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[FF6] The Traitor in the Room (Novelization)

Posted: 12th December 2009 21:11

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It's been a while since I've decided to write anything in this universe. Feedback is welcome, I've been out of touch with these characters.

Prologue

During the peak of Imperial power, the Empire's might reached to the furthest ends of the globe. From the hills and valleys of the Maranda heartland, to the untamed wilderness of the Veldt, and even the far northern wastes of Narshe...

Nothing escaped the Empire.

- from The Age of Divinity: A Treatise on the Great War



He was as silent as a ghost, carefully choosing each step to leave no trace to discerning eyes. A white fur coat was draped over his shoulders. The wolf skin was lighter than their standard cloaks, and could actually block the wailing winds that washed over the frigid mountains.

It was still damn cold though.

A lesser man might have given in to his body's demands. He would have involuntarily begun chattering his teeth, or perhaps let the shakes take over his arms and legs. But Tancred would never have lasted more than a year in his profession were he such a simpleton.

His steady pace brought him closer and closer to the looming, triangular shadow set between the shapes of two dead trees.

Even the men under his command would have slackened in this frozen wasteland. Tancred thought about each of them. They were not his first choice, but with the way things were in the East, it was impossible for him to pick and choose. Still, they were all excellent veterans. Discipline was a little harder to maintain, and he could hear their excuses already. Who could hear them through the wild howling winds? Or follow their trail through the gusts of drifting snow?

He could.

The triangular shape resolved into that of a tent, expertly pitched despite the snow squall. His hands reached out, bleached cowhide gloves making no sounds as they brushed the canvas aside.

Tancred would hear them over the roar of the northern winds. Tancred would follow them through the snows. Their laziness was their undoing, and that meant that when the storm came, they would die first.

He paused at that thought.

They would die first, and he would be the last man standing. Again.

He slipped inside the tent carefully, watching the back of a heavily muscled man standing in front of him. Tancred's warknife slid out of its sheath without a sound. The blade was a dull black with the ashes of his last kill, but still sharp enough to slide in between the vertebrae. His feet crept forward, as soundless as they were outside the tent. His entire body tensed for the strike.

Tancred was half a breath away when the man spun around, huge corded muscles bringing to bear a curved blade.

"Intruder!" the guardsman hollered.

And so the symphony began.

Tancred ducked underneath the blade and launched himself forward. He caught the man around the midsection and the two smashed into the ground. They rolled, both men struggling for purchase as their arms and legs flailed.

A table split in half. A chair shattered into pieces. Blades cut through empty space and found neither flesh nor lifeblood. They roared and exchanged vicious blows, a cacophony of chaos that could only be meaningful to the musicians themselves.

Fists were deflected, chokeholds broken, Tancred smashed his elbow into his opponent's belly and came out on top. His knife found the man's thick neck.

"I wouldn't move," he hissed. "Or else you're dead."

Two more men burst into the tent, swords at the ready.

Tancred twisted about, ensuring the guardsman was between him and the newcomers. With his free hand, he pulled his hood off.

"Tancred?" one of the newcomers exclaimed. The bearded guardsmen swore, and thrust his sword into the ground in anger. "In the name of the Emperor, Cuyler you idiot."

Cuyler, on his knees with a knife around his throat, groaned. He twisted, but Tancred's grip was impossible to break. "Get that damn knife away from me, you dickless weasel."

Tancred leaned close to Cuyler's right ear. "What was that?" he hissed. His blade pressed into the Cuyler's skin.

"I said get that damn knife away from me, you dickless weasel sir."

Tancred stepped back and sheathed his warknife. He looked up into the glare of the first newcomer.

"Sergeant Harding."

"Sergeant Tancred," came a clipped response. Harding pulled his sword from the ground and sheathed it in one smooth motion. Tancred could see the huge war axe still strapped to Harding's back, and the big bearded man looked like he was struggling to steady the adrenaline pumping through his veins. That was no easy task, the bloodlust came easily to men like them and an intruder was more than enough reason to let loose all control.

"Lansing, make sure that the General is-"

A low chuckle cut through the heavy breathing in the tent. "I'm already awake, Harding."

All four men bent to one knee, bowing their heads as the general rose from his bed of silks. The smell of fine spices and perfumes waifed into the air as he slipped on his robes.

"My lord," Harding lowered his voice respectfully. "My deepest apologises for disturbing your slumber. This will not happen again."

"I'm sure it won't," the General muttered. He gestured to the broken table in his tent, split wide open by the curved blade that Tancred had dodged. "Who's the moron who nearly got himself killed?"

Harding glanced over at Cuyler. The man was still trying to catch his breath after his brief struggle with Tancred. His glare hardened. "A man about to be severely disciplined."

"See to it then, Harding. You know how I treat incompetents."

The sergeant stood. "Lansing, get him out of my sight. I'll deal with the idiot later."

"Sir," and with a crisp salute, Lansing dragged Cuyler out of the General's tent by the collar of his torn tunic.

"Tancred," the general sank into the plush cushions atop the only remaining intact seat. His hands, immaculately manicured, wrapped around a goblet of red wine. He eyed the shattered table beside him. "You're early."

"The barbarians make things easy for us, general."

"So do my bodyguards, it appears," the general swirled his wine while his gaze centered on Harding. "Still, at least this one didn't get his neck slit."

Tancred chuckled. "Well I am working on my self-control."

Harding rolled his eyes, and the general snickered softly before taking a sip of his wine.

"Still, it's good to be back in the field," Tancred continued. "The Northerners aren't the brightest, but at least they're a new challenge."

"One that has been overcome, I assume?" a heavy-set man, mature in his years with a scar that ran down the ridge of his nose strode into the general's tent. His grey cloak bellowed in the gust of cold wind from the snowstorm outside, revealing the scratched leather hides that the officer called his armor.

"Colonel," both Tancred and Harding saluted.

"General, men," Colonel Falyn Sanderson pulled his hood off and brushed away a few errant flakes of snow. "I hope I'm not too late to this party, sir?"

The general shrugged. "I was rather enjoying my afternoon nap when I was rudely interrupted by idiocy."

Falyn grinned, revealing a number of gaps in his teeth. "I thought I saw some of your men slinking away in shame, Harding. You let your boys get soft while Tancred was off finding a sheath for his sword?"

"He's just lucky he's so damn ugly," Harding scoffed. "Otherwise I might've just assumed he was a barbarian and hacked his head off. Instead I knew there was only one fool with that ugly of a mug."

"Sorry Harding, I guess I'm just not your type. My skin's not as smooth as those little boys you like so much, right?"

Falyn laughed, but quickly composed himself when he saw the general taking another sip of his wine. "Alright Sergeant, enough games. Your report?"

"All four approaches confirmed, the maps that command sent were actually accurate for once," Tancred gestured at the canvas that had been hung around the tent like tapestries. "The damn snow that's been slowing down the Armors have also kept us hidden. We took care of a merchant or two, but the city has no idea that we're so close."

"And the base at the bottom of Huron Ridge?" Falyn gestured at the map. "Near this trail.... Albermann."

"Undermanned and filled with novices. They're green as grass and will probably put up as much of a fight." Tancred fished out a piece of paper from a watertight pouch hidden beneath his cloak. "My men made sure to map the area. Plenty of approaches, and done right it could be taken by surprise."

"We're not planning to assault it," Harding growled.

"No, but it's good to have the option," Falyn quickly cut in before the two men began another pointless bickering session. "And their militia?"

Tancred forced the grin off his face. "As expected, city limits are fortified, and they learned from the previous assault. They've got ready blockades on all major roads in case our Armors advance, and they've got at least a hundred men awake at all hours. We estimate another thousand in the barracks."

"And how many more do you think they can muster?" Falyn asked.

Tancred shrugged. "It's not my place to say."

"I'm asking, Sergeant."

Tancred glanced at the hanging map for a moment, and took the chance to collect his thoughts. "It's a city famous for mining," he began. "They've got plenty of able-bodied men and they saw our Armors waltz through their city not three months ago. In a day? I'd say they could probably draw another two or three thousand useful bodies. Give them a week and three-quarters of the city will be armed, even the women."

"That's my estimate as well," Falyn looked over the maps. "Good, good. They're not going to have enough men to cover all of these walls... Harding?"

"Norman is trailing a caravan as we speak. Give the order, and we'll make sure all but one are dead... They'll probably make back to the city within the day, earlier if they're willing to push their chocobos to death by running them through the storm."

"They won't. Barbarian or not, they'll be thinking of themselves first, and those animals are their livelihood," Falyn declared. "Excellent work, both of you," the Colonel turned towards the scent of spices and incense. "General, may I recommend that the operation should go ahead without delay? Give us the word, and we'll hit them four hours after they realize we're here. With the chaos caused by word of our arrival, we'll slaughter them."

General Kefka Palazzo finished off his wine and let the goblet fall to the ground, cushioned by silk. He stood from his makeshift throne and spat on the ground.

"No mercy then! This is where scum like the Returners were born, and this is where it will end. Gut them, kill them, piss on their graves. Whatever you do..."

"I want Narshe burned to the ground."
Post #182822
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Posted: 12th December 2009 21:13

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The Traitor in the Room

"The northmen of Narshe had been long ignored by the powers of the world, deemed too small and of too little value to warrant anything more than a courtesy ambassador. However, the advances of the steam engine combined with the rich mineral veins running underneath the city had brought it into the spotlight. Technology had been unearthed from the Age of the Magi, artifacts of such insurmountable value that they threatened to turn the entire war around.

Now at the height of its power, the Imperial military juggernaut turned its eye towards the city-state of Narshe. With the Kingdoms of Doma and Figaro both temporarily subdued, Emperor Gestahl directed his most ambitious general to lead a series of attacks against the battered continental resistance, culminating in a vicious pitched battle between an inexperienced Narshean militia and a small veteran strike force of the Imperial Army. This defensive action, known as the Second Battle of Narshe, is considered by many to be the turning point in the Northern War.

Of the many accounts of this heroic effort, including Cyrus's much lauded Fire at the Gates, only recently has it come to public attention that the battle was not won at the city limits, but rather at an obscure trail leading to the mines. It was called the Caryn Pass, a treacherous outcropping formed by landslides, and it was here that the Imperial war machine suffered the first of many defeats..."

- From The Age of Divinity: A Treatise on the Great War



The Approaching Storm

"It's not as if I expected a hug; just a smile, a pat on the back, and maybe a warm cup of tea. We're friends, right? Friends don't wave swords in my face while they quarrel over exactly what kind of idiot I most resembled."

- Locke Cole on his return to Narshe


She had expected this, even if her stalwart, yet naive rescuer had not. After all, she had born and raised by their enemy. She had willingly served, applying herself and rising to the highest of high ranks within the Imperial military machine. And it was that very same military machine that had recently smashed their homes and crushed their countrymen.

Doma had finally collapsed, the last vestiges of resistance ruthlessly slaughtered to the man.

Figaro's greatest city was occupied, betrayed from within. Its capital had literally gone to ground, hiding from the unstoppable might of Magitek.

So what was she to expect when she walked into that room? Cheers and well-wishes from men that were now the last, and only, resistance left in the entire world?

A grimace crossed her face as she leaned into the log cabin's walls. She adjusted her cape, smoothly sweeping out of sight the logo of the Magitek Knights, before finding a more comfortable position. To her side, one of the Returners watched her every move with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

She paid the guard little attention, instead turning back to the bickering mess that was a war room counsel. It was completely unlike any war room that she had been apart of; men yelling at each other with no semblance of discipline or order. She couldn't help comparing them to their Imperial equivalents: a rigid command structure that brokered no argument, respect between all, and none having to raise their voice to be heard.

Yet... the former Imperial general pursed her chapped lips together. The longer she observed, the easier it was to follow the trends. Subtle undercurrents in how the men communicated to one another, it was as if there was a command structure, yet there was no need to define it.

In the center, the loudest by far, was one of the elders of Narshe. The former Imperial general stifled a giggle that bubbled to the surface at the thought of that. A city-state led by elders; actual elders! They might as well call them tribal shamans and welcomed the accusations of barbarism.

At least this old man was no mystic thurge. Intelligent, quick to learn, and deviously political, the elder of Narshe would have been a match for any number of the nobles back in the Imperial heartland.

Here, he was matched by the King of Figaro: Edgar. Blue eyes, blonde hair, tall and muscular, he was a fairy tale knight complete in shining armor. This was the first time she had met the desert king, but he was definitely living up to his reputation. Young, passionate, yet cunningly diplomatic with every word that left his mouth. He had taken care to keep his visage presentable, even in the midst of war. Freshly shaven, his hair glimmering, and she could smell the faintest hint of spice suggesting that he had just bathed... had he been wearing his gauntlets, there would have been no way to tell that this man was anything more than a princely fop.

But those muscled arms and calloused hands were bruised and scarred, scabs not two days old still upon the back of his right hand. King Edgar of Figaro was also a warrior, a knight no doubt deserving of the expensive plate mail he wore.

Learned, charismatic, political, and ruthless. A thoroughly dangerous man.

Her keen eyes shifted to the quiet man by the King's side.

A weathered old cloak was draped over a pitted and savaged chest plate. Once a brilliant forest green, the cloth was now the colour of swamp and sewage with a dozen cuts hastily sewn shut. His moustache had grown long, as had his greasy dark hair which he kept bound in a ponytail. Wrinkles as deep as any elder's lined his face, and his bloodshot eyes completed the dishevelled, exhausted look.

Only his sword and scabbard told the real tale. An exotic weapon, it was long and slightly curved. The handle was finely wrought, entwined with gold and silver wire that had been meticulously cleaned of blood. Just moments ago, she had seen his steel first hand and knew just how finely forged that sharp blade was.

Cyan Garamonde. Retainer to the King of Doma. Captain of the Doman castle guard. The Knight of a Thousand Techniques.

Bane of Imperial Guardsmen.

If Edgar was dangerous, then Cyan was death incarnate. Rumours of his exploits had reached far and wide despite vicious attempts by the Imperial command to quash them. The invincible Doman Knight, channelling the rage of a thousand of his slain comrades, who could split a Magitek Armor with one slash. The warrior who held back a hundred guardsmen at Esquire Pass, commanded dragons with a thought, and returned from the dead after slaying the conductor of the Phantom Train.

The former Imperial general focused her attention away from rumours of Cyan's exploits. She would see him in action soon enough. Right now, the argument was growing heated.

"I am beginning to doubt your judgement, King Edgar. Between what happened to the Returner headquarters, and your failure to defend the port of South Figaro, I see little reason to debate this matter with you," the Narshe elder was saying.

"The Returners are far from headless. Our organization was designed to be like the hydra; with each head slain, two more are revealed. That a single cell was destroyed is irrelevant," an older man, only a few years younger than the Narshe elder, had risen from his seat.

Banon. The current head of the Returner resistance movement.

Imperial intelligence would have sacrificed a dozen spies to get even an accurate sketch of the reclusive leader. The ones that she had memorized had not matched him at all. He was taller, healthier than one would expect of a man of his advanced years. He was not clean-shaven, but instead a heavy beard covered the front of his face. They had even gotten his hair colour wrong.

"Regardless," the Narshe elder continued without pause. "Your headquarters is ruined and a large number of other cells endangered. All because of you, King Edgar, and the idiotic risks you have been taking!"

"We needed a new strategy," Edgar ignored the slight smoothly. "Bilateral thinking, something new that the Empire does not expect. Terra is our hope."

"Indeed she is. And we will continue to lay down our lives to protect her," Banon added.

The former Imperial general turned to the subject of the argument. Terra was about the same age as she was; quiet, nervous, fidgeting as the room of charismatic men all turned their eyes on her before beginning to scream at each other again. Her hair was an odd shade, dark but almost green if the sunlight hit it just right. Too thin to be warrior, too healthy to be a commoner, yet too dirty to have grown up as a noble.

Terra was a mystery presented to all five senses.

But not the sixth.

She could feel the magical aura that surrounded Terra even though no spells were being cast. It was muted, but pulsing with energy beneath the surface.

Who was this woman? She was clearly no Magitek Knight.

"-will not put this city in danger to protect the very witch who has already murdered a hundred of our finest! Narshe will not stand with your resistance movement. We will remain neutral-"

"That's nonsense. I didn't think Narshe was led by such idiots."

A smile came to the former general's face. That was definitely the diplomacy she expected out of Locke.

"Locke, you're not-"

"We don't have time for this Banon," Locke interrupted. "The Empire's poised to attack Narshe right now. I've seen the army they're mustering in South Figaro, and I've intercepted their battle plans. They will come, neutral or not, and they will kill every man and woman in Narshe."

"Yes, your so-called intelligence. And who is this from again?" the elder scoffed. "Some drunken soldier you overheard while sneaking around South Figaro like a thief? Or is it from that Imperial whore you seduced and brought back?"

Locke's face went red. "Celes is-"

"He heard it from me," she saw her opportunity and finally spoke up. Her hand grasped Locke's shoulder softly, squeezing to let him know all was well. With a deep breath, and an uneasy eye towards the Doman, she reached into her cloak and drew out a star-shaped medallion, the Imperial emblem etched into the silver, and a silken crimson ribbon trailing from it.

Her badge of office might have been stripped from her, but she still had that gaudy medal that the Emperor had awarded her.

"I am General Celes Chere of the Imperial Magitek Knights."

She relished the look on the elder's face when he realized she was not some common soldier to be written off.

"I knew she seemed familiar!" Cyan roared. "Sir Gau, stand aside!"

Like a nightmare, the Doman charged towards her in the blink of an eye. His sword was already drawn, live steel glinting red with the light of the fireplaces. He was screaming at her, words so loud that she couldn't hear because she was busy.

Busy drawing her sword. Busy whispering spells.

Busy swearing as the blade was entangled in her cloak and scabbard. Her heart pumped faster, her head spun from too much blood, sweat ran down her back as she began to panic. She saw him out of the corner of her eye.

Bane of Imperial Guardsmen. Invincible. Unstoppable.

Relentless.

Someone smashed into her side, sending her sprawling to the ground. She almost twisted her ankle as she crashed into the wall.

Celes swore again.

Muscles burning with effort, she shot back to her feet and blindly drew her sword. The runic blade sang as it finally came out of its sheath.

Locke was standing in front of her, a knife between him and Cyan. He looked very, very small.

"-I promised I'd protect her," he was saying, eyes blazing with fury as he faced the massive Doman Knight. The two men glared at one another, the air thick with tension.

Celes wiped the sweat dripping down her face. She forcefully slowed her breathing and the words of a spell began to form on her lips. If Locke couldn't make him stand down...

"Do you understand me, Sir Cyan?" Locke snapped. "I promised. And I will not back down on my word."

Behind the two men, Edgar looked surprised. "Locke..." he began in a soft voice, but Celes could not hear the rest of his words.

"Do you understand me!?"

Cyan raised his blade almost imperceptibly higher. Level for a killing thrust.

"I was also an Imperial soldier."

Terra's soft voice was like a pale of cold water dumped on the room.

"What?" Cyan growled.

Celes could tell that the Doman was struggling now, with his own rage, and the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins.

"Cyan," Edgar strolled through the crowd. "We all know the Empire's evil, but..." he gestured at Terra. "Not all its citizens are. There are good people on the other side of the ocean, and until they cast off their shackles, we will never truly be rid of the Empire."

Cyan seemed unconvinced, but at that moment the door to the cabin opened. A young man swathed in furs dashed in and whispered something into the ear of the elder.

His eyes went wide. "Are you sure?"

The messenger nodded.

"Alert Cyrus, he'll know what to do," the elder stood up. "Go, quickly!"

As the messenger left the cabin, Edgar found his voice. "Well?"

The elder gritted his teeth. "It seems like you're correct, I am a fool. The Empire's already here, an entire army!"

"What?" Celes's voice was amongst the chorus of disbelief.

"That's impossible," Banon stammered. "It's too soon, we haven't even spoken to the Esper yet."

Edgar silenced the room with a roar. "How big is their army? Another assault like last time?"

The elder eyed Celes for a moment, not willing to trust her yet. He sighed. "Word's going to spread no matter what, a trading caravan was attacked just a few miles outside the city. Imperial raiders trying to keep themselves hidden, we think. Some managed to escape with little more than their lives and brought us the news... so we sent a scouting party."

Edgar raised a finger. "Wait, you knew about this in advance?" His eyes narrowed when he saw the look on the elder's face. "How long have you been hiding this?"

"Two hours. We needed to be sure."

"Two hours? You have civilians screaming about an approaching army and you wait two hours before announcing it?"

"Enough. There is no reason for me to abide by this," the elder snapped. "The Empire has mustered an army at least ten-thousand large, and their vanguard is already within a half day's march of Narshe. My people have confirmed that Kefka's standard flies with that army. Help us or not, King Edgar, but I will not be lectured to."

"They're here for the Esper," Banon pointed out quickly. "It's the only reason why someone like Kefka would be here. Their vanguard will try to storm through like last time and secure it, while the rest of the army moves in to destroy the rest of the city. We need to speak to the Esper before it's too late."

A shake of the head. "That's unnecessary, they will not find the Esper. We moved it out of the mines and hidden it in the mountains... and I will not reveal its location to outsiders."

"We're outsiders?" Locke echoed.

"They'll have spies," Edgar growled. "Even in Narshe."

The elder glared at Celes. "Almost certainly," he spat. "And I won't have this Imperial witch be in any position to signal to her army."

"There's no army," Celes snapped, finally tired of the insults the Narshe elder kept throwing her way. "The forces massed in South Figaro couldn't have possibly arrived here yet. You're-"

"And yet you did," the elder pointed at her and Locke. "Enough of this, Captain, lock the Imperial in the dungeon. I will not risk a repeat of what happened the last time we had an Imperial witch here. We'll deal with her later."

The guard who had been watching her straightened. He put a hand on his scabbard.

Celes still had her blade out. Watching Cyan out of the corner of her eye, she moved the blade ever so slightly.

Cyan tensed.

Celes froze. Damn.

"Now's not the time for this," it was Edgar who stepped between the Celes and the guard. "You don't trust her? Fine. I'll take responsibility for her. But what I won't do is allow you to lock up someone who has, in good faith, come here and attempted to help us."

The elder glared at Edgar. The King of Figaro glared back.

"Fine," the elder waved at the guard. "I have a city to defend now, Edgar. I'd appreciate it if our allies didn't end up killing us all."

Edgar held the door open, a smile on his face as a gust of wind brought snow into the cabin.

"You have my word."


-=-


The elder hurried away and took with him all of the Narshe soldiers; every member of the militia would be needed to repulse an attack by the Imperial army.

Celes was left alone with the Returners. They were a pitiful handful, barely ten in number.

There was a scraping sound behind her. She turned around to see Edgar pulling up two chairs.

"Celes, I can call you that, right?"

She nodded slowly.

"Please, take a seat," Edgar gestured at the chair.

Years of experience with Imperial nobility stopped her from accepting; he was testing her and her sense of decorum. "You first, your Highness."

"Call me Edgar, but I insist."

Still paranoid but without any further excuses, Celes sheathed her sword and sat down. Edgar did the same.

"So, Celes, you were going to say something earlier about the attack. The elder cut you off, but I'm not one to be blinded by pride like he is. I want to hear what you have to say."

She folded her arms. "It wasn't all that important. It's not like you'll change his mind enough for it to affect anything."

"It is important though," Edgar pressed on. "You saw reason to point it out, even though keeping silent was probably the smarter thing to do. So I want to hear it."

Celes must have made a face that said she didn't believe him, because Edgar straightened.

"Don't make me pull rank on you," he said with a sly grin.

"Excuse me?"

Edgar pointed behind him at Locke. "As he said, you've joined the Returners. That's why I stood up for you... if you were just a turncoat, I'd have to ask my men to put you in dungeon like the elder originally suggested."

"Okay," Celes decided to play along. "So I'm a Returner. And let me guess, Returner rules apply and you're the boss?"

"Banon is, actually. But I'm might be a bit higher in the command chain than a new recruit," Edgar answered with a bigger grin, eliciting a chuckle from Banon.

Celes shrugged. It mattered little to her. "Alright, well you already heard what I was going to say: the forces massed in South Figaro couldn't have possibly arrived here yet. But you're not ignorant. You already know that."

Edgar leaned back into the rickety old wooden chair. It creaked under his weight. "Sure," he answered non-committally.

"Fact is that Locke and I nearly killed ourselves getting here from South Figaro. The mountains aren't exactly easily crossed this time of year, so we had to take a series of underground tunnels that seem both secret, and rather difficult to march an army through," Celes continued. "Even assuming that the Empire could have marched an army through South Figaro, the surrounding countryside, and used that underground pass through the mountains, we'd still have to cross through the Figarian heartland. That's hundreds of leagues of hostile territory, from which your army is probably massing for a counterattack."

Edgar raised an eyebrow.

"Before I was stripped of my rank, intelligence briefings suggested you were mustering at least two armies. The likelihood of a multi-regimental force gathering in the Figarian farmlands was a near-certainty," Celes explained.

He smiled. "I think a child could have figured that one out."

"Apparently not an old man though," Celes retorted. "There's no way any army got that far from South Figaro, period. Locke and I would have passed them, or at least encountered a trail of raided villages and empty lands foraged by a hungry army. Twenty-thousand men can't exactly carry all the food they need to besiege a city like Narshe."

Edgar nodded again.

"Therefore, it's impossible that there's a sizable Imperial army this far north," Celes concluded.

"And yet an army is at the gates of Narshe. Deception seems to be a strength of your people," Cyan spat. "I wouldn't trust this witch's smooth words, King Edgar."

Edgar raised a hand. "Please Sir Cyan, I want to hear what she has to say," he turned back to her, his piercing sapphire eyes making eye contact.

"Please continue. You still have more to say."

Celes pursed her lips. She stood up -- purposefully ignoring Cyan's tensed state -- and began to pace back and forth. Originally, she thought she had thrown in her lot with the Returners the moment she accepted Locke's help. But she had only escaped an execution, one that Emperor Gestahl would have stopped if he had heard about it in time. It was still possible to sail back south, link up with her legions, and then petition the Emperor to reinstate her and punish Kefka's stooges appropriately.

If she gave away sensitive information though, then she would have crossed the line. Gestahl would personally sign the order for her execution, and let Kefka destroy her men.

Celes turned around and stared at the group. Cyan Garamonde, looking for vengeance. King Edgar, seeking to protect his people. Her eyes passed over the rest: Banon, Terra, the group of muscle-bound men that were Edgar's bodyguards...

And Locke.

"As you know, Kefka was in Doma not too long ago," Celes began. "While it's possible that he could have taken the Serpent Trench like Sir Cyan, and then link up with a force from South Figaro, I'm reasonably sure he didn't. He must have taken the Lete river, and brought with him forces freed up now that the war with Doma is over."

Celes could almost feel the heat of Cyan's glare.

"The thing is, those armies are loyal to only one man: Leo Christophe. They wouldn't work for Kefka, and Kefka wouldn't trust them enough to lead them into a fight. There's too much of a chance that he might suffer a heroic battlefield death, Leo's men are known for their fanatic loyalty."

"So he would have only his bodyguards -- a sizable detachment for such a task, but still no more than two companies -- and perhaps he linked up with the strike force that hit the Returner Headquarters. If so, I'd wager he wouldn't have many more than two thousand men, all veterans yes, but nothing large enough to besiege a city and conquer it. He wouldn't have enough Magitek Armor, and he certainly won't have the supplies to suffer through a long drawn out battle. Not with the entire Kingdom of Figaro to his back."

"You think the Narshe scouts made a mistake?"

"Have they even seen war?" Celes scoffed. "These men would be the best of the best. Kefka's personal bodyguards, paid for out of his own pocket, as well as ruthless veterans that have sworn their loyalty to him."

Edgar seemed to actually be listening to her, so she continued.

"They're trying to outmaneuver Narshe's army, convincing them that to dig in and fight out a long siege instead of..."

"-defending the Esper!" Locke exclaimed.

Celes nodded. "That would fit with Kefka's strategy. The Esper means little to the Empire in the short-term. Even if it's one of the most powerful beasts of the War of the Magi, it's still just one beast. But claiming it would crush your hopes..."

Celes snapped her fingers. "Of course! He must know that the Esper's been moved out of the tunnels and into the mountains. He's going to bypass the city of Narshe entirely."

"Impossible," Cyan murmured.

"There are safe trails to get into the mountains that doesn't require you to go through the city gates," Celes growled. "Narshe isn't that big."

"Of course there are," Locke answered. "But the big ones are going to be watched, and the smaller trails are secret."

"Assume he already knows of them," Celes snapped.

Locke frowned.

"If I were in his position," Celes mused, "with a small, highly mobile force, I would divide her in two. Send the larger force to convince the Narshe militia to dig in and defend their city. Draw as many of their men into the trenches as if they were going to fight off an army ten times the size that is actually here. Meanwhile, I'd take a few platoons and use the trails, secure the Esper, and then leave with the prize."

"If you were in his position," Cyan quoted her with a snarl. "Despicable! If you were in his position, you would lie to us and draw as much of the Narshe militia out of the city, which is exactly what you would advocate by telling us this so-called stratagem.."

"It's called thinking like the enemy," Celes snapped back. "It's a pretty simple concept. You ever study war at all? Ever heard of Macharius? Belisarius?"

"Even if your intentions are pure," Edgar quickly stepped between the two. "It seems a little too clever for Kefka."

Celes rolled her eyes. "Just because he acts like an idiot doesn't mean he is one. He's also surrounded by men that do nothing but live and breathe war. They'll advocate the same strategy as I'm doing and Kefka will capitalize on it because he trusts them."

Edgar and Cyan still seemed unconvinced.

"Fine," Celes was exasperated. "Underestimate him. Think of him as an idiot. Just remember when you're dying by his hand that I warned you." She turned away and stormed towards the door.

One of Edgar's guards had stepped in her way. With his arms folded, she could see the muscles bulging out.

"I have no intention of dying with morons," Celes growled. "Stand aside."

"Celes..." Locke bounced to his feet.

"Enough, I just needed time to consider your words," Edgar declared royally as he rose from the old wooden chair. His blue cape swished behind him. "We're all on the same side here, and I think we need to seriously consider this. Denario, how many men are with you here?"

One of Edgar's guards, sitting close by the fire and keeping silent throughout the entire discussion, shot to his feet.

"There are twelve of us, your Highness. But Feury caught fever and is in no shape to travel."

"Very well. Get the rest to the western gate within the hour," Edgar ordered. He turned around to Banon. "I'm going to have to speak with the elder."

"I'll get Arvis, you'll need both of us there," Banon stated plainly, and clearly not relishing the thought of that conversation.

Edgar nodded. "We'll see what we can do," he turned to the group of Returners. "The rest of you should gather your things. We're going to the passes... Locke, could you-?"

"Yeah," Locke answered quickly.

Celes folded her arms. "You're not going to convince the elder. He's obviously too stubborn and he'll know everything you're saying came from me."

"We'll try," Banon replied.

"And fail," Celes growled. "So what does that leave, twenty of us? To defend something whose location we don't even know? Against a veteran military strike force? Do you honestly think this will result in anything other than our deaths?"

"I've got you covered," Locke winked.

Celes ignored him. "King Edgar, you need to accept that you're going to lose that Esper. You were going to lose it before asking me to elaborate, and nothing's changed since then. You're fighting a battle you're guaranteed to lose!"

"Well, that's a step up," Edgar grinned his foppish, devil grin. In any other circumstance, it would have been mischievous. But given the current situation, he seemed insane.

"A step up from what?" Celes glared.

"From fighting a war we're guaranteed to lose."
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Posted: 14th December 2009 08:49

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Wavey Marle!
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Joined: 21/1/2003

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Member of more than ten years. Third place in CoN European Cup fantasy game for 2011-2012. Member of more than five years. Second place in CoN European Cup, 2008. 
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