The Warm Southern Territory - 8
The war, now grinding into its second year, was devouring the Empire’s prestige and national strength in real time. The high command of the Northern Subjugation Army wrestled with the sinking feeling that the longer the fighting dragged on, the deeper they sank into a quagmire—fighting the urge to simply bite their tongues and end it.
The northern nomad tribes had never once formed a single unified force. That was why the Empire had always treated them as little more than convenient targets for the occasional punitive expedition. Yet here they were, two full years later, taking a solid punch to the gut from those same “targets.” Worse still, a man who was supposedly nothing more than a common nomad was shattering the Empire’s proud armies head-on and flaunting his might for all to see.
How absurdly powerful Kagan was, how terrifying a unified nomad cavalry charge could be—none of that mattered. The only thing the continent would remember was this: the Empire that could not even defeat a band of nomads.
“If we lose here, the Empire is finished.”
That single sentence from the Duke of Victory. Coming from the man who led the Imperial Army by the Emperor’s own command, it was a statement of open disloyalty and utter despair—yet not a single soul could contradict him. Yes. Lose this war, and the Empire was finished. Kpelleofen might still exist on a map, but the Empire itself would be gone.
If they failed to stop the man who dared call himself Kagan while a true Empire still stood, they would lose every justification for ruling over the other nations of the continent. Allow a new empire to be born simply because they could not hold back mere nomads, and every nation would begin to question their strength.
Of course the other countries knew how monstrous Kagan was. But what did that matter? The Empire that had long sat above them was about to crash into the dirt; the only sensible thing was to prepare to carve off a piece for themselves.
“In the last battle, the Heaven-Defier was wounded.”
A few days earlier they had clashed with Kagan and, miraculously, succeeded in inflicting a meaningful injury. The price had been steep—the 4th Division chief and several other key assets had been so badly hurt they had to be shipped back to the Imperial Capital for recovery. Still, they were alive. That counted for something.
“Karl Crassius.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Can you do it?”
“I will see it done. Without fail.”
The Duke of Victory did not let the opportunity slip. He could not let it slip. For the first time in two years the ever-unscathed Kagan was wounded. If they missed this chance, when would the next one come? Certainly not while the Empire still stood whole.
So it had to be now. Every force the Imperial Army could immediately muster would be thrown at Kagan to end him. That force was the team leaders of the 4th Division—myself included. Long experience had taught us that sheer numbers meant nothing against Kagan.
“A teleport scroll. The Demon Duke poured everything into making it.”
With that scroll they would fling Kagan straight into the waiting kill team. It would not be easy, but it would still be easier than actually killing him. Once they reached him, teleporting him away would be the simple part.
“The fate of the Empire rests on you gentlemen.”
Fortunately another special unit managed to slam a scroll into the warlord who had been leading his host, successfully separating Kagan from his army. And the 4th Division team leaders waiting at the drop point succeeded in killing him.
Five of the seven never rose again. Honestly, the fact that even two of us survived was a miracle in itself.
But miracles, it seemed, had only been reserved for one.
“I’m sorry, Karl.”
On the way back to the Imperial Capital, Hecate followed the other five.
In the end, of the suicide squad that killed Kagan, I was the only one who returned to the capital alive.
As if stopping the memories there were even an option. They just kept coming, one after another without end.
I can’t even erase them.
Unfortunately, memory is not something you can simply switch off whenever you like. The things you least want to recall suddenly surface, and even when you try to fold them away again they refuse to stay folded.
Whether it was because I had idly touched the old scars or because the anniversary was drawing near and my mind was reacting on its own, the memories of those days flooded in the entire time I sat on the beach.
Still, neither of the people sitting on either side of me asked if I was all right, so at least I hadn’t let the gloom show too openly on my face. Time must have dulled the edges; it no longer flared as violently as it once had.
“That was so much fun!”
Luise beamed as she climbed into the carriage headed back to the resort. She had said she would only rest a little before going back into the water, yet she never left the mat until the very end. Thanks to her, the club members had gradually drifted out of the sea as well until every last spot on the mat was taken.
Luise, at least, had gone in and come out again. Margeta never so much as dipped a toe in the ocean. She herself did not seem to mind. In any case I gave Luise a suitable nod of agreement.
“Yeah. You played hard right up to the last minute.”
Well—Luise did, not me. Officially the school trip ran until tomorrow, but tomorrow we would leave for the Academy right after breakfast, so today was effectively the final day. She had packed it full to the brim.
“Do you think we can come again next year?”
“Probably. It’s too good a place to visit only once.”
Beside me Margeta seemed to flinch, but I deliberately kept my eyes forward. The sad truth of every school trip: the ones who play and the ones who suffer are never the same people.
“Maybe next year we’ll go to a different duchy. Or even the Imperial Capital.”
Later spoke with a small smile, half-joking, and the reaction was generally positive. Visiting a new region instead of the same place twice did not sound bad at all—especially the Capital, whose prosperity was almost beyond description.
The only pity was the quiet way Margeta lowered her head, clearly already imagining herself drafting the itinerary for a Capital trip next year. At this rate I might actually witness Margeta deserting the Student Council next year.
I don’t want the Capital either.
Going on a trip from a temporary posting only to end up at your original workplace? That was pure insanity. Anyone who suggested it to me might get a slap. Later, being royalty, I would restrain myself.
And so the carriage rolled into the resort beneath a thick layer of completely opposite reactions to the exact same topic. I planned to rest in my room until dinner.
“Chief.”
If only the front-desk clerk had not called out to me just then, I might have managed it.
I sent the kids upstairs first and walked over. The clerk bowed politely and set a box on the counter.
“A delivery from His Grace.”
“His Grace?”
“Yes. He said it was something the Chief would need.”
What could that man possibly send me? I had already told him to send any money straight to the Audit Department. Still, if he claimed it was something necessary, at least he had not shoved some bizarre “secret order” into the box.
Ah.
I opened the lid and found six bottles of a very familiar brand. Boyar Wine—one of the Golden Duke’s flagship products.
Wow. He actually remembered.
“Please convey my thanks to His Grace.”
“Understood.”
I closed the lid carefully and gathered the box into my arms. I had already received more than enough as a reward for the subjugation, and now this on top of it. I was genuinely touched.
No wonder his influence spreads so far. The man knows how to handle people.
Having received something unexpected from an unexpected place, there was someone I needed to inform.
“Well look who it is. The bastard lounging alone by the sea, living large.”
“I’ve been through plenty. A man can take a break once in a while, can’t he?”
I contacted the Minister for the regular report. He picked up immediately, so he must have been free.
“I got the wine. You don’t need to buy any yourself.”
I held the bottles the Golden Duke had given me up to the communication orb so he could see. Originally the Minister had planned to procure them for me; now I had them myself.
He fell silent for a moment, then lifted a basket into view of the orb.
“Ah.”
“I bought some today too.”
Six bottles of Boyar Wine nestled neatly in a basket—identical to the ones the Golden Duke had sent.
“I went out of my way to make time and buy these…”
“Well… two bottles per person should still make them happy, right?”
“If they drink that much they’ll be too drunk to make it back to heaven. How much were you planning to pour down their throats?”
He snorted a laugh. I could only awkwardly stroke the bottles. I had been glad a costly gift would spare the Minister’s wallet, but the timing had been a little off.
“So where did you get them?”
“His Grace the Golden Duke gave them to me.”
“Huh. He remembered last year, then.”
I quietly nodded. That seemed to be the case.
Last year around this same time we had also tried to secure Boyar Wine. Production had been unusually low for various reasons, and every bottle that reached the open market had already been snatched up. In the end I had been chewed out by the Minister and, as a last resort, contacted the Golden Duke. At first even he had looked reluctant—until I explained.
“Wine for the memorial? You should have said that first, my boy.”
Once he understood the purpose he handed it over immediately. I never expected him to remember and set some aside for me again this year.
“Still, it’s a relief. At least we didn’t have to scramble for it at the last second like last year.”
“True enough.”
“The little punk who told me to leave it to him because he’d handle it himself… and then couldn’t get a single bottle until the very end. How funny was that?”
He casually dredged up my black history and left me with nothing to say. I honestly hadn’t known Boyar Wine was that rare… I had just thought of it as an expensive wine.
“I’ll send a mage to headquarters. Don’t forget.”
“Don’t worry. You’re the one who should be watching out for dementia, Your Excellency.”
“You little bastard.”
We traded our usual insults as naturally as breathing, then ended the call.
He’s sending a mage, is he?
I had been planning to request one myself, but it seemed he had already booked the appointment. Convenient.
I stared at the now-dark communication orb for a moment, then carefully set the wine down. Each bottle was precious; they deserved careful handling.
“I heard Boyar Wine is that good. Figured I’d try some once we got back to the capital.”
“One glass costs about a month of your salary, you idiot. What kind of wild talk is that? Feeling some kinship with the red color because you’re a Red Blood or something?”
“You son of a bitch.”
I never imagined a casual exchange that had started in some tavern in Ger would lead all the way here. Damn that bastard—if he had just drunk any ordinary liquor instead of insisting on Boyar Wine, I wouldn’t be going through all this trouble.
And so here I am again on your anniversary. I wonder if any of you even know how much I’m suffering for this.
Gerard, you damn drunkard. If any part of your soul is still floating around, show up in my dreams at least. I finally got the wine and I can’t even share a drink with you.