waist, tracing the lion engraved just beneath the crossguard. Zalbaag had given it to him on the day he came to the Academy, and while Cadets were not allowed to use real swords without the permission of their Instructors, it had been a source of no small envy among their fellow cadets. The blade was not of the special Ydoran craft that made Justice and Service so formidable, but it was a good blade nevertheless, custom-ordered from an up-and-coming black smith at Igros. Its twin was on Delita's hip.
"How long's it been since we were home?" Delita asked.
"Since Ajora's Festival, I think," Ramza said.
"Back in Virgo?" Delita said. "Where does the time go?
Ramza shrugged, stroking his bird along its long neck. It cooed softly, nuzzling against him. There was a strange musty smell to the birds, like a forest after rainfall, rich and earthy. Not unpleasant, but hard to ignore.
"It'll be good to see Teta again," Delita said.
"How's Igros treating her?" Ramza asked.
"Well, I think," Delita said. "I get the sense her classmates are less bitchy than ours."
"That wouldn't be hard," Ramza said. He paused, then looked at Delita. "I'm sorry about Madoc."
Delita shrugged. "It's fine, Ramza."
It wasn't, though, was it? Ever since the other Cadets had figured out that Delita belonged to no noble family, they had been cruel. The fact that Delita excelled at his studies only seemed to provoke them further.
Well. Water under the bridge, right? They were all heading out now, on official duty. One step closer to knighthood. One step closer to...
To what? Ramza knew he would never surpass his brothers. How could he? Dycedarg was Larg's right hand, and Zalbaag had taken up their father's mantle as commander of the Hokuten. Before they had held these positions, they had already been impressive: they still told stories about Zalbaag at the Academy, and Dycedarg had been considered one of the foremost diplomatic minds in all Ivalice, brokering peace behind the scenes while Father and Zalbaag fought on the front lines. What did Ramza have to offer the Beoulve name, next to them?
He ran his hands along the coarse feathers of the chocobo again, then slipped his fingers through its reins and led it gently from its pen. Delita did the same, and the two men walked through the training ground, staring at the old wooden expanse of the Gariland Military Academy, two stories spreading through hallways and lecture halls.
"Well, look on the bright side," Ramza said. "We don't have any final exams."
Delita smiled. "No," he said. "Just the threat of death."
"A step up in the world," Ramza said.
As they left the stables, a third chocobo rose to meet them. Where theirs were stock beasts barely fit to ride, this was a sleek racing bird, with lilac feathers, a lithe body, and a falcon's curving beak. On its back, looking even more gangly and ungraceful by comparison to his mount, was Beowulf Daravon.
"Come to see us off?" Delita called.
"If you mean, 'to come with you,' then yes," Beowulf said. He had a sword sheathed on either hip, and a bag packed along the bird's side.
"What?" Ramza said, staring at the younger man. "Absolutely not."
"I wasn't asking your permission," Beowulf said.
"Beowulf, you're not a senior cadet."
"Oh, of course," Beowulf said, rolling his eyes. "Such a world of difference between 15 and 16."
"There's a world of difference between a cadet and a senior cadet," Ramza said.
"Look," Beowulf said. "I'm going to Igros. You can either take me with you, or get left in the dust when I single-handedly slay the Death Corps."
"And score with Reis?" Delita ventured.
"That goes without saying."
"Beowulf-" Ramza started.
"Ramza," Delita said. "We can't catch him on that bird, so if we go report him to Daravon he goes to Igros by himself and gets gangmurderaped by everyone be. If we take him with us, we can at least make sure he doesn't die."
"I think you mean: I can make sure you don't die," Beowulf said.
Ramza bit his lower lip. He couldn't let Beowulf ride out alone. And, if he was being completely honest, he didn't mind the idea of traveling with him. Beowulf was gregarious and his confidence was infectious.
Still. He didn't like the idea of angering the Instructor.
"Please tell me you at least left a note," Ramza said.
"Yeah, yeah," Beowulf said. "Let's get out of here."
He turned smartly on his chocobo and set it on a trot towards the west. Delita and Ramza shrugged, slid up onto their own birds, and followed.
Gariland was itself a thriving town, but the Academies tended to occupy its fringes—the Military Academy to the south, the Magic Academy to the east, the University to the north. It was a pain for anyone attempting major studies at multiple schools (Dycedarg had complained about this after one-too-many glasses of wine), but it also provided relative privacy to its students and teachers, while still giving them the opportunity to go into town. So the cadets' road did not take them into the town, though from their hilly path along its outskirts they could see its sprawling buildings of wood and brick.
They followed a precarious path over and between hills, winding its way slowly into the gentle rolling slopes of the Mandalia Plains. Soon Gariland and its academies were behind them, and they were following the broad Ydoran road that led between Igros and Gariland at an easy pace. Wind rustled through the tall grass on every side, bringing with it a rich green smell of earth and growing things.
"So guard duty?" Beowulf said.
"That's the assignment," Delita replied.
"Sounds boring."
"It's Igros, at least," Delita said.
Beowulf shook his head. "I'll have to find something better to do."
"You're not on assignment, Wulfie." Delita glanced at Ramza with a sly smile. "Actually, I think this technically counts as desertion. Right, Ramza?"
"Oh, it might," Ramza agreed. "I think we're looking at at least a month of latrine duty. Probably more."
Beowulf smiled in turn. "I get to see Reis." His face was annoyingly smug.
The day passed at a leisurely pace. They stopped only for their own private latrines, eating dried fruit and meat straight from their bags without dismounting their birds. They passed commoners walking the roads on foot, and merchant caravans traveling to and from Igros and Gariland, usually driving their carts pulled by two birds. Once, towards afternoon, they had to pull to the side of the road as a small squad of Hokuten rode north and west, azure cloaks flaring back behind them to display Larg's white lion.
"Wonder where they're headed," Ramza said.
"We're supposed to reinforce Igros," Delita said. "I imagine those are some of the men we'll be relieving, so they can hunt the Corps."
A rather handsome man with rugged features and well-kempt dark hair glared at them imperiously from atop his mount. "Stand aside!" he shouted.
"Yes, sir," Ramza said, guiding his bird back.
"Not like we were already off the road," Delita muttered.
They waited until the Hokuten were well out of sight, then followed along.
As dusk painted the plains orange, the cadets left the smooth Ydoran road and walked their birds through the grass, heading to a low hilltop.
"You're setting up the tents!" Ramza shouted towards Beowulf
"Yeah, yeah..."
As Beowulf dug through their bags, Razma pulled a post with a hole in one end from his bag, and sank it into the ground. After wiggling it to make sure it was secure, he led each bird back to it, and tied them to the post. Truth be told it wouldn't actually stop a chocobo from bolting, but it might slow them down enough for whoever was on watch to catch them.
A low, reedy sound rose up from behind him, not unlike a duck's call. Ramza glanced over his shoulder, smiling slightly: Delita had a blade of grass pressed against his mouth.
"I knew you couldn't resist," Ramza said, finishing his knot and striding to Delita's side.
"Have you forgotten how?" Delita asked, offering Ramza another blade of grass. Ramza plucked it from his fingers, pressed it against his mouth, and listened to the high chirping sound it made as it vibrated against his lips. He breathed deep of the rich green scent, fresh and alive.
It brought to mind memories of a better time. Of Balbanes, leading them off the Beoulve estate to the Plains, teaching Ramza, Delita, Alma, and Teta how to play their grass flutes, while Zalbaag and Dycedarg laughed and drank.
"I still sound like a songbird," Ramza said.
"Or a bird of prey."
Ramza snorted. "As if."
Delita shook his head. "Some Beoulve you are," he said.
Ramza felt his heart twist in his chest. "I know," he said.
Delita sighed and grabbed Ramza's shoulder. "We're on the road to Igros," he said. "We're heading for active duty. Even your brothers didn't start so early."
Ramza shrugged. Delita could say what he wanted: Ramza knew that guard duty was not the same thing as the mighty achievements of Dycedarg and Zalbaag.
"Well, if you're gonna be like that," grunted Delita. "You can take first watch."
"My pleasure," Ramza said.
The night passed by easily enough: the cadets ate from their stores and huddled up without stoking a fire. If the Corps was raiding the roads, they didn't want to draw any attention to themselves. Ramza woke Beowulf at moonrise and settled upon his roll. He was saddlesore, his thighs aching and chafed, his mind still strange, even to him.
He did not know when, exactly, he fell asleep. But he must have, or else the mighty crash would not have woken him.
He jerked upright, blinking blearily in every direction, picking out shadows in the pre-dawn twilight. Beowulf was already rising from the ground, throwing his swordbelt around his waist.
"Delita!" Beowulf shouted.
"Quiet!" hissed Delita, on his belly at the edge of the heel, eyes to the north.
Beowulf crouched down beside him. Ramza grabbed his sword and crawled to join them.
"What is it?" Ramza said.
"Don't know," Delita said. "I thought I saw a caravan, but then..."
He was silent, and they heard the sounds together. Screams and shouts made thin and reedy by distance.
They moved without thinking, untying their birds and hurtling down the hill, leaving their bags and bedrolls behind them. As dawn gradually lightened the sky in every direction, they saw the first body, dressed in ragged leathers and metal. On his shoulder was painted a crude skull with a cracked crown atop its head.
"The Corps," whispered Ramza.
Another shout from up ahead.
"Hurry!" Delita said, cracking his reins so his chocobo picked up the pace.
They crested a low rise and found a bloody scene painted in front of them. A blood-smeared caravan lay on its side, one of its chocobos dead, the other still whimpering faintly with its left leg twisted into splinters of bone beneath it. Dead men ringed the caravan, some in coloroful clothes, some in armor, some in the ragged garb of the Corps.
And beyond them, a small cordon of men in ragged gear surrounded a rocky outcropping, atop which Ramza could just make out a bloody human figure.
"The Marquis?" Ramza whispered.
"Maybe," Delita said. "Maybe not. But whoever he is, we've got to rescue him."
Ramza counted the men below. "There are ten of them, Delita," he whispered.
"Three apiece," Beowulf said. He stroked his bird's neck. "Violet here could probably handle the spare." The bird gave a low chirp, as though agreeing with him.
"These are soldiers," Ramza said, shaking his head. "We should...find someone. The Hokuten, or-"
"There's no one but us," Delita said.
Right. No one but Ramza, and ten men against three was not the kind of work a cadet did. That was a work for heroes and knights, for Beoulves who had earned the name.
He closed his eyes, as bile crawled up his throat and the blood in his veins itched and birds of dread fluttered in his stomach.
He remembered his father's hand on his. He remembered his father's words in his ears. Justice and Service.
He shook his bird's reins, and rode forwards.
"Ramza?" Delita started.
"MEN AND WOMEN OF THE DEATH CORPS!" Ramza cried, and his voice sounded so dreadfully high and young in his hears, but he rode on at a stately pace, as though unafraid. The small cordon of soldiers turned as one to face him, drawing blades and knocking arrows.
Oh. Ramza hadn't seen the bows.
He continued his slow advance. He heard the tread of taloned feet upon the grass, and did not need to look to know Delita and Beowulf were following his lead. How ghastly, that: to think he was leading his confident friends. He felt a strange surge of gratitude that they should follow him when he was so afraid.
"I am Ramza Beoulve, son of Balbanes!" he shouted, guilt cracking at his ribs as he hid behind his father's name, but a ripple of trepidation spread visibly through the soldiers in front of him. Weapons lowered a fraction of an inch.
"Lay down your weapons," Ramza said. "And surrender to our care. I give you my word as a Beoulve: no man who lays down his arms will be harmed."
He came to a stop some ten feet from the soldiers. His eyes flicked past them to the bloody figure on the rocky outcropping—a young man, blonde hair caked with blood, wearing heavy clothes of blue with armored plates of polished orange metal, one arrow sticking from his thigh and another from his shoulder. He had a quiver near his feet and a bow in his hand: Ramza noted that at the base of the outcropping was a bandit with an arrow in his throat.
"I never heard of no Ramza Beoulve," sneered a man holding a bow near the front of the group.
"But you have heard of Balbanes," Delita said, sidling his chocobo forwards. "You've heard of Dycedarg, and Zalbaag. If he's half the man they are, do any of you think you can take him?"
Silence, tense and taut as their bowstrings. The bloody young man on his stone outcropping watched Ramza through eyes slitted with puffy bruises.
"Beoulve!" growled the man at the front. He shifted—to raise his bow, or lower it, Ramza was never sure. The man on the rock drew, faster than Ramza would have believed possible. An arrow flew, and buried itself in the man's neck.
The man screamed, and fired his own arrow. It flew, swift and true, into Ramza's chocobo. The bird collapsed with a desperate squawk, spilling Ramza out into the dust.
Shouts rose up from every man and woman. Ramza struggled to pull his legs out from the great weight of his bird, found strong hands hauling him upright by his shoulders. The clang of real metal—of lethal blades that could cut you open and leave you bleeding and dying—echoed through the pink dawn of the Plains.
"Are you alright!" Delita roared.
"Fine!" Ramza shouted. He drew his sword, and Delita did the same. They turned to face the Corps. Beowulf was already past them, both swords drawn, both swords bloody, Violet unharmed even after tearing a hole straight through their ranks. Another archer—a statuesque woman near the rear of the group, closest to Beowulf—took aim. The young man atop the rock fired again, and his arrow buried itself into her left breast. She screamed and sank to the ground, clutching at the wound.
Ramza had no time left for thoughts or doubts. He charged, with Delita at his side. On the opposite side of the crowd, Beowulf wheeled back around.
Ramza and Delita swung, and found blades raised against them. The man in front of Ramza slashed with frenzy. For a moment, icy terror filled every inch of Ramza, as he imagined what that sword might do to him, imagined his guts spilling out onto the Plains as he died an ignoble-
But then his fear faded, because for all his fury his opponent was so dreadfully slow. It seemed as though Ramza could see every swing of the blade before it had happened. He was so clumsy, his movements so telegraphed, that Ramza barely needed to parry. Instead he ducked, dodged, wove from side to side, letting the man exhaust himself, swinging slower and slower with every passing moment.
At last, Ramza lifted his sword, caught the impact of his enemy's blade with a rattling clang he could feel all the way up his arm, reverberating down from elbow to fingertips. Ramza kept his blade between them, swung beneath the man's guard and struck his pommel against the man's wrist, dropping the sword from his numb fingers. The man raised wild eyes to Ramza's face.
A slick sound, like leather being cut. A strange, salty smell, as something flecked against Ramza's face. Ramza stared at the arrowhead protruding from the man's cheekbone, reached up to feel the man's blood against his face.
The man collapsed into the grass. Ramza stared down at him, unaware of anything besides the dead man for several long seconds.
He looked up, feeling hollow as wet blood slid down his face. He looked up to the young man on the rocky outcropping, his quiver empty now, his bow still clutched between white-knuckled fingers. Ramza turned his head from side to side without noticing it, saw Delita standing over another man with a steady red drip on the edge of his blade as he stared down at the fallen figure. Ramza saw Violet's bulk above him, and Beowulf upon the bird's back. The dead littered the grass.
What remained of the Corps—just five of them, two supporting the woman who had taken an arrow to the chest—were stumbling up into the slopes.
"Do we pursue?" Beowulf asked. His voice seemed terribly far away.
Delita looked up from the man dead at his feet. His face was white, his lips slightly open.
Ramza swallowed, tried to find words, failed.
"No," Delita croaked.
Ramza shook his head. "No," he agreed.
Beowulf nodded. "Alright," he said.
Ramza moved past them, clambered up the outcropping, dropped his sword into the grass and ran a soothing hand across the young man's head. "Any other wounds?" he asked.
The man's slitted eyes opened, glinting with tears. "Please..." he whispered. He had a deep, rasping voice, and his words were colored by a gentle Limberry brogue
"I am," Ramza said. "Where does it hurt?"
"N...not m-me," the young man said. "T-the...the Marquis..."
Vague memories of Delita's words yesterday (a lifetime ago) passed through Ramza's mind. Vague memories of why the Corps was out in force, and why they had been on the road to Igros, before...
Ramza touched the dead man's blood on his face with his fingertips.
"The Marquis," Ramza whispered.
"They...took..." the young man groaned and his eyes fluttered closed.
They took him? What exactly had Ramza stumbled into?
Time for that later. This man was hurt. He might well die, and he might well have saved Ramza's life by his killing.
"Delita!" Ramza shouted. "Beowulf!"
He waved them over, looked for the best way to help the young man down. To save a life, in this place where so many had lost theirs.