Altina the Sword Princess: Volume 6, page 4
“We’re in a race against time. I assume hostilities are already taking place near the capital, and while I can’t imagine a fort defended by General Latrielle will fall too easily, the casualties will only increase the longer we take. And if our losses are too great, it will defeat the whole purpose of severing the enemy’s supply chain.”
“You’re right about that...”
“What if the fleet gets dragged into another naval battle before I arrive? If our ships sink, we’ll have an especially tough time. Also, if we allow the enemy to bring in any large-scale shipments, the chances of the capital falling will increase dramatically.”
“I understand that, but... will you be okay?”
“I’ll have your name and signature; that should be enough to earn their trust.”
“That’s not what I mean! We’re already pretty close to the enemy, aren’t we? And the port that our fleet was pushed back to is very near to Ciennbourg...”
Assuming Regis’s information was to be trusted, the imperial fleet was currently using a fishing village near Port Ciennbourg as its base of operations. It was not the sort of place one would expect to see military ships, but the men needed food and water, so they had dropped anchor by the shore. Walking along the coast, it would take over half a day to reach Port Ciennbourg from there, but by steam ship it wouldn’t even take two hours.
“Pah.” Jerome scoffed and prodded the map. “What are you gonna do, princess? Are you rejecting the strategist’s proposal?”
“Th-That’s... I don’t think Regis is wrong here, but... aren’t you worried about him, Jerome?”
“Everyone dies eventually. All that matters is whether you keel over like a dog in a ditch, or you die a noble death fighting for your country. I plan to live and die by the sword, and I’m sure the strategist wants to die on his own terms as well.”
Upon hearing Jerome’s words, Altina hung her head and paused for a moment. She then looked up with a sincere expression and spoke slowly, as if carefully thinking over each word. “Yes... You... might be right... I have my own goal... and I think I’d rather die for it... than live a life without purpose.”
The resolve of one who carried a sword lent immense weight to these words—so much so that Regis hesitated for a second before speaking up. “Um... I don’t really want to die, you know.”
Both Altina and Jerome fell silent.
I mean, I won’t be able to read my books if I’m dead... Those were Regis’s true thoughts, but he decided to keep them to himself and move on. “Anyway—the objective of the Queen’s Navy is to maintain their supply chain; they would never attack a fishing village that has no military value.”
Anxious as she was, Altina sat back down. “As long as you’re okay doing this...”
Jerome prodded the map again. “Have you decided how we’ll be organizing ourselves yet?”
“One hundred cavalry should be enough for me. We’ll also bring a wagon containing the bare minimum supplies we need to survive. I can ride in that alongside the food.”
Altina cocked her head. “What about that white carriage?”
“Ms. Clarisse will get more use out of it. I imagine she’ll want to accompany you.”
“Right...” The princess glanced over at Clarisse, but as the maid was in her quiet phase, she didn’t even try to express her own thoughts. She simply stood there like a soulless doll.
“All right.” Jerome stood up. “One hundred cavalry, yeah? I’ll pick out those who won’t let the navy take charge.”
“Could I ask for some peaceful, rational soldiers...?”
“Hah! My men are all perfect gentlemen. Well, as long as people do what they’re told.”
“...Then at least give me soldiers who won’t draw their swords unless ordered to, please?”
“Kukukuh...” After responding with no more than a joyful chuckle, Jerome was gone.
Altina sighed. “How impatient. I never said the meeting was over.”
“Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“There isn’t, but... will you really, really be okay, Regis?”
“I don’t want to die, so I’ll keep myself out of danger as best I can. Trust me.”
Altina stared long and hard at him, biting her lower lip and scrunching up her face like a child separated from its parents. She was fifteen years old, having reached adulthood just the other day, but every now and again she pulled a face that made her look much younger than she actually was.
“...I’ll be heading your way as soon as I finish discussing matters with the commander at Fort Letroisti,” she eventually said.
“Yes. Even if we’re operating independently, it should only be for a day at most.”
“Urgh... I should have at least taught you how to ride a horse properly. If things get dangerous, promise me you’ll run away, okay?”
“You worry too much,” Regis said dismissively. Despite how much he wanted her to trust him, he couldn’t help but feel a warmth in his chest knowing that someone cared about him so deeply.
“Say what you will, Regis, but you’re no good when it comes to weapons and horses. Letting you wander so close to the enemy is way too dangerous... Right, Clarisse? You’re worried about him too, aren’t you?”
Before Regis knew it, even the maid standing on the sidelines had a somewhat melancholic look on her face. “That’s right... I’m very worried indeed,” she said.
Regis smiled at her. “I’ll be fine, I tell you. The enemy won’t come near me.”
“It’s just that, whenever Mr. Regis is on his own...”
“Hm?”
In an instant, Clarisse’s voice turned cold. “...I fear he’ll find a new woman.”
Altina’s terrifying expression seemed to agree, and she fixed Regis with an icy glare.
This is strange... Where did that warm feeling go? All I’m getting now are chills.
✧ ✧ ✧
The following day, May 30th—
Having split away from the Beilschmidt border regiment, Regis arrived at a fishing village called Hugovie. The wind was damp, and the smell of seaweed was thick in the air.
I see. So this is what they mean by a salty sea breeze.
Regis had read about the ocean in books, but this was his first time actually seeing it in person. The color blue stretched out along the horizon.
The one hundred horsemen were gathered under Abidal-Evra, a second-grade combat officer. Regis had been appointed head of the division despite Abidal-Evra exceeding him in both age and rank, but no one complained about this; they had all already accepted Regis as their tactician.
Every knight that Jerome had selected was a skilled rider, which had allowed them to arrive two hours earlier than scheduled. It was just around noon when they rode into town.
The village was small, containing only thirty to forty houses, but the number of smoke trails far exceeded what would be expected for such a small population. The grounded sailors must have been preparing their meals.
A number of small fishing boats lined the sandy bow-shaped beach, while the military ships were anchored further offshore. There were just over thirty in total, some big and some small.
Regis let out a sigh of relief. Thank goodness we’re not too late.
A fence around the height of an average-sized adult stretched along the land around Hugovie, most likely as a countermeasure against beasts rather than armies. A great number of sailors were gathered on the inner side, watching the approaching horsemen that made up Regis’s division. Their arrival came as no surprise; Regis had sent out a messenger in advance, and so they were able to get into the village without any hold-ups.
Walking among the horsemen, Regis was led to the largest house in the center of the village. This was probably where the village chief lived, and the fact that naval officers were guarding the doors and halls suggested it was being used as a temporary military headquarters. It wasn’t a particularly large abode, and so all the knights except Abidal-Evra waited outside on standby.
The sentry standing at the door fixed his upper arms by his sides, then clenched his right hand into a fist and touched it to his chest. It was the naval salute. His gaze wasn’t focused on Regis, however, but on Abidal-Evra. That much wasn’t a surprise—Abidal-Evra carried the overwhelming air of an important knight, after all. His shoulders and chest were broad, he sported impressive facial hair, and his armor was first-class.
Regis, on the other hand, wasn’t exuding even a trace of dignity, nor was he wearing any armor or carrying a sword.
Having already grown weary of explaining the situation, Abidal-Evra simply returned the salute. “Tactician, why not wear your armor and sword, at least during moments like these?” he whispered once they were out of earshot, trying to stifle a sigh.
“Well, you see... it wouldn’t make a difference. I still wouldn’t look like a leader.”
“Then why don’t you put your medals on? Surely you were awarded something for capturing Fort Volks and saving the Seventh Army.”
“Those are more the princess’s achievements than my own, and the soldiers are the ones who actually risked their lives. Besides, dressing myself up too well might lead someone to assume I actually have ambitions, and that’s one surefire way to sour the mood.”
“At the very, very least, walk with your back straight.”
“...Yes, sir.” And so Regis did his absolute best to correct his hunch and look forward as he walked.
Before long, Regis and Abidal-Evra arrived at the command room—or at least, what was supposed to be the command room. It was very clearly just the chief’s living room. Six officers were waiting beside a sofa, dressed in military uniforms that differed from those worn by the knights who fought on land. At the front was a middle-aged man with an abundant red beard, who offered a powerless salute as they approached.
“My name is Christophe Denis de Bertram,” he said, introducing himself. “I am the admiral of the western fleet and a lieutenant general in the imperial army. It is a pleasure to meet you, young tactician of the land.”
“Likewise. I am Third-Grade Administrative Officer Regis Aurick of the Empire’s Fourth Army.”
At that, Regis noticed Abidal-Evra make an expression like he wanted to interject. That was when he remembered—since he had been granted the title of chevalier, his official name was now Regis d’Aurick. But he would just sound foolish trying to correct himself, so he pretended not to notice.
There was only one young man among the six officers, who seemed to be serving as an adjutant; the others were all older men around the same age as the admiral. They saluted and revealed their names and ranks in turn. As it turned out, these men were captains of the fleet’s more prominent ships.
In the navy, captains would receive orders from the admiral, then instruct sailors on their own ships to carry them out as best they could. When combat broke out, unlike in land wars where individual martial prowess was important, it was usually the competence of the admiral and captains that determined the course of battle.
Regis lowered himself into the seat he’d been offered, while Abidal-Evra stood behind him. Soon, Bertram and the others had settled down on the sofas as well. Come to think of it, unlike the men outside, they immediately saluted me rather than Abidal-Evra.
“Err... Pardon me if I’m mistaken, but have we met before?” Regis asked.
“Indeed. It was during last month’s festivities. I noticed you speaking to Princess Argentina from afar.”
“I see. Then I really must apologize. I never came to pay my respects.”
“No need. I was purposely keeping my distance from the power struggle, you see. It does not matter who takes the throne next; my fleet will spread its sails for the Empire.”
“That’s what my superior, the princess, is counting on.”
Bertram nodded, then his face started to cloud over. “But right now, I’m having a hard time fulfilling that oath. High Britannia’s warships are just far too powerful.”
“...So it seems.”
Regis found himself quite surprised. Not only was Bertram a lieutenant general and a duke, but he was approaching fifty years old, making Regis below him in rank, title, and age. For this reason, Regis hadn’t expected to be treated so courteously. What’s more, it was a pleasant surprise to see the admiral openly recognize how strong the enemy fleet was.
Bertram smiled. “For those on the land, it might look like we’re losing our nerve—that we’re hiding in a corner...”
“No, not at all.”
“Let me speak of our situation in numbers.”
“Of course.”
“High Britannia’s steam-powered Princess-class—a high-speed, 74-cannon ship of the line—travels at roughly 15 knots. In contrast, our largest sailing ship—the 80-cannon Aeterna-class—can barely reach that speed under perfect wind conditions.”
“And those ships were only saved because they put all their efforts into protecting themselves. Once the battle started, they weren’t even able to run away.”
“Regrettably. The enemy is equipped with Elswick cannons, and their firing range is somewhere around 45 arpents (3216 m).”
“That would be the Type-41.”
“Indeed.”
“If I remember correctly, the Aeterna-class’s largest anti-ship cannons have a range of 38 arpents (2715 m). What’s more, they take twice as long to load and fire compared to the enemy’s cannons.”
“You did your research. As expected of you, from what I’ve heard.”
“It’s nothing more than information I recalled from a book.”
Bertram gave an understanding nod. “There are currently three Princess-class ships docked at the port. We have nine of our main Aeternas, and tomorrow... our Poseidam-class 120-cannon armored ship of the line is scheduled to arrive.”
“From the southern sea, correct?”
“They started sending it north the moment High Britannia invaded, but it’s an incredibly slow ship.”
“With its lower speed and shorter firing range, would our Poseidam-class be able to defeat their Princess-class?”
“It’d be tough; the enemy would likely just chip away at our ship from outside its range. The Poseidam-class has a sturdy outer shell, but also two major weaknesses.”
“The sails and the cannons?”
“Indeed. If our enemy manages to rip holes through the sails, the ship will move even slower than usual—even changing its orientation would become an ordeal. And if a shell goes through the gun ports on our flanks, then worst-case scenario, it’ll ignite our gunpowder supplies.”
“Hm... If we just had a ship that was faster than the enemy—even one that loses on firepower—then we would at least have a means of escape...”
“The Urathenos-class 18-gun support ship is a little faster, and we have 20 in total. They can’t exchange fire, though; the enemy’ll get a shot or two in before we can even get close enough to retaliate. Plus, unlike the sturdy Aeterna-class, the small Urathenos catches fire easily and will be impossible to steer if we take a direct hit.”
“...Sounds like stalling High Britannia will be no easy task.”
Bertram’s expression remained grim. “We tried launching an attack on the transport ships carrying the enemy’s supplies ourselves.”
“During the Battle of Touranne?”
“We predicted their routes and came from the windward side. It was all shaping up to be a certain victory, but... the enemy fire was intense, and we lost four Aeterna-classes.”
“Were there any gains?”
“I’m sure a few of our shots made contact, but that wasn’t enough to sink the Princess-class. We sunk one transport ship and disabled another, but we were already trying our hardest to retreat by that point, so I don’t know what happened from there onward.”
“So it was a total defeat...”
“If you want me to be blunt about it, yes. Almost every ship we have that can sail the western sea is gathered here. The only ones you won’t find are those under maintenance.”
“Then we can’t afford to lose again,” Regis said. Repairing a ship could take close to a year, and they weren’t easy to replace.
“I’m certain that High Britannia has spares for both their Princess-class ships and their transport ships. We, on the other hand, only have the vessels here at our disposal.”
“...Right.”
“That is our present situation,” Bertram said heavily, staring at Regis with a sharp glint in his eyes.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“The difference in might is as clear as day, and we can’t lose the forces we have here. Do you think there’s anything we can do?”
Regis nodded. “I do.”
The surrounding officers were astir, while Bertram’s eyes grew even sharper. “You may have achieved results on land, but... the sea might not be quite what you’re expecting.”
“I know that, and I’m not perfectly confident, but... if we don’t win on the sea, then the Belgarian Empire will suffer a defeat it can never recover from.”
The naval officers exchanged looks; perhaps they weren’t aware how things had been progressing on land.
“The High Britannian Army had enough momentum to tear through both the Second and Seventh Armies. Even the First Army will have its hands full just defending the capital,” Regis plainly informed them.
“You’re saying that even General Latrielle might not win...?”
“It would be a huge weight off our shoulders if he did, but... it will no doubt be a tough battle. The gap between our weaponry is just too great.”
“So things are that bad, huh...?”
“If enemy supplies keep coming in, the warfront will stagnate until, eventually, the surrounding countries rally their armies to attack. The capital would be encircled by tens of thousands of soldiers.”
The officers’ faces paled, and Bertram fell into thought.
Regis stood up. “General Latrielle gave an order with his authority as marshal general: the men here have been placed under the command of the Fourth Army, and by extension Princess Argentina. I serve as the princess’s strategist, so I do have somewhat of a say here, but we are at war. Lives are on the line, and I don’t expect you to trust me when we’ve only just met. I’ll take my leave for now. Please get together and consider the situation.”
