Chapter 12: Purpose

...when the War of the Lions finally broke, the two armies had their own advantages. His location in Zeltennia and his careful maintenance of the fortifications from the 50 Years' War gave Goltanna a decisive defensive advantage, but he lacked the numbers and experience that gave the Hokuten leave to outmaneuver him. Not only were his Limberry forces still depleted, but the Hokuten had trained their new recruits against the Death Corps. Besides this, a significant number of the Corps was captured or surrendered, and were granted amnesty in exchange for service to the Crown...

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

Pebbles scattered underfoot as swords clashed in ringing blows across the foothills. A bitter wind blew out of the mountains, carrying it with the wet frost of the distant sea. Farther up the hills, Beowulf dueled two men: Delita had already left a body in his wake, and was charging up the slope. Farther up the hill, Argus, Lambert, and the other Hokuten soldiers fought a wide line of troops.

Ramza's sword was fallen in the dust, but so had his foe's. His metal-lined leather gauntlets gave his blows extra weight, and he knocked aside the Corps' soldier's flailing punches, pinned him to the ground and wrapped his arm around his neck. The man struggled and twisted against his chest, his breathing coming in frenzied gasps. With agonizing slowness, the man stopped struggling. As his breath slowed to a dull whisper, Ramza released his grip, and the man slumped unconscious to the dirt.

But there was no time to rest, though Ramza's nose was bleeding and his ribs ached and he felt a bruise forming on his brow. He rose to his feet, racing up the hill to help the others.

It was only two days after the group had returned to Igros that the northern defenses of the Hokuten were crippled by a surprise attack. Everyone knew that the Corps had their strongest bases in the frigid north along the Rhana Strait, but there was only a single winding pass through the mountains that separated the Strait and Igros, and the Hokuten had manned garrisons at the entrance to this pass so that no army could surprise them. They wouldn't fritter away their forces on a push to the north, but they could make sure that no one ever came through.

At least, so they thought. But small, well-trained bands of Death Corps veterans had migrated through the mountains themselves, catching the forts and garrisons by surprise. Suddenly there were Corps soldiers within striking distance of Igros, and the Hokuten meant to guard them were scattered across southern Gallione.

The forces of Limberry were still days away, but the Special Limberry Liaison could not miss a chance to show his talents, and he brought his Hokuten escort along for the ride. So Ramza Beoulve's resolve not to kill was tested for the first time.

The problem, Ramza had realized, was the sword itself. The sword was not a defensive weapon. The sword might be able to block a foe's blade, but it's principle purpose was to cut an opponent's flesh. Ramza did not have the skill to cut and not to kill: even if he did, he would have been hesitant to wound, not knowing what consequences it might bring. A fist might kill a man, but the odds were much smaller.

Ramza had been one of the best at the Academy at unarmed combat (which wasn't saying much: no one was counting on their fists winning a war). Over the next few days, he had cause to get better still, as he learned how to twist just so to knock a blade from an enemy's hand. Five small battles, and six men captured.

But it was too risky, too hard a fight for too little gain. He needed better tools, if he was to cling to this thread of righteousness.

He started with Argus, archery practice after every battle, even when his ribs ached and his arms felt hollow and the cut on his face had not yet healed. Practicing and practicing until he could hit a dummy anywhere he wanted from ten yards, then twenty, then fifty.

"But your targets move," Argus said. "Doesn't matter how keen your eyes. You can't practice hitting a moving target without hitting a living thing."

"How did you learn?" Ramza asked.

"Hunting," Argus said. "It's about all my father did, towards the end."

"Your father was a hunter?" Ramza asked.

"He started before my grandfather..." Argus trailed off. Ramza glanced towards him, but couldn't make out his face through the thick shadows of the night. "And anyways, saved us on food. Our coffers were starting to run dry. He probably bought us another few years from hunting." Argus shrugged. "I was handy with a bow before I was 12."

But there could be no time to hunt, could there? It was taking all the energy Ramza had merely to practice hitting the stationary targets. He was exhausted.

He thought the solution might lie in magic, so he he consulted with the healer who'd complimented his dressings—Rauffe.

"That's a tricky question," Rauffe admitted. "Trickier because I'm not a trained mage."

"But you're a healer," Ramza said.

"A military healer," Rauffe said. "We learn according to other traditions. With the right equipment, it doesn't take much work. I only trained for six months at Igros. Didn't even need to go to Gariland magic academy."

"Why does that make a difference?" Ramza asked.

"You want to...what?" Rauffe said. "Put your enemies to sleep, right?"

"Something like that," Ramza said.

Rauffe shook his head. "I don't know much magical theory," he said. "But your body constantly carries a field of magic around it. This field protects you, or strengthens you. Usually when you're fighting someone else it's kind of a wash: their field tries to protect them, yours tries to hurt them. It takes a lot of time, energy, effort, and equipment to strengthen that field so you can use it. You'd have to find a way to make their body do something it doesn't want to do."

"But you can heal people!" Ramza said.

"I can't do anything," Rauffe said. He raised his gloves. "These cost about half as much as I'll make this year. Take them away from me, and I can't do much more than heal scrapes and bruises. The only reason I can heal anyone, even with these, is because the body heals on its own. I'm strengthening their magic, not trying to bypass it."

Ramza sighed. He knew a little of this—at least enough to know how difficult it was. Even in the halcyon days of the Ydoran Empire, mages had been a minority. Now they had only the dregs of what Ydoran knowledge they could find, and only the Gariland Magic Academy produced any mages of consistent quality.

"Can you teach me anyways?" Ramza asked.

"What I can," Rauffe said.

Enough Hokuten units were eventually filtered back to serve as guards for Igros, and Ramza and his friends returned to the Beoulve Manor. Argus consulted with the Marquis: Beowulf disappeared with Reis: Ramza and Delita trained with Coproral Lambert and his men.

But even Ramza and Delita could not train all the time. Alma and Teta found them late one night with two bottles of wine.

"So they sent you to your fancy school so you could not kill anyone," Alma said.

"Shouldn't you be at school?" Ramza asked.

Alma shook her head. "Dyce wants us home," he said. "Especially with the Corps near Igros. We're safer in the Manor."

"And I'm sure you mind being pulled away," Ramza said.

"Oh, dreadfully," Alma replied, smiling.

"What about you?" Delita asked.

Teta shrugged. "I mean, it means more time with Alma," Teta said. "But I'm sure I'll endure."

"Thanks," Alma grunted.

There was a knocking upon the door. "Come in!" Alma called.

"It's my room," muttered Ramza, but he trailed off as Dycedarg entered, wearing formal robes with Service hanging at his side.

"Ramza," Dycedarg said. "May I speak with you in the hallway?"

Ramza's throat went dry. He rose to his feet, waved Delita down when he started to rise as well, and followed Dycedarg into the hall.

"You've done well, Ramza," Dycedarg said, but his voice was just as soft and deadly as it had been when they'd returned from their rescue of the Marquis.

"Thank you," Ramza said cautiously.

"Five battles," Dycedarg said. "Five victories. Twelve men captured. Six of them by you."

"Yes," Ramza said.

"I hear you haven't killed a single man," Dycedarg said.

Ramza hesitated. He could feel the weight of his brother's shadow. "I haven't," he said.

"Ramza," Dycedarg said. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to stop the Corps," Ramza said.

"Without killing anyone?" Dycedarg said.

"If I can."

"You can't." Dyecdarg sighed. "I told you this before, Ramza. To be a Beoulve requires-"

"Requires what, Dyce?" Ramza asked. He felt his stomach quiver at his own audacity, and saw a look of shock on Dycedarg's face. But exhausted as he was, desperate as he was, Ramza felt righteous. This was something he wanted to do, and he was surprised to find the courage that gave him. "Why should I kill men who were wronged?"

Dycedarg's face hardened. "So you blame the Crown?"

"I blame no one," Ramza said. "I don't want to have to make decisions like that. They were treated unjustly, and they resort to unjust means to correct it. I don't want to be unjust, Dyce.

"So you can think of no reason to ever execute a man?" Dycedarg asked.

"I can think of no reason to execute these men!" Ramza shouted.

Dycedarg inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. "You cannot possibly live up to the responsibilities of our name without bloodying your sword," Dycedarg said.

"You may be right," Ramza said. "But I see no reason I shouldn't try."

Dycedarg closed his eyes and sighed. He reached beneath his robes and pulled out a strange bundle of purple cloth and a crumpled piece of paper. He offered them to Ramza. "Gently," he said.

"What is this?" Ramza asked, taking them from Dycedarg's hands. The bundle of cloth had a strange, cloying smell that made Ramza's head feel light.

"Bestrald was almost poisoned at his tenth birthday," Dycedarg said. "I was there." It took Ramza a moment to remember that Bestrald was Prince Larg's first name. "That was how I started researching poisons and their antidotes. I was quite good at it. I admit, I've never had cause to put the knowledge to practical use, and even if I had, what you're holding is outside my field of expertise."

"What am I holding?" Ramza asked.

"A bundle of herbs wrapped around a detonator of the kind we use for our cannons," Dycedarg said. "In theory, this will explode on contact with the ground and release a cloud of spores and pollen that will cloud the eyes, bodies, and minds of anyone who breathes it in. It's non-toxic, too. The worst they'll get is similar to a hangover. The paper has a list of the ingredients you need, and instructions on how to package and prepare it. Most quartermasters should have the supplies on hand."

Ramza stared at the purple bundle in his hand, and lifted his eyes back to Dycedarg. "When did you...?"

"It's copied off a design we used in the War," Dycedarg said. "I just modified it a little."

"Dyce-" Ramza started.

"It is difficult to be a Beoulve, Ramza," Dycedarg said. "You cannot keep the blood off your hands forever. The least I can do is make sure your hands are clean as long as possible."

Ramza hugged his brother. He felt Dyce stiffen in surprise, and then wiry arms folded around Ramza.

He would have liked more time to learn how to use these devices, but the next morning he awoke with his mouth dry and his head pounding in time with the knocking at his door. The Marquis had given Argus new instructions, and Argus needed his escort.

The Death Corps was entrenched across southern Gallione, occupying old forts and abandoned towns emptied by the long, brutal progress of the 50 Years' War. Man-for-man, the Hokuten could probably have bested the Corps, but each fight turned into an unforgiving slog that tied up too many troops. With the forces of Limberry on the march, that was no longer such a problem, but the Corps knew it, too, and the attack in the north had acted like a signal, sending their forces raiding. Southeast Gallione was a hornet's nest of small Corps bands, making sure that when Limberry's army arrived it wound find an inhospitable countryside, slowing their movements.

So the Special Limberry Liaison was sent to clear the way, along with his escort and a handful of Hokuten knights.

Ramza knew intellectually that this feud with the Death Corps was practically a skirmish compared to the miles-wide battles of the 50 Years' War, but he could not truly understand this fact. He had never fought like this before. Three battles stood out in his memory for a long time to come. The first was an old blocky garrison protected by some twenty armed men and women, where swords clashed and clattered against each other in the heavy afternoon air. The second was an bandoned tavern house, whose archers had sunk an arrow into Rauffe's shoulder before Ramza and his friends even knew they were in danger. The third was an old canyon lined with tents and guarded by one of the few mages who served Corps, lathering the outlying hills with fire and lightning to drive back any man who got close.

But the Corps had not reckoned the Special Limberry Liaison and his escort. The two dozen swords who held the old garrison were not prepared for Beowulf and Delita, whirling in among them like cyclones of steel, cutting down anyone who might try to stop them. And though the mage bathed the outlying hills in frost, fire, and crackling lightning, he made himself too prominent a target, and one swift arrow from Argus felled him where he stood.

As for the archers in the old tavern? Every one of them lived.

The Special Limberry Liaison and his escort had approached at dusk, and retreated the moment the arrow hit their healer. Rauffe and Ramza worked together to dress Rauffe's wound, and the group tried to decide what to do. But Ramza already knew what he would do. He spent the next few hours studying the tavern from afar, eying its doors and its windows. There was one he kept his eye on: a window that was always open on the top floor, with an archer visible inside.

In the deep of the night, Ramza prepared four arrows, each with one of Dycedarg's devices bound around its head. They gave the arrows a strange weight, but Argus had compared them to fire arrows, so Ramza had practiced a little bit with those as they moved across Gallione. Now he put what he had learned to use. He trained his Hokuten-issue bow, aimed just above the tavern, and released.

The arrow exploded into a cloud of white dust. He heard coughs and shouts of alarm from inside the tavern, but Ramza was still preparing his other arrows, aiming for other doors, other windows. As the shouts and cries and coughs escalated, he laid down his bow and charged forwards with his sword in his hand. He rested his other hand on his chest, and the twin runes he'd etched there with Rauffe's help glowed for a moment.

Ramza had not learned nearly enough to do any meaningful healing, and without proper Ydoran materials he couldn't really enhance himself anyways. But this was slightly different. The two runes had been inscribed with some smaller materials and were designed to simply absorb his ambient magical energy, and released it back into his system. One to ease his breathing. One that boosted his immune system so it could fight off foreign toxins.

So when Ramza burst through the tavern door, he and he alone could breathe easy, and fight with his mind clear. Choking and gasping, the Corps tried to fight the interloper. Choking and gasping, they couldn't. Swords swung, and were knocked from numb hands. Clumsy fingers fumbled for their bows, before Ramza was upon them, prying their weapons from their grasps and knocking them to the ground. The fight was endless, but he needed to do this alone. He needed to know he could.

"And how many were there?" Instructor Daravon asked, pouring a generous measure of whiskey into Ramza's glass.

"Eight," Ramza said, his legs, chest, and arms aching as he curled back against Daravon's comfortable armchair.

"Eight," repeated Daravon, shaking his head. "Eight soldiers, taken alive. And you're only a cadet yet, Ramza." He smiled, and looked around the room. "You've all done so well."

Victorious from their campaign across southern Gallione, they had come to Gariland, waiting to make contact with the Limberry forces streaming in from the east. Beowulf had insisted they come to his father's, and Ramza could see why. It was a cozy, dilapidated place squatting in the center of a few wild acres on the outskirts of Gariland. The foyer they were sitting in had an enormous fireplace casting shadows against the vaulted ceilings, with a haphazard array of sunken furniture scattered within.

"Even me?" Beowulf asked, and in that moment for all he'd done at their side he looked very young.

"Even you," Daravon said. He bent over his son and kissed him on the forehead. Beowulf squirmed with embarrassment, but could not hid the smile on his face.

Argus rose from his chair and stumbled to the balcony. Ramza rose from his own chair, his head swimming, but hesitated.

"Go," Daravon said.

Ramza followed after. He pushed open the glass doors and stepped out onto a little hemispherical balcony overlooking Daravon's acres. He slumped down onto the banister next to Argus, and the two men stared out over the wild grass with the stars gleaming overhead.

"Thank you," Ramza said.

"All I did was teach you to hold a bow," Argus said.

"You also killed that mage," Delita said, stepping through the doors and standing on the opposite side of Argus.

"I suppose," Argus said.

"Argus," Ramza said. "What happened to your parents?"

Argus said nothing for a while, and merely drank from his glass. Ramza did not press the issue, and he and Delita did not exchange glances.

"Father loved to hunt," Argus croaked. "Surprised a back of minotaurs during mating season. They...he didn't make it." Argus was silent again, finishing his glass. "Mother didn't last long. She'd always been a bit too fond of her wine, and she mixed it with a tincture she was supposed to take sparingly for her back trouble. The Healers said it was an accident, but..."

The stars gleamed over head. Wind rustled the grass.

"And now you're the Special Limberry Liaison," Ramza said.

"I...yes." A smile flickered across Argus' face and then was gone.

"Choking plague," Ramza said. "For mine."

"And mine." Delita said.

Another long silence, as the three young men stood together with their glasses in hand.

"A month ago," Delita said. "We were squires and cadets."

The three men stood on the balcony, and stared out at the stars. And for the first time he could remember, Ramza felt like he was exactly where he wanted to be.