Chapter 4: Kill or Be Killed

Men and women often have trouble reconciling the ramshackle Hokuten who barely bested the Death Corps with the efficient war machine that fought the Nanten to a stalemate during the War of the Lions. What these men and women lack is a personal perspective towards history. Imagine yourself two years ago. Imagine yourself two years before that. See the marked differences that develop: in lifestyle, friendships, personality, romance, discipline. Multiply that difference by a hundred thousand. All history is personal: all that changes is the weight of all those interactions. The complex web of need, indifference, desperation, and ambition that underlies all of history is the life story of a countless multitude writ large.

-Alazlam Durai, "The Hokuten: From Ydoran Militia to Illustrious Army"

"I don't want to leave you," Beowulf said, from atop Violet's back.

"I don't want to get left," Ramza said. "But you're the best rider, and Violet trusts you. The sooner the Hokuten know of this, the sooner you get us help, and the sooner we can find the Marquis."

"Get us help," Delita added, as he finished securing the young Limberrian they'd rescued to the back of his bird. "Fast."

Beowulf nodded, then rattled Violet's reins and plunged off, foregoing the path entirely and heading due northeast, through rocky outcroppings and over rolling hills as he sprinted for Igros.

"Should we follow him?" Ramza said. "Or take the road?"

Delita shrugged, finishing a knot and standing away from the bird. "This was a big raid," Delita said. "I doubt we'll get hit by bandits again. Still, it's a risk."

"But we won't get to Igros fast enough on foot," Ramza said.

"We won't get there fast enough at all if Beowulf doesn't get help," Delita said.

Ramza hesitated, then grabbed one of the saddlebags and slung it across his shoulders. Opposite him, Delita did the same. They left two other bags on the hill: they were slow enough already. Adding more weight would reduce them to an intolerable crawl.

Ramza headed down to the road. Delita followed, leading his chocobo.

For a little while, they were silent. The Plains were sunny and gorgeous, the rich scent of grass and the dusty musk of animals on the wind. They felt alive, and lovelier than Ramza had ever seen them.

How could so many have died, on a day like this? How could his face still be sticky with a dead man's blood?

The fingers of his right hand, still tingling from the fierce flow of the dead rebel, touched the pommel of his blade. He looked at its twin on Delita's hip, and remembered how his friend had looked, standing over the man he'd killed with the dead man's blood upon his blade.

"His wounds look good," Delita said, staring straight ahead.

"Yeah?" Ramza said. "I had to use most of our salve."

"Well, he's the only survivor," Delita said. "We need him alive."

Right. Alive.

"Delita," Ramza said.

Delita glanced at him. Ramza swallowed against the dryness of his throat, and said, "Are you...are you alright?"

Delita shrugged. "No wounds," Delita said. "That's a miracle unto itself, eh?"

"That's not what I meant," Ramza said.

Delita seemed to stumble. "I know," he said.

Silence again. The two of them walked on, but Ramza couldn't tear his eyes away from Delita.

"It was us or them, Ramza," Delita said. "That's...this is what we trained for."

Trained for. Right. Honed their skills at the Gariland military academy, learned the art and craft of war, learned to fight, to manage, to command and to serve. He had gained all the tools he might ever need for justice and service, and what did he do with them? Kill men and women whose only crime was rebelling against a broken oath?

Men and women who had slaughtered the Marquis' guard, and taken the man himself. Delita was right, wasn't he? Whatever the Corps' grievances, it did not justify their evil. And what was a Beoulve, if not a man who delivered justice to the guilty?

"Of course," Ramza said. "But are you alright?"

Delita shook his head. "No," he said.

Ramza crossed to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. "There wasn't another way," Ramza said. There wasn't, was there? The fight had started, blades had slashed and arrows had flown. It was us or them, kill or be killed. And if Ramza's hands were clean, it was only because he had been spared that burden.

He looked up at the young man on Delita's bird, thought grimly of the kind and stalwart chocobo he'd left dead on the Plains. They had fished the arrows from the squire's thigh and arm and bandaged them tightly, using most of their healing salve to treat his wounds. Delita had the cadet's bow slung over his shoulder.

"You did what you had to," Ramza said.

"I know," Delita said. "Doesn't make it easier."

The man atop the chocobo groaned, eyes fluttering. He shuddered against his bindings, and Ramza and Delita stopped the bird and placed a hand on the man's shoulders.

"Easy," Ramza said. "Easy. We've bound you so you're stable, alright?"

The man growled, struggling so the bird stumbled beneath him. "You common whoresons!" he swore, with a surprisingly deep voice. The loudness of his voice reduced his Limberry brogue to a dim whisper. "You miserable bastards, I'll-" His eyes scrunched closed, as though fighting a migraine. "Wait. You-"

He opened his eyes again, a disjointed look of embarrassment flitting across his battered face. "I-sorry," he said. "I thought...I forgot-"

"You're fine," Delita said. "You took quite a beating."

"I...yeah," the man said.

Ramza and Delita exchanged glances. Delita jerked his head back down the road towards Igros, and Ramza nodded. "We have to keep moving," Ramza said. "Can you handle that?"

"Yes," the young man said. Delita pulled at the reins, and they set off again. Ramza stayed by the man's side.

"You..." The man's words were a little slurred with confusion, his eyes searching Ramza's face. "Did you...you told those fuckers you were a Beoulve?"

Ramza nodded. "I am," he said. "Ramza Beoulve."

"Ah, thank God!" moaned the man. "A little blessing in all this madness. You can save the Marquis."

Ramza shook his head. "I doubt it," Ramza said. "I'm just a cadet."

"A cadet?" the man said.

"Not even graduated," Ramza said. "They had us coming to reinforce the Igros garrison."

"Igros..." The man chuckled, and it sounded almost like a sob. "Still going to Igros."

Ramza did not like that look of misery and pain on the man's face. "Your name?" he asked, trying to lead the other man away from his black thoughts.

"Argus," the young man said absently. "Argus Thadolfas."

Delita's head craned slightly. "Thadolfas?" Delita repeated.

A strange look crossed Argus' face, terror and shame trying to bug out through his bruise-slitted eyes. "I..." he started. "Yes."

"Is something wrong?" Ramza said, eyes flickering between them.

"Nothing," Delita said. "It's nice to meet you, Argus. I'm Delita."

Argus said nothing. His face relaxed ever so slightly. "Delita," he whispered. "Thank you." Ramza thought he could hear tears in Argus' voice.

Ramza could sense larger things moving somewhere he couldn't see, but chose to stay silent. Argus and Delita had been through enough today.

"Can we trust the Hokuten?" whispered Argus, after several minutes had passed.

"Absolutely," Ramza said at once. How could there be any doubt in the knightly order his father had led, that his brothers still led?

"The men who took the Marquis," Argus said. "They wore Hokuten cloaks."

Ramza and Delita stopped again, staring at the man. Ramza wondered if his head injuries were making him delusional.

"That's how they took us by surprise," Argus said. "Whole troop of them on chocobos, riding up saying they had an urgent message for the Marquis. Then they-" he broke off, his voice thick. "Trampled me while I was trying to get close. Killed everyone but the Marquis."

"The men we fought weren't wearing Hokuten crests," Delita said.

"They came after," Argus said. "The ones in cloaks, they...they dragged the Marquis from the carriage."

"He was alive?" Ramza said.

Argus nodded vigorously, then groaned in pain. "Yes," he grunted. "He was. I saw him moving."

"And the men we fought?" Delita prompted.

"Came from the hills. Spoke with the Hokuten. Started killing the survivors. The men with the birds, they...took the Marquis back east, the way we'd come. I managed to...to get where you found me, before they realized I wasn't dead. They were...they were trying to..."

"I know," Ramza said, patting the man's forehead soothingly. "I know."

They resumed their march, but they were much slower now. Argus had lapsed into a dazed silence, and Ramza and Delita led the chocobo and spoke in hushed voices.

"It has to be that Hokuten unit we saw yesterday," Ramza said.

"Agreed," Delita said. "But how?"

"Surely someone could craft fake cloaks," Ramza said.

Delita shook his head. "Thirty authentic cloaks on such short notice?" he asked. "I doubt it. And we'd have seen more wear and tear if they'd been taken from corpses." He was silent for a time, then added, "It could be worse than that."

"How?" Ramza asked.

"They could actually be Hokuten."

Ramza stopped walking and stared at Delita aghast. "Impossible."

"Is it?" Delita asked. "The Hokuten aren't perfect, Ramza. Thirty men from a common background who fought beside the Brigade might be convinced-"

"My brothers wouldn't allow it," Ramza insisted.

"In spite of what you think, Ramza," Delita replied. "Your brothers aren't perfect."

Impossible, wasn't it? As sympathetic as Ramza might have found the Brigade's grievances, that was no excuse for the rank banditry and savagery they clearly used to accomplish their aims. To think that other men of the Hokuten might feel differently was inconceivable. Wasn't it?

"Regardless," Delita said. "In order to know where the Marquis was, someone has to have been feeding them information. It's either Limberry or Gallione, and the Corps doesn't operate in Limberry."

Ramza was silent, mulling over that information. It seemed unthinkable. This was the knightly order his father had commanded. Surely they had not been corrupted. Surely they stayed true. Surely...

But he couldn't be sure, could he? Not with another man's blood upon his face.

Again, that flash of terrible memory. Even though he'd cleaned himself, he imagined his face was still faintly sticky with it. And another, more terrible thought: if Argus hadn't done it, would Razma?

Delita had. Beowulf had. Ramza? Ramza's hands were clean, and that brought its own strange guilt. Would they have stayed clean? Was it only accident? Shouldn't he want to kill such men, who slaughtered and hurt so many?

Traitors in the Hokuten. Traitors who might be sympathetic to a sympathetic cause.

They walked in silence. What else was there to say?

As the sun baked down on them with afternoon heat, they crested a hill and found a small squad of Hokuten charging towards them on birdback. Ramza and Delita tensed, their thoughts filled with Argus' words and the doubts that came with them, but then relaxed when they spied the purple bird in their midst. They waved, and the soldiers adjusted their course. Some five men with seven birds.

"That was quick!" Delita called, as Beowulf drew closer.

"They were already out looking for the Corps!" Beowulf shouted. They came to a halt, and one of the men hopped off his bird and approached Argus, palms out. He wore a band of red and white around his left arm, and he raised his hands to Argus. Runes glowed upon his gloves, and faint light shimmered out from his hands, surrounding the injured squire.

"Already sent a message back to Igros," said a long-haired man who looked hardly older than they were.

"You're in charge?" Delita said.

The man shrugged. "For the moment. Acting Corporal Lambert, at your service."

"Acting Corporal?" Ramza repeated.

"We're short-handed these days," Lambert said.

"You're aware of the situation?" Delita said

"We are now," Lambert replied. "Command had us on high alert. Told us to watch for Corps activity. Didn't know about the Marquis." He grimaced. "This is a real shitshow." He gestured to the two spare birds. "We were fortunate enough to have relief mounts.

Ramza felt a brief pang as he remembered his own bird, down dead upon the plains along with so many men and women, from the Corps and from Limberry. He mumbled his thanks and mounted the bird.

"Who treated his wounds?" asked the healer.

Delita gestured towards Ramza. The man moved to his side and said, "Cadet. Those are some of the finest field dressings I've seen made by any soldier. You've got a knack for it."

Ramza nodded. He should have felt grateful or proud, he supposed. All he felt was empty.

"With your instincts," the man continued. "You might think about training as a Healer."

A Healer? A Healer like the man in robes of red and white, powerless to save his father? So used to seeing men die of plague that he maintained a hardened note of practicality even in the face of all their grief?

And what was better? To be a man who couldn't even kill your enemies? A man who sat and sweated with guilt for being alive when another man had tried to kill him?

"Thank you," Ramza said.

They headed west at a brisk trot, but they had lost too much time in the morning's battle and in their slow march west through most of the day. On birdback it was an easy two-day ride to Igros, but they'd been delayed by half a day, if not more. They were forced to camp for the night, using what gear they hadn't abandoned. And all through the night was the weary sense of danger. After all, thirty men had taken the Marquis. They could come again, and take all eight of them at once.

So even though it was not his watch, Ramza was awake when Argus slipped out of his tent and sat in an uneven slouch in front of him.

"You should be asleep," Ramza said.

"So should you," Argus said.

Silence then. They heard one of the men rustling through the dark, circling the camp to keep an eye out for danger.

"We should be riding," Argus said.

"You don't want to ride through the Plains after dark," Ramza said. "Panthers sometimes hit the roads."

"Panthers," Argus scoffed. "You have such things here?"

"I hear you have worse than that, in the Wastes," Ramza said.

"Ydoran ruins are always full of monsters," Argus said dismissively. "This is different. This should be civilized."

"It is," Ramza said.

"Is it?" Argus said. "Monsters on your roads. On four legs and on two."

Ramza was silent. Argus sighed. "Apologies, Lord Beoulve," he said. "I'm not...I just want to find the Marquis."

"We will," Ramza said. "And Argus, please. I'm not a lord by any means. Just a cadet."

Silence again. The stars gleamed indifferently overhead.

"From Gariland?" asked Argus. Ramza nodded, and Argus said, "I couldn't go. I'm glad, actually. I think I learn more as a squire."

Ramza nodded uncertainly. The practice of squiring had fallen out of fashion as Ivalice had grown centralized, but it was still in vogue in some places, having young men serve as apprentice soldiers. It lacked the consistency of a Gariland education, but there was probably something to be said for someone learning in a more specialized fashion.

"The Marquis chose me himself," Argus whispered. "Granted me an audience. Said I had potential." Another flinching look of hurt in his eyes. "It's my fault, Lor-Ramza."

"It's not, Argus," Ramza said. "What could you have done?"

"I don't know!" Argus shouted. "Something. I could have...surely..."

The man in front of him looked so markedly wretched.

"You survived," Ramza said. He felt the man's blood flecking against his face again, and repeated himself. "You survived. We all did. Now we...we have to try to do more."

Argus nodded, but said nothing else. Eventually they gave in to the exhaustion of the day's events, and the next think Ramza knew he was being shaken awake, his clothes damp with morning dew.

"It's time," Delita said, helping Argus to his feet.

Ramza gazed blearily between them. Two killers, while his hands were still clean.

"Argus," Ramza said. The squire looked at him, and he said, "Thank you for saving me."

Argus flushed. "It was you who saved me, milord."

As dawn stretched its golden fingers over the Plains, they rode for Igros.