(Updating every other Wednesday)\
Chapter 138: The Thundergod's Victory
How long now, until the final battle? How long, until the slaughter?
Cid felt the weight of the coming bloodshed like a storm gathering on the horizon. Nearly a year since the Hokuten had last marched on Bethla Garrison, hot on the heels of the small Nantnen army Cid had led to sack Lesalia. Nearly a year since the Nanten had thrown them back, soaking the Pass in blood. 20,000 men had died in that horrid battle. How many soldiers had fallen since? How many citizens of Ivalice? How much of each others' blood would they shed, before the end?
He gave his curt orders. He checked and double-checked the distribution of his forces: the soldiers that would harass the Hokuten vanguard in the pass, then fall back to the Fort, and the mages and archers and artillery high in the rough pass walls. The Nanten were weaker than they'd been when this war had begun...but so were the Hokuten. They could not take the fortress. Cid's every instinct as a commander told him so.
But Zalbaag Beoulve had seemed so sure he would take Bethla Garrison. And Olan had not yet returned with answers.
He stalked the fortress like a man possessed. His magic itched for use: it took all his will to restrain it. He investigated the barracks down below, and the armories, and the gunpowder rooms. He investigated two galleries nestled near the fortress' heart: one of art (a great statue of a man wrestling a minotaur, their straining muscles cast in living marble; a painting of King Denamda II astride a chocobo, riding out of the sun and into the darkness of war), and one of old artefacts (a shattered axe that predated the Ydorans, a cracked set of green gems that occasionally flashed with corrupt runes). He even went up to the plateau, and walked along the edge of the mighty dam, staring at the rippling depths of Lake Bethla.
He could see no sign of danger. No agents wearing cloaks of darkness, planting secret weapons or etching secret magics. The fortress was as tense as he was—everyone knew of the army marching upon them, and the bloody fighting ahead. They thought they would win, yes...but they didn't think they would come out unscarred.
No one ever did. Battle always lefts its scars: there was one along Cid's left shoulder, and several white pockmarks upon upon his thighs and chest, and an old burn midway down his back. Healers could keep you from scarring, if you got to them fast enough...but Healers were always few and far between, and Cid had spent his life where the fighting was thickest.
And besides...not all scars were left upon the skin. Some were left upon the mind. Some were left upon the soul.
When this war had begun—when he still had hope—he had been proud of how the Nanten fought. He had been proud, as arrows flew, and his soldiers cut a path through Lesalia's defenders, and a column of mages had gathered all their strength and ripped down the mighty walls of the capital city. Lesalia had never been besieged in the 50 Years' War: now, Cid tore through in a single day of hard fighting. He had never wanted this war...but he had fought it, as best he could.
And he had been proud, as his disciplined Nanten had secured the streets, and engulfed the Palace. There had been no looting, no raping: they marched in, accepted the surrender of those who offered it, slew those who resisted. Cid himself had strode into the royal apartments in the mighty fastness of the Lion's Den with sword in hand, and Louveria Larg, green eyes wild with disbelief, had stumbled before him. He had not even needed to bind her hands.
Cid had dared to hope the war would end that day.
But then the Hokuten had come marching. Then cannons had sounded like thunder, smashing men to bloody pulp and tearing chunks of stone from Bethla Garrison's great front. Lightning had ripped through the air, and smote artillerymen from their places: fire had rolled, back and forth, and left the smell of burning skin and hair thick in the air. A desperate, exhausted Nanten had held their ground, and pushed the Hokuten army back. But when the Hokuten had retreated, the Nanten were too beaten and bloodied to follow.
And Cid, with a fresh arrow wound upon his chest, and the blood of fellow Ivalicians upon his sword, had looked over the ruin of men and metal, and known it was not worth it.
All this time. All this blood. For what? For a tyrant queen, and her family's cruel ambitions? Or for an honorable Duke who now dreamed of a throne that was now in reach?
So many men were dead already. How many more would die, and what would they die for?
How long now, before the war began? A day? Two? No more than three. One final, terrible bloodletting. If Zalbaag was right, some horror waited for the men and women of Bethla Garrison, some betrayal Cid could not foresee. Even if he was wrong, the battle to come would break both armies. Even the winner would only rule over rubble.
No word from Olan. And time ran short.
He scrawled a short message to Goltanna. He asked him to meet with him, without any counselors or guards (not when the question of Kilix Conphas and his comrades remained unanswered), to discuss urgent intelligence about the war. He sealed the envelope, and pressed it into a trusted messenger's hand, and bade him stop for no one.
Cid did not hesitate, when he had reached his decision. There was a time and a place for hesitation, even on the battlefield, but to hesitate when action was required was a certain path to defeat and death. There was still a chance to avoid the battle...but only if Cid acted swiftly.
And if his last appeal failed, well...Cid would do as he had done all his life. He would serve the man he had sworn his fealty to, and hope his doubts were unfounded, and pray to God for miracles and mercy.
The messenger returned in short order. Goltanna would clear the throne room, and await him at dusk.
When Cid walked through Bethla Garrison's halls, he felt truly calm for the first time in months. Perhaps Olan would return in time. Perhaps Goltanna would listen. But he was acting as his conscience dictated. He was working as best he knew how, to serve both his liege lord and the kingdom he loved. His legs felt strong beneath him: his thoughts were serene.
He pushed open the door to the throne room. Goltanna sat upon the throne, itself on a carpeted dais that stood steps above the floor. The gold-lined red carpet descended those steps, and reached Cid's feet as he stepped inside.
The doors slammed shut behind him, and swords sprang to his throat.
Cid froze. His hand did not reach for his sword—if these soldiers were trying to kill him, they would be swinging those swords, not pointing them at him. So he held himself very still, and studied the soldiers around him.
He could not see the two behind him, though he sensed them clearly enough: the too-tight sword grip in the soldier at his left should, the slight hitch in the breathing of the one on his right. There were two soldiers in front of him: a man with limp blonde hair on his left, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and a woman with short brown hair on his right, her dark eyes feverishly bright. He did not recognize either of them. Nothing so remarkable in that: he did not know every man and woman who fought for the Nanten. But if they were among Duke Goltanna's guard, Cid should have at least known their faces.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked. He did not look at these unknown soldiers, holding their swords at his throat. He looked up, to where Duke Druksmald Goltanna sat upon his throne.
"I could ask you the same, Count Orlandeau." Goltanna's voice was curt and commanding, with all an experienced general's authority. But, though Goltanna was only a few years Cid's senior, he no longer had a general's body. His belly was a little bigger, but that was nothing: there were many stout soldiers. It was in the weary slump of his shoulders, the mix of pale skin and underlying flush. The years Duke Goltanna had spent touring battlefields were long behind him. Cid wondered if that was why this war had lasted so long: if the Duke had forgotten what a horror war truly was.
"I am not the one holding a friend at swordpoint," Cid said stiffly.
Goltanna laughed. His limp white mustache twitching droopily over his trembling lips. His laughter was sharp, brittle with hysteria. "No?" He waved a crumpled piece of paper. "You have spent the last day storming through our fortress, probing all its nook and crannies, with a storm upon your brow and anger in your eyes. And now, before the battle that will decide the fate of Ivalice, you ask me to meet you alone." He leaned forwards, his dark eyes burning. "Why, dear friend? So you could drive your blade into my back, and open the gates of Bethla Garrison wide for your Beoulve friends?"
A black gulf opened beneath Cid's thoughts. He gaped at Goltanna. "You...you cannot mean...you cannot think...!"
"No?" Goltanna asked. "Then tell me. Where is Olan?"
Confusion misted Cid's stumbling thoughts. "What?"
"Your son left the fortress two nights past," Goltanna continued. "After a heated conversation in your quarters. Do you deny this?"
"No, why would I-"
"He has left," the Duke continued, and his words seemed as hollow as his eyes. "On the eve of battle. For what?"
Cid shook his head. "If someone was eavesdropping, they know full well-"
Goltanna waved one hand dismissively. "Yes. A scouting mission. In search of enemy armies, crossing the Bethla Wastes or marching through the Zirekile Mountains." It was Goltanna's turn to scoff. "Do you take me for a fool? No army could survive such a march! What commander would order such a reckless, suicidal mission? And even if such an army came marching, there are other scouts who could see such danger approaching."
"None as sharp as Olan!" Cid retorted.
"Yes, of course." Goltanna leaned forwards. "Your so-sharp son, who knows the layout of our fortress, the disposition of our troops, the exact size and scale of our supplies and our operations. I am sure he could spot an enemy army approaching." The Duke paused, and gave a gasp of realization. "Or...he could sell what he knows to such an enemy!"
Cid shook his head fiercely. Cold darkness stole through his veins. It was so hard to think clearly. "My lord, Olan seeks out dangers we may not have foreseen-"
"What dangers would those be, Count Orlandeau?" Goltanna asked. "Perhaps you mean to accuse my own counselors of treachery? Perhaps you meant to accuse the church, and make yourself a heretic as well as a traitor."
It was so very hard to think. "My lord-"
"My lord!" Goltanna sneered. "I suppose I should have seen it sooner. You lead a daring raid, and your son slips through the battlelines on one scouting mission, and the Marquis dies."
"My lord, what are you-"
"And that other scouting mission," Goltanna snapped. "Scouting Lesalia for us, was he? Or was he selling intelligence to the Hokuten?" He stood up from the throne. "How long ago did they seduce you, Count Orlandeau? Were you working with Glevanne?"
Cid felt frozen, inside and out. The ice had seeped out of his veins, encased his limbs. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak.
"Years in my service, Count Orlandeau." There was genuine grief in Goltanna's voice. "Years, fighting side by side against the Ordallians. And this is how you repay me."
A flicker of anger melted some of the ice. Cid managed to speak. "You really think so little of me?"
"There are still loyal men in Ivalice, Count Orlandeau," the Duke replied. "They have laid out your crimes, and your sins." He shook his head. "You might make Germonique blush, Count Orlandeau."
Another flicker of anger. The ice melted a little further. "I would ask you answer the question, my lord."
"And I would ask where you get the audacity to ask anything of me!" Duke Goltanna snapped. "You, Count Orlandeau, who plot with my enemies! You, who mutter empty words of peace and hesitation, as you sharpen your blade in the dark!" He slashed one hand through the air. "Your plans stand exposed, Thundergod! Will you be honest now, or go to your grave a liar?"
The ice was gone now. Cid felt clear inside, calm as a sea before an approaching storm. He looked at the man he had pledged his loyalty to. The man he had fought for, bled for, killed for. The man who might, one day soon, be king of Ivalice.
"Honest," Cid repeated. "Very well."
And he drew his sword.
There was a crack of thunder, and the swords in front of him went flying. He felt rather than saw the two behind him start to lunge, ducked and twisted, smashed a fist into one jaw and felt teeth break beneath his knuckles, drove Excaligard's pommel into the side of the other man's neck. Another crack of thunder, as he whipped low, swept the legs out from under one man who had plunged after his sword, hammered a quick blow to his throat that left him gagging. The woman had managed to recover her sword, too late: Cid knocked her to the ground with one booming kick, then dropped his heel into her armored chest. The metal cracked beneath his boot.
Only a handful of seconds had passed. Cid stood above the four soldiers who had held their blades to his throat. With Excaligard in hand, he looked up at the throne.
To his credit, Goltanna had not flinched. The fear and anger were bright in his eyes...but so was the determination. Cid almost saw General Goltanna in those eyes. Saw him, and grieved for him.
"When I was nearly seven, my father posed a question to me," Cid said, as casually as though they were having a drink after a hard day's work. He began to stroll towards Goltanna and his throne. "He asked me to imagine a man, walking through a field, when a dog sets upon him, and tears out his throat. First, he asked me: what difference does it make to the man, if the dog is wild or not? And when I could not answer, he told me. No difference at all. Not to the man. But to the dog..."
He had reached the bottom of the dais on which the throne sat. three steps above the rest of the room. He paused there for a moment, looking up at the Duke. "Then he asked me...what was the difference, between a wild dog and a guard dog?" Cid took the first step. "That one was easy, even for me. A guard dog serves a purpose. A wild dog serves only himself."
Another step, closer to Goltanna. Through all the battles of Cid's life, he was not sure his sword had ever felt so heavy in his hand. "He explained to me that a man is much like a dog this way. He either serves a purpose, or lives only for himself. But a man's lot is much better than a dog's, because he gets to choose. Not just if he is wild or not...but who he serves, and how."
"The night before I was to join the Nanten as a squire, he reminded me of this conversation. A knight, like a guard dog, is to use his fangs and claws to protect his master. To tear at his enemy's throats, or die trying. So he bade me, be careful. Who I fought for. Who I killed for. Who I died for."
He took another step. He was almost at the dais. Still, the Duke hadn't moved. Still, something like grief haunted those feral eyes. Those wild dog's eyes.
"It was two years later that I saw Duke Goltanna's son lead the vanguard against the Ordallian lines. His axe in the air, as the arrows felt like rain around him. His shout, louder than the bursting of the enemy cannon. "To me!" Druksmald Goltanna shouted, and I ran to him. And as I ran, I thought...this is a man worth serving."
One final step. His chest did not quite touch Goltanna's. He locked his eyes with the man in front of him.
"I wish I saw him now."
He shoved his family's sword into Goltanna's hand, and took a step back down the dais. Goltanna's eyes were wide with disbelief, flickering between Cid and the sword in his hand.
"But there is no one worth fighting for here. No one worth killing for." He spread his arms wide. "To an old guard dog like me, only one thing remains."
Cid did not want to die. There was a battle to be fought, and enemies afield. The same plot that now threatened him threatened his son, and his army, and his kingdom. And even if he had been sure that all of those were safe...for all the Church's preaching, he did not know what awaited him on the other side of death.
But he had been a soldier for nearly forty years. He had faced death more times than he could count. Death was never kind. Death was never easy. But just let them try to dishonor the knight who spared the lord who had betrayed him. Who put his sword into that lord's hands, by way of resignation.
He was Cidolfas Orlandeau, the Thundergod. Death was better than dishonor.
Goltanna looked at the sword in his hand. He looked up at the Thundergod. He looked pale, and old, and scared. Another crack in Cid's heart, as he took in every tremulous detail of the pathetic man staring back at him. So much of his life wasted, in service to such a wretch.
Goltanna started to raise the sword. Then stopped, and shook his head.
"Take him away." His voice was thin, and shaking. When the defeated knights slowly approached Cid, he turned, and strode among them. They could pretend they were his captors, if they wished. They all knew the truth. If he was a captive, it was only by choice.
His heart was breaking. But Cid had won this battle.