Treason or Revolution? (3)
The imperial capital has fallen. Princess Benelia von Esteban leads the rebellion. The forces of Count Pelgaroin, rebel troops, paladins, and witches have joined her. The palace guards have been all but destroyed. On receipt of this letter, return at once.
The message delivered by carrier pigeon set out the worst imaginable news in blunt terms.
It bore no signature, and no one could say who had written it. The handwriting, however, was ragged and hurried, unlike the clear wording of the message itself.
The emperor's staff argued over whether to believe it.
At first, several insisted it was a trick by the demons to delay the imperial advance. Then one officer pointed out that the pigeon's tail feathers were red.
Red-tailed pigeons were bred by magic and kept exclusively for the imperial palace guards. Trained to locate the emperor by his mana, such a bird would have had little reason to reach the army by accident.
Besides, it had arrived from the Empire, not from the Demon Realm.
Had the demons somehow orchestrated the entire deception? Or had the capital truly fallen to Benelia?
The dispute continued until the emperor, seated at the head of the command tent, clenched his fists and ground his teeth.
“Return to the capital.”
He had never trusted Benelia. And even a small chance that she had seized the seat of power was too serious to ignore.
His order was carried out. Forty-five thousand troops turned back along the road they had traveled.
They marched as fast as they could, but heavy rain poured down wherever they went. Exhausted already by their three-day advance, the soldiers struggled through sodden ground. Fever swept through the ranks; men collapsed, and even armored knights complained of their failing strength.
The officers had hoped to return in two days. Instead, the miserable march lasted five.
At last the emperor's army reached the northern wall.
No one cheered.
Beyond the suffering of the march stood a worse obstacle.
“What has that princess done…?”
Dehelm, chief of the operational staff, surveyed the defenses from his horse beside the emperor.
Rain fell before the fortifications. The ground had been reduced to swampy mud, and barriers had been placed across the approaches to break up any charge. Archers crowded the wall's battlements.
Benelia stood among the commanders on the ramparts.
“So the message was true…” Dehelm murmured.
He looked around and saw a black-scorpion banner flying beside the standards of House Pelgaroin and the imperial family. Overhead, witches on broomsticks talked and laughed among themselves.
Then Dehelm noticed what was missing.
“Of course…”
No rain fell on the defenders. Beyond the walls, the storm continued without interruption, as though an invisible line had been drawn across the land.
Artificial rain.
Benelia seemed to have adapted the technique to confine the downpour to chosen coordinates.
Suddenly the storms that had followed the imperial army all the way home made sense to Dehelm. Benelia must have anticipated their route, soaked it with artificial rain, and used the extra time to strengthen the northern defenses.
Now the ground before the wall was treacherous mud. A cavalry charge would be slow, horses would slip, and the wooden obstacles would force attackers into narrow passages.
If archers and witches struck while the army struggled toward the gates, thousands could die without ever reaching the walls.
Even the ramparts held more than archers. Paladins and priests, wearing red stoles, watched calmly from above.
If those holy warriors raised barriers over the gates, the assault might become impossible. Even a successful breach could leave the imperial army shattered.
The emperor saw the danger as clearly as Dehelm did. Rain ran from his gleaming armor while he gripped the reins and stared toward the wall.
“What is this…?”
He turned on the pope riding beside him.
“Why are your paladins helping that monster?”
The pope looked as bewildered as anyone.
“I instructed the saintess to remain in the capital and protect the Church's order. I never imagined that she would—”
“And you tell me that now?”
The emperor broke off, clutching at his neck as he struggled to regain his breath.
On the wall, Benelia studied the exhausted force below, then cast an amplification spell.
“The outcome of this revolution is already decided.”
Her voice rolled across the field, quiet and assured.
“Any battle from this point would be meaningless.”
It was the voice of someone accustomed to issuing commands.
“So, Your Majesty, you must choose.”
The emperor stared up at her. Benelia met his gaze without flinching.
“Preserve your pride and force forty-five thousand men into a hopeless defeat—or abandon that pride and save forty-five thousand lives.”
A deep rumble sounded as the great gate began to open. It stopped with a gap just wide enough for one person to pass.
“The choice is entirely yours, Your Majesty.”
Benelia said no more.
In the silence below, a horse splashed through the mud. Leonhard rode forward between the parted ranks, hauled on the reins, and shouted.
“Father! You mustn't go! Don't fall for her tricks!”
“There is no other choice. I must hear her terms.”
The emperor urged his horse toward the narrow entrance.
Leonhard stared after him, his face contorted with dread.
“Father! Please!”
The emperor did not look back.
Once inside the city, the emperor was escorted to the keep. A common soldier took away his weapons, an indignity he endured only by clenching his teeth.
He entered the temporary command chamber. Benelia sat at a table spread with a campaign map; the routes of the imperial army had been marked across it in detail.
“Ah. You've arrived.”
Benelia glanced up and indicated the chair opposite her.
“Welcome. Please sit.”
“Benelia…”
The emperor's forehead throbbed with rage. He forced himself to sit while armed knights watched from around the room.
“Do you understand what you've done?” he demanded.
“Of course. I planned every part of it.”
“You insolent—!”
Several knights moved their hands toward their sword hilts. The emperor saw the warning and swallowed his anger.
“Very well. What do you want? Let's negotiate.”
“Unconditional surrender. Return to your army and order every soldier to lay down his weapons and surrender to Princess Benelia.”
He let out a bitter, incredulous laugh. He had expected such a demand. Hearing it aloud was another matter.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then we fight. Countless people die for nothing, and you suffer a defeat you cannot prevent.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You know better than I do what it means.”
The emperor's hands tightened on the arms of his chair.
“You've finally gone mad. Do you think you can defeat my army with that rabble you've collected?”
“Why not? Twenty-five thousand soldiers stand with me now, rested and ready. Meanwhile, your forty-five thousand have been dragged through the rain until they can hardly stand.”
Under ordinary conditions, an attacker needed a great advantage in numbers to capture a fortified city. Here the defenders were rested, supplied, and protected by mud, barriers, and magic. The emperor knew that. He simply could not bear to bow before the daughter he despised.
“We won't know until we fight.”
“You still insist? How long can your men fight with their supplies cut off? We need only hold the walls. And the longer you linger here, the more demons will smell blood and come down from Grimund Forest.”
“Benelia…”
“I don't relish the thought of using demons to tighten the trap. But that's where your stubbornness leads. I can already picture you losing control of your army while the monsters descend.”
“You monstrous bitch!”
The emperor sprang from his chair, shouting.
“I should never have let a monster like you be born! If I hadn't been blind enough to lie with that wretched woman—”
The knights drew their swords. Benelia raised one hand, stopping them.
“Calvanes von Esteban.”
Her voice turned cold.
Benelia rose slowly, one hand resting on the arm of her chair. The white-lion banner behind her stirred in the draft.
“Since when…”
She narrowed her golden eyes. The emperor shrank back before the pressure in the room and lost his voice.
“…did I give you permission to insult me?”
He had no answer. Breathing itself seemed difficult beneath her gaze.