Targa
Thanks to Marquis Fertio’s power, Centena lived on—if only a little longer. The bombardment from the cliffs on either side had noticeably eased, and even the wyverns were gone from the sky. All of that could be traced back to the marquis’s terrible sorcery; there was no other explanation.
“This is our chance. I’ll send scouts, then have the men ready to move at once,” someone said.
“Wait. That may be rash,” another voice warned.
“But if we only entrench, no reinforcements will arrive. We must take the initiative—” the argument ran on even as the ground rumbled beneath us and fine dust sifted from the ceiling. Time was slipping away; and yet the council produced no answer.
Everyone felt oddly unsteady on this battlefield—for once it did not behave like the ones we knew.
“…If things continue as they are, there’s no route left. I think we must counterattack,” I heard, and I looked at the man in the center. When the marquis was addressed, he answered with weary disdain.
“Boring talk, but yes—if you think rationally, that’s where we end up.”
He spit the words out, and the room went heavy. Centena was the linchpin of our defenses. If we surrendered it, enemy hordes would pour across the wide plains of Fertio’s domain. They could choke off the roads and sever supply to Scudetto and Ceat. If Centena fell, His Majesty could be forced to withdraw before an encirclement—then stopping the Yellenetta–Shelvian advance would be all but impossible. The fate of Scuderia might be sealed. No single head should bear that blame.
I could see the thought in every face.
“Wh-what should we do…? This is beyond merely answering for our actions—” one of the younger commanders stammered.
“If we cannot hold, there will be nowhere to return to,” another whispered.
“Send for neighboring lords and mercenary bands—demand reinforcements now!” some cried.
The marquis’s assessment carried weight; it had frightened them. The fear for one’s future, one’s life, surfaces quickly. But first and foremost, we were knights. I watched the panic and felt a bitter clarity about the difference between cowards and those who stand.
“…Then there is only a desperate gambit left,” I said, turning back to the marquis. He narrowed his eyes.
“I would sorry to disappoint you, but that is the rational conclusion,” he muttered.
I swallowed and laid out my plan.
“Your Grace, forgive me, but I would ask you to provide rear-guard support. We’ll need magic to suppress the cannon fire that may come from the surrounding cliffs.”
The marquis folded his arms and considered.
“So you mean to draw their eyes, charge head-on, and—what? Assemble second and third waves? Or are you thinking to feint while others climb the cliffs and strike from behind?”
He looked through me as if reading the map of my intention. I shook my head.
“No. We will form a mounted unit and smash straight through their lines—fast, concentrated, and mobile.”
“That’s suicide,” he said flatly.
Not so. I shook my head again.
“It is dangerous, but possible. From what we’ve seen, the cannon lacks accuracy and cannot be fired in rapid succession. A small, swift body of thirty-odd riders moving quickly is hard for them to catch.”
“I see. Then they could move before the guns get another shot. Still—foolish. Do you think the enemy left the road empty? You’d be charging into a large force.”
“I know they’ll have a large army waiting. Still, we must act.”
My voice grew firmer as I met the marquis’s glare. He sighed, apparently bemused by my appetite for impossibilities.
“…You still want things not present here. Perhaps I am more aged than I thought,” he murmured to himself. I frowned.
He clicked his tongue, then let the words fall, “Never mind. If you insist on a suicidal charge, do it with conviction. I will cooperate.”
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