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endeavorsreward · 7 years

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Excerpt (Bk. I, Ch. 2)

1996 OV / 1233 ZA

Month of Scorpio

Ramza Beoulve, age sixteen, was leaning against a column in the meeting hall of the Royal Military Akademy at Gariland, watching his class gossip like scullery maids.

“Another wain was struck last night on its way to Eagrose.”

“The Corpse Brigade again?”

Ramza sighed and looked down at his feet. They should not even be gathered there. Drills had been interrupted by an immediate summons, and already some three score of them were assembled here, pulling each other's hair and tugging on breeches, whispering furtive theories when answers would only come in but minutes.

They were all between fifteen and twenty, two-thirds men, and largely noble. The Royal Akademy was the most respected training school in Ivalice, where the scions of western nobility were trained in chivalry and the ways of combat. Squires all, knights apprentice, after years of boarded living, and still children all as well, as they showed at the slightest disruption in routine. His brothers would be disappointed, and so Ramza attempted his best to look stately and prepared.

An outside observer might note his features, at least, did not betray him: blond hair pulled back neatly in a tail to reveal his noble brow and chin, showing even now through the last remnants of babyfat; he was lean and androgynous, and his eyes were kind, but his posture rigid and controlled like an animal's—or, indeed, like that of a knight of the Northern Sky. He had but a single, errant lock of hair out of place, one he'd never been able to tame for long.

The young man on his haunches beside him, however, felt no similar compunction to present. Delita Heiral was mending a glove with needle and thread, watching the clucking hens with interest. It was in principle the responsibility of each squire to care for their own kit; though Ramza hadn't the skill with a needle that Delita had, and he often did the sewing for them both. Delita's eyes bore an intense stare that Ramza knew well—he'd already made his conclusions, and was now taking in what he heard, weighing in the opinions of others he respected less to test against his theories.

He'd had a great many years to know that look, because Ramza and Delita had grown up near as brothers might, within the same home.

“Ramza? What think you of all this?” A woman one year his junior with her long blonde hair tied back beneath the blue kerchief of a field al-chemist approached, head all but bowed, her hands playing with the heavy bag tied 'round her waist, which held her implements of healing. Her face was the bright red of tomato plants. “Could the Corpse Brigade really have reached Gallionne?”

He grunted. His elder brother Zalbaag, who led the Order of the Northern Sky, had muttered as much across the table at shared dinner last. Banditry was to be expected of Dorter and eastward into Lesalia, where peasants toiled harder and the palace could be seen above the horizon, but Gallionne, the emerald of Ivalice?

Another squire, this one male, approached also to her side, arms crossed. He was fit of body but fat in the face, like a baby riding on a man's shoulders. This one's name he could recall: Cuthbert Fawkes, a third son like himself, though Ramza suspected Cuthbert's blood at least was true. The young man actually gave Delita a sort of half-nod before addressing Ramza and the young chemist. “I hear that the deserts are less patrolled and more wild.” This one was wincing, and Ramza could see in him already the Fear, the quake that the knights of Gariland had attempted to drill out of one and all.

Ramza sighed. Most of the incidents of the past six months were believed to be the work of a company of felons and former sellswords known as the Corpse Brigade. It was oft said the only good brigand was a dead brigand, and the Order of the Northern Sky would like naught more than to see the Brigade made corpses for true. But as yet, it was all the knighthood could do to keep the outlaws in check.

“I do wonder where all this leads.” He looked to Delita. “What do you make of this?”

Delita hesitated, looking at the other two students, as though they'd silence him. But when he saw they merely awaited his opinion, He took the needle from his teeth and licked his lips. Delita was not an unattractive boy, but he had none of Ramza's strong countenance; his eyes were slightly sunken and his skin not nearly so fair. He was already at sixteen a man of little sleep and too many thoughts. And unlike many at Gariland, his hands were callused from work. “I'm not sure. I have my guesses, but...”

Ramza frowned. “I'm listening.”

“I think Duke Larg is coming to Gariland.”

Their liege lord? “Duke Larg? Why?”

Delita shook his head. “Not just the duke. The Marquis Elmdore de Limberry, too.”

The other two squires were now looking at them both with open mouths, and Ramza rubbed at his eye. He'd known Delita long enough to assume he was correct, but he couldn't imagine how the man had come to this knowledge. “That's the first I've heard of it. This has not the sound of a state visit.” Limberry was the literal other side of Ivalice, at the border with Zelmonia, and the Marquis was well known as a figure that was... larger than life, as they say. Cuthbert looked to the girl, as if she could corroborate any of this, but she just kept looking at Ramza, as though it had been his supposition in the first place. He was not altogether comfortable with the awe she was directing at him.

Delita, on the other hand, was now looking at something else, some collection of boys on the other side of the crowd. “All of Ivalice is in turmoil. The Order's supposed to be keeping things under control, but the fact is, they number too few.”

This he knew, had even just been thinking, but the way Delita said it... “And they mean to bolster their numbers with us?”

The crowd parted and three boys approached their group. Ramza recognized the one at the vanguard, Gembert Rickeman, a second son whose grandfather had attended Denamda IV and had fallen out of favor from making a particularly vulgar bon mot at the new queen's expense within earshot of the wrong viscount. He was eyeing up Delita like a roast laid at the table's head. Delita stood, and Ramza turned to the other two squires. “Perhaps we may continue this later.”

The girl stepped back at his prompting, but Cuthbert was fixed in place and shuddering. A poor cadet, this one.

Delita turned his back on the looming Gembert and indicated the chemist, who was rejoining a group of friends to one corner. “I think you've an admirer.”

“I suspect I haven't.” Ramza sniffed, keeping one eye over Delita's shoulder and the sputtering Gembert. “Lord Brother may, however.”

“Ah, so you did know!” Delita grinned. “I admit to being impressed. You never seem to know what's going on with anybody.”

“I... wait, what?” He looked away from Gembert, back to the girl. “Who was that?”

“Her name is... hm...” Delita made a vague motion with his hand, as though pulling the name from the aether. “Dorothea Ingram! That was what it was. She was but knee-high, I think, when our Zalbaag helped end the Siege of Limberry—speaking of the devils—and I believe he made quite an impression on her! Indeed, I hear he may well have personally...” Cuthbert twitched, and Delita sidestepped just as a punch Gembert was throwing at the back of his head was about to connect. Ramza crossed his arms as the oaf hurtled forward fist-first at his own face. Gembert squeaked and tried to correct before dishonoring his entire family, falling onto his arse in front of his entire Akademy class to uproarious laughter.

As Gembert's two henchmen picked him up from the floor, Ramza gave Delita a wry look. “A cruel jape.”

Delita shrugged and grinned. “I trusted in your martial prowess, ere it did connect.”

Gembert, for his part, had not yet had enough, however. He leaned in close and snarled in Delita's face. “My shame at nearly striking a son of House Beoulve is nothing compared to the shame of Gariland, for letting standards fall so low to admit a stablehand as candidate for knighthood.”

Ramza grabbed Gembert's shoulder and jerked it towards him. “Delita is of House Beoulve, Rickeman, or are you to tell us that the word of my father is false?”

Cuthbert made a sound like merp and went cross-eyed.

Gembert shrugged off Ramza's grip. “Perhaps it's true, then, what they say, in that masters in time resemble their pets, Ramza. As your half-common blood beats faster through your heart by the day.”

A few people gasped. Dorothea, who was not so far from the confrontation—and indeed had returned closer as it had grown heated—was about to lunge in herself to confront the boor when Cuthbert suddenly found himself, taking her gently by the arms and rotating her away. Maybe there was yet hope for him.

Ramza, though, found his fists tightening. He could easily outmatch Gembert in swordplay, and there were near sixty witnesses to the offense. But then, rescue came from an unlikely source.

“Really, Gembert, how droll.” A tall man a few years Ramza's senior, unaccountably pretty, tracing a finger down his own cheek, appeared from nowhere at all, humming to himself. “How much further can you embarrass yourself? I'd say before your peers, but you and I both know that you haven't had peers in these halls in at least a decade or more, hm?”

Ramza cast a glance at Delita, who looked sick. They'd been saved by Osric Wineburg.

***

As the story went:

The Wineburgs were a high noble family of Lesalia through much of the Fifty Years War, with Osric's own grandfather serving with distinction, most notably in the Battle of Warjilis, when Ordallian ships had rounded Cape Ripoli and discharged invaders in the dead of night with a mind to occupying the church seat in Lionel.

They were, of many generations back, from Romandan stock, but had been loyal Ivalicians for so long that it had been of no concern until Osric's father, who had a barony in Grogh Heights, had been of a mind to entreat the Romandans to unseat Ondoria III in hopes of elevating his own station, and had passed messages covert to very distant cousins across the Rhana Strait. But Osric's mother had been loyal to the crown, and had done the unthinkable, cutting the man's throat in bed. By all rights, they had together doomed their house, and she had thrown herself at Ondoria's feet and begged mercy only for her infant son. Ondoria, who had been healthier then, had dismissed Osric's mother from the court immediately; he'd then mumbled offhand to the attendant Dukes Larg and Goltanna that in truth, he'd taken the woman to bed himself a year or two previous, and that the child was likely his own. Rumor told that Queen Louveria, who had sat to his side, had rolled her eyes openly.

Not a man nor woman in Ivalice believed the king. But it had saved the Wineburg name. Osric's mother, who had slain her husband, was sent gently off to a nunnery to live out her days, and Osric was treated with the due respect of a royal bastard. He'd never be in line for succession, of course, but he had traded off the name of the king ever since. If the Beoulves were, in a sense, royalty of Ivalice in all but name, Osric Wineburg was the exact opposite. And similiarly inverse, Osric had all the attendant arrogance without the Beoulve deeds to back them.

Ramza hated him; Delita hated him more.

***

Osric clapped Ramza on the shoulder as Gembert stalked off to find some other lesser noble to sneer at; Ramza didn't look him in the eye.

“Men like Rickeman don't understand, Ramza. You must take pity on them.” He chuckled. “After all, Heiral here would understand better than anyone—a chocobo you ride into battle, you can't help but view fondly. And they, too, shall serve, until they're put out to pasture.” Before Ramza could offer a retort, however, a knight at the hall's entrance clapped his sword against his shield.

“Form up!”

And so the cadets of Gariland gathered into even parallel lines, standing at attention, as their instructor entered and took the podium at the room's head. Master Bordam Darlavon took in the sight of the assembled students and nodded. The whole class breathed in...

“There comes in every man's time a moment, a call to be answered...”

...And everyone let that air go out at the same time. Ramza's shoulders slumped. Delita's head sagged. He could see Cuthbert's face collapse. Someone even let out a moan.

Master Darlavon was not known, to put it mildly, for being concise.

“...as, indeed, so, with great alacrity, our fathers stood upon the...”

He had served in the war, yes—commissioned as aide-de-camp for a single tour of duty, he had seen little combat. He was perhaps well versed in matters historickal and theoretickal but was not what one might call a leader of men.

“...as even peace might try a soul, when weighed against the ambition of...”

Ramza turned his head as much as might be not considered disrespectful of his instructor's attention, and found Dorothea, who was staring right at him. He snapped his gaze forward again with a wince.

“...bravery instead of the heart, each of we sons of Ivalice...”

If Duke Larg and the Marquis were in Gallionne, they were likely meeting with Ramza's eldest brother Dycedarg, who was the Duke's closest friend and advisor. They were moving history as if a lever, with the Beoulve name as a great fulcrum. Ramza, meanwhile, was here. What was he yet doing to honor his father's will?

“...bonds of fire and blood forged today will serve you in statesmanhood...”

He looked again to Delita, who was brother enough as well. When Delita and his sister's parents had died, his father Barbaneth had taken them into his fold without a second thought. Their origin hadn't mattered to him, and it had never mattered to Ramza, either. Men like Gembert Rickeman merely struck where they thought their betters were weakest, that was all.

“...to remember these times as the greatest you'll ever have...”

And so on and again and again and so on, for a quarter-hour or more, until even Darlavon was starting to nod off at the dais, and someone at the hall's entrance cleared his throat.

“Hm?” Darlavon blinked, then seemed to realize that this had been an urgent summons in some epoch past. “Your full attention to a knight of the realm with full honors, Ser Folcurt Reeda Lynde.”

A man in armor with gold plate and filigree walked up the aisle between the cadets. Ramrod straight in posture, gleaming in refracted sunlight, with the strong set jawline of a most chivalric tradition. This was Lord Brother Zalbaag's most trusted and celebrated lieutenant. He gave Ramza the slightest of curt nods as he passed, and Ramza felt the eyes of five dozen cadets upon him.

Ser Folcurt very tenderly extricated Master Darlavon from his death-grip upon the podium, and leaned in to address the flock.

“The Order of the Northern Sky has an assignment for its knights apprentice.” A half-breath for the import to sink in, and then, before they could begin to react: “As I'm sure you're already aware, the number of brigands roaming Gallionne is on the rise. Among them, the Corpse Brigade... a seditious lot with a grudge against the Crown. Rogues such as they must be dealt with. The Order has been commanded to undertake an operation to eliminate the Brigade—an operation of a grand scale.” He held up his hand. “We will not be acting alone. The Order will be joined by, among others, His Excellency Duke Larg's royal guard, stationed at Eagrose. This will leave Eagrose Castle undermanned. Your task will be to proceed there, and support us from the rear by bolstering its defenses.”

There was the softest murmur as the cadets began to take in the responsibility of protecting their Liege Lord and the people of Eagrose Castle. Delita looked back towards him, and Ramza's lips set. Yes, Delita, you were right, you are always right... A knight came jogging up to the podium, a junior, with one hand on the pommel of her sword, and Ser Folcurt stepped down to listen to her whisper. He responded with a few quiet words, and she dashed right back out. He looked to the crowd.

“The time to take up arms is upon you, young apprentices!” He slapped his gauntleted hand once against the podium, out of emphasis rather than emotion. “I've just received word that a band of thieves routed by our knights flees here to Gariland, seeking refuge. We will move to stop them, and finish the task of our brothers. You, young apprentices, will accompany us. This is but a squall before the storm of battle. Prepare yourselves at once! Dismissed!”

Wait, battle here?

The cadets began to scatter. Some moved with purpose; others with panic. Someone bowled Cuthbert Fawkes over in a dash for the door, and Ramza had to catch him before he spilled out, got trampled in the rush. Delita came up to them both, and he looked stunned. There would be fighting in the streets of Gariland, and it would happen that day.

“I...” Cuthbert croaked out, but then stopped. Ramza nodded. It was fine to feel it, the Fear—Ramza felt it, Delita felt it—but there need be no words, for they'd serve nothing.

Knights stationed outside were shouting out assignments and postings, forming companies on the spot of green cadets. Ramza was about to join them, when a shadow fell over them and Ser Folcurt was there.

“Ramza Beoulve.”

“Ser Folcurt.” He bowed slightly, but Folcurt waved it off.

“Ser Zalbaag expects great things to come of you.” They all walked towards the door together. “I'm personally stationing you at the cadet vanguard. Choose your men and position yourselves in the east side of town, the merchant's quarter. Do you know where in that area is best?”

Ramza nodded slowly. “Down the way from Darbinian's Smithy, the streets funnel and then split where the river becomes a small canal; we can winnow them there.” He glanced to Delita for confirmation, who nodded—his thoughts exactly. Good.

Ser Folcurt actually smiled. “Good man. Get your unit out there; you have a few hours before they reach the city.” He headed towards the other knights. “Good luck. May we all live another day.”

Cuthbert grabbed his own face and started exhaling rapidly. “I don't know if I'm ready.”

Ramza nodded, took the man's arm. “I can swear to keep you safe, or you can find a group farther from the vanguard, it's your choice.” They had not been given formal companies yet, nobody had been promoted to squire-command. This was Ser Folcurt making a rapid judgment call. He wasn't concerned, so Ramza tried not to be, either. They weren't herding a stampede, this was a band of thieves being run to ground. Likely the knight had thought this practical training. He looked to Delita. “How do you fare?”

“I find it peculiar.” Delita was rubbing his chin. “The summons was all-class and urgent, but no mages in training were in attendance.”

“Oh... that's simple enough.” Cuthbert rubbed at his arm, from where Ramza had held him. “They're too difficult to rouse. Meditations and the like. Before they announced the thieves, they likely intended to inform them as their sessions finished.”

“But that means,” Delita said slowly, “the mages are not yet assigned to companies.”

He frowned. “You don't know any mages.

“Indeed I do not,” Delita allowed, “But we know of one.”

Ramza groaned. “Tell me, Delita, you do not mean who I think.”

#Excerpts #Ramza #Delita #Darlavon #Folcurt #Cuthbert #Dorothea #Osric #Gembert #FFT #FF Tactics #Tactics

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