[X] "You're right, Staff Sergeant. Changes need to be made."
Your staff sergeant smiles and nods. Lanzerel tosses a concerned look back at the men behind you.
"Look, sir, those men are in want of a lot of things, but what they need the most are leaders. There's nothing we can do about the lack of commissioned officers in the squadron, but a few of the newcomers would make good corporals, and two or three of the old lot would manage all right as sergeants. Give the word, and I'll give them the stripes."
[] "No, Staff Sergeant, I'm sure the men will sort themselves out in time."
[] "Very good, Staff Sergeant. See that it is done."
[] "No, Staff Sergeant. I command, and I shall make a decision."
[X] "Very good, Staff Sergeant. See that it is done."
Your senior NCO flashes you a bare-teethed smile. "I'll start as soon as we get back, sir."
He snaps a quick salute at you as he orders his horse to fall back in line behind you.
You lean back in your saddle and squint into the setting sun as you are once again left alone at the front of the column. Despite your losses today, you are glad that you are at least still alive and that the majority of your men live as well.
It is a thought that will have to do the job of cheering you as you and your squadron make the three-day ride back to the army headquarters at Noringia.
CHAPTER II
Wherein the CAVALRY OFFICER trains his squadron of ROYAL DRAGOONS.
"I see. A most unfortunate outcome, Sir Alaric."
His Grace, the Duke of Cunaris, a general-of-brigade in the army of His Tierran Majesty Miguel d'al Rendower, turns toward the light filtering through the open window to his side, arm muscles bulging with exertion as his hands clumsily manoeuvre his wheelchair around the massive oaken desk.
Cunaris had been a colonel and in command of your regiment at Blogia when an Antari lance point severed his spine. Now his body is dead below the waist, and you doubt that even his appointment to brigade command could sweeten that bitter news.
He is in command of all the King's cavalry, as well as being Colonel of the Royal Dragoons, which explains exactly why you are standing before him, giving your account of your ill-fated clash with the Antari not three days ago.
"You were hard pressed. I suppose this sort of thing was to be expected," he remarks as he stares out the window, the sunlight catching on the sparse grey hairs in his unfashionably full beard. "Indeed, I would think that it was your quick thinking that kept your losses as low as they were."
Johannes d'al Findlay, the Duke of Cunaris
By Sangiin
Cunaris favours you with a gentle smile, the sort which you might even consider fatherly. "Surely, you cannot shoulder all the blame."
[] "I was in command. The fault is mine, sir."
[] "We've already identified the root causes, and my staff sergeant is already working on it." [] "I am already planning to see that my men shall not fail you again, sir." (Not selectable because Lanzerel's on the job.)
[] "My bloody men were to blame, the useless scum."
[] "We'll not fail you next time, sir."
[] "We were sent into battle unprepared! The blame is not mine!"
[X] "We've already identified the root causes, and my staff sergeant is already working on it."
Cunaris's eyebrow rises. "Have you now? That is certainly good to hear, though I would keep an eye out if I were you. Commoners lack the sense of…finesse that we of more elevated background often take for granted."
Your commanding officer rolls his wheelchair up to you. "I shall enter your swift reaction to the situation in my report. However, I shall expect better performance from your men the next time you are sent into battle."
The Duke looks away for a moment, and when he turns back to you, his expression is set.
"With your report in mind, I shall do my best to give you the time to resolve the lingering issues within your squadron. I can, of course, make no guarantees regarding orders from His Majesty, but it will likely be months before you will be sent into battle again. I'll expect a report of greater success from you when that time comes. To stumble once is regrettable. To do so twice, with time to prepare, is unpardonable. Am I made clear?"
"Absolutely clear, sir," you respond. The implication couldn't be more obvious: you must return with a victory, or else.
Cunaris nods, his expression clearly pained at the harshness of his own ultimatum. "Very good, Captain. You are dismissed."
-
You step out of your regimental commander's office with a renewed sense of purpose; with the uncertain reprieve you've been given, you must forge your squadron into an effective fighting force.
You do not even make it out of the corridor before you run into a familiar sight: thin, olive-skinned, hawk-nosed, and angular, almost unchanged since the last time you saw him over three months ago. Unchanged, save by the red expanse of scar tissue down the left side of his face where an Antari warhammer had raked him at Blogia.
He greets you as he approaches: Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta, your acquaintance from training, fellow Dragoon officer, and perhaps, after all you've been through together, even your friend, in his own strange, aloof way.
"Good day, Castleton," the other officer replies as you greet him. "You've returned from a sortie to the north, is that not so? Did the Saints see fit to send your new unit into action?"
You tell Cazarosta of the debacle from which you and your squadron have just returned.
"I see," the other Dragoon says as you finish your recounting. "Most regrettable. I too have had…difficulties regarding the men of my new command."
Cazarosta had been made captain and knighted after Blogia, on the same day you had, by the direct order of the King himself. However, unlike you, he is unlikely to rise any higher. He was born as a result of the illicit union between his baneblooded mother and a commoner. The result was an offspring of baneblood heritage but with none of its associate powers: a deathborn-bastard.
Cazarosta's unfortunate mother paid for her indiscretion with her life, and as the result of her crime, Cazarosta himself had suffered its consequences for all of his. It was only due to his exceptional skill with the sabre and pistol and the patronage of his mother's powerful husband, the Earl of Leoniscourt, that he had been able to acquire a commission at all. That he had been able to make captain based on merit alone was even more extraordinary.
Now though, the way up is barred to him; no Dragoon major would be willing to sell his commission to a deathborn, no matter how renowned. You can imagine that the prospect fills the other officer with no small amount of bitterness…
However, now is not the time to be contemplating the nature of a man when he stands right before you. His eyes meet yours, flinty as always, as if expecting a question in reply….
[X] "What difficulties have you had with your command?"
The other officer almost seems caught off-guard by your question. "I beg pardon?"
After Blogia, Cazarosta had been promoted to command what was left of Third Squadron, your old unit. It too had taken immense losses during the battle, both those troops which followed Captain Elson into his suicidal charge and those who stayed behind in the desperate defense of the Tierran left flank.
"You said that you've had difficulties with your command," you explain. "Might I inquire in detail?"
The other officer nods. "Of course. Third Squadron is short a great deal of things, chief among them carbines, saddles, and horses for the men. It appears," he gives you a pointed look, "that your command has received higher priority for such supplies than mine."
You nod, a bit puzzled at Cazarosta's implication. The other officer doesn't pause to explain.
"However," Cazarosta continues, "our chiefest shortage has been in men. While I do have a core of veterans at my disposal, the number of replacements I've available are only enough to raise Third Squadron to half-strength. Worse yet, the new men are taking to both military discipline and their assigned duties poorly."
You nod in sympathy. It seems that despite the dismal level of readiness within your own unit, you're still the lucky one; at least Sixth Squadron is still nearly full-strength, even after the minor losses you took.
[X] "What are you here for?"
Cazarosta looks to the side as you ask. "You mean at regimental headquarters?"
You nod.
"I am here to request that His Grace enter my squadron into consideration for any further active duties which may come up," Cazarosta replies.
Your eyes widen a little at that. 'Active duties' is a rather silly euphemism attached to combat patrols, raiding duties, and deep reconnaissance; in short, anything liable to get men killed, especially untrained, unprepared men.
"Are your men quite prepared for that?" you find yourself asking, almost involuntarily.
Cazarosta shakes his head. "Absolutely not. My men are entirely unready and unsuited for any sort of action. However, some hard fighting will sort that out shortly; those who the Saints would will to be proper soldiers shall live. Those that they would not shall die."
You nod, if only to hide the chill rolling down your spine. Cazarosta's plan is terrifying, with an absolute disregard for the lives of his men. There are times when you find that you can avoid thinking about the horrible conclusions that Cazarosta's zealous faith and utter coldness allow him to draw….
You do not relish being reminded of it.
[X] "Good day to you, Sir Caius."
Cazarosta responds with a curt nod and passes you by.
It is not a long walk to your lodgings, but in the late afternoon, the streets of Noringia are packed with the men of the King's Army. Before the war, the small port on the southern coast of Antar had been home to twelve thousand people. Now, even with most of the original inhabitants gone and after the losses taken at Blogia, the place houses three times that number of soldiers, clerks, supernumeraries, and the mob of camp followers, peddlers, and shady businessmen that invariably follow an army at war.
You require the better part of half an hour to jostle, shove, and squeeze your way through the mobs of Line Infantry orange, Dragoon grey-green, and Navy blue. When you finally arrive at the small but comfortably appointed room assigned to you as your personal lodgings, you find a folded sheet of paper, sealed with wax, waiting on your desk.
It is from your father.
The seal in the wax is unmistakable. It bears the ornate coat of arms of a noble house—your noble house—imprinted in the soft red material. The seal was stamped by the signet ring your father wears as the Baron of…
[] [BARONY] Aldershall.
[] [BARONY] Reddingfield.
[] [BARONY] Sanloren.
[] [BARONY] Ezinbrooke.
[] [BARONY] None of those are right. (Write in)
-
You pick up the letter immediately and unfold it, your mind awash with feelings of…
[] [DAD] Excitement; I want to know what news my father has sent to his most beloved son.
[] [DAD] Trepidation; my father and I have an often strained relationship.
[] [DAD] Confusion; my father barely even spoke to me.
You have many fond memories of your father. He was not stingy with his approval. However, you also remember many arguments. It was a rare time when the two of you agreed upon any given subject, and it was not unusual for the two of you to quarrel in the morning and then be reconciled by supper.
Despite your occasionally rough relationship, he is still your father, and the harsh words and occasional fists which the two of you have hurled at each other have never been enough to engineer a total break.
Besides, news from your father means news from the rest of your family.
What of the rest of your family, anyhow? What do you remember of them? Your mother, for example?
[] My mother and I are quite close.
[] Mother and I do not speak much.
[] Mother is dead, and she has been for quite a few years now.
[X] I have a younger brother, Karl, and a sister, Louisa.
Yes, a brother and a sister, both just entering adulthood, you remember now.
You open the letter and set it down on the desk, pausing only to light a candle to hold back the advancing gloom of sunset. Then, you sit down and read it.
-
Son,
I must admit that we were in a state of great inconvenience when we received news of our army's defeat at Blogia. However, whatever worries we possessed were carried away by the news of your survival and of your elevations. I congratulate you, sir, on both counts. No doubt you are bound for greater powers should you finally apply the lessons you ignored in your youth of perseverance, grace, and gentlemanly conduct.
Your mother is well and sends her compliments.
Unfortunately, our lack of funds may prove an increasing problem in the future. This war has not been kind to our financial state; some of our tenants have left to take up the King's arms, and the increased rates of taxation have also forced many others to leave for the cities, where more work might be found. The result is that the income of our estate has dropped greatly, to the point where it might barely pay the interest on our debts.
If you are able, I shall expect you to offer any relief you might be able to afford.
I remain,
Your Father
-
Perhaps they were not his only or even his foremost intentions, but it seems rather clear to you that your father is in desperate need of money. To even go to the step of asking for it from you is proof of that.
Whatever your feelings on the subject of your family might be, though, there is also the fact that someday you will become Baron Reddingfield, and your father's debts will become yours. Perhaps paying off some of those debts now might make things easier in the future?
[] I send back as much money as I can: thirty-five crown a month. (-35 Income)
[] I send my family a substantial sum: fifteen crown a month. (-15 Income)
[] I have expenses too! I send back five crown a month. (-5 Income)
[] I send back nothing. (0 Income)
Before casting your vote, consider the opportunity cost of sending that remittance. For example, promotions to Major and beyond will likely cost Alaric hundreds of crown. That said, you'll get a chance to change your mind about how much you send home later in the book.
[X] I send my family a substantial sum: fifteen crown a month. (-15 Income)
Fifteen gold crown is nothing to laugh at; it is more than the average Tierran tenant farmer makes in a year. Any of your ordinary Dragoons would likely kill for that sort of money.
Still, your family comes first, and you decide to send that considerable amount home every month.
You fold up the letter again, reach for your pen, and begin drafting a reply….
Weeks pass and turn into months. The burning heat of the Antari summer turns into the mild breezes and heavy rain of autumn.
Staff Sergeant Lanzerel puts his plans into motion. Over the following days, you see a few more of your men wearing freshly-sewn sergeant's and corporal's stripes.
The improvement isn't dramatic; the new NCOs are still the best of a bad lot, but you do see some small changes for the better here and there.
Then, one day not a week after the first killer frost of the winter, you are summoned to the army's headquarters building. Waiting for you are four men bearing the sigil of the Order of Saint Joshua and a large, carefully padded box.
The liveried men—Seekers of the Red—take an hour to undo all but one of the multiple seals warding the box. The last one is carefully warded, a banetrap designed to fatally incapacitate any who touches it except you. With some difficulty, the Seekers assist you in undoing the last safeguard. Then, the box is opened.
Inside, mounted upon a wooden cross-shaped stand, sits a full suit of gleaming plate armour and a padded arming doublet to absorb heavy shocks and prevent chafing, complete with maille patches to cover gaps in the plate. Next to the armour is a second stand carrying a finely made broad-bladed longsword in a black leather scabbard. To your baneblooded eyes, both are marked with intricate patterns of acid-etched runes, glowing with the pale blue light of the Bane.
They are the armour and weapon of a Knight of the Orders-Militant, and you know full well that both have been tailored to fit your body exactly.
In a closed room, the four Seekers—servants of the knightly order which the King inducted you into nearly a year ago—help you put on your armour for the first time. The process takes another ten minutes, but the armour itself is surprisingly comfortable. Save for the claustrophobic darkness of the heavy plumed helm, you could almost feel as if the armour was a second skin, one which renders you impervious to most mundane weapons, including musket fire at any range beyond fifteen paces.
It is only when you are fully clad head to toe in a skin of enchanted steel that the Seekers present you with the sword—your sword. Your gauntleted hand fits the leather grip perfectly, and the blade draws from its scabbard as smoothly as silk in a summer breeze.
The instant the sword clears its sheath, the runes on the blade flare with a sudden intensity. Then, as your banesense begins to tug at your mind and edge your vision in green, the blade bursts into brilliant orange flame.
The sword's balance is perfect, and the heavy blade feels deadly in your hand as you take a few experimental swings, facing away from the four religious servants. You feel agile and powerful as you handle the massive sword one-handed. You barely feel the weight of the armour at all.
You know of the power of bane-hardened armour and bane-runed weaponry from personal experience. The former provides phenomenal protection, and the latter can penetrate even bane-hardened armour, let alone comparatively trivial obstacles like stone, wood, or people. However, you have no doubt that your enemies would know this, too; going into battle in a big, clanking, shining suit of armour with a flaming sword in hand might as well be an open invitation to your enemies to try to kill you first.
With that in mind, how often do you plan on using your new knightly equipment?
[] I shall go into every battle in armour with my new sword.
[X] I shall decide on a case-by-case basis. [] I'll continue wearing my Dragoon uniform and sabre; thank you kindly.
Indeed. Although there will be situations where a flaming sword and bulletproof plate may prove useful, there are also ones where such assets become hindrances; a loud, obvious suit of armour would certainly not help if you needed to ambush the enemy or sneak about.
You make arrangements to have the armour added to your allotment of personal baggage, to be carried with your squadron's pack animals on campaign.
-
In the first month of 608, a convoy of warships carrying the ensign of the Royal Tierran Navy sails into the ice-scudded waters of Noringia's harbour. Onboard are replacements for the line infantry, new guns for the artillery, and most preciously, a score of bright young officers in the grey-green tunic of the Royal Dragoons.
Out of the twenty, Cazarosta's Third Squadron is to receive seven. Another six are bound for Lieutenant-colonel Keane's First Squadron. The remaining seven are for your own Sixth Squadron. After being the sole commissioned officer in a squadron of nearly two hundred men for nearly a full year, the relief you feel as your new subordinates report in is palpable.
Unfortunately, of the seven new officers you receive, not all are suitable. Only three are lieutenants fit to command the five troops that your squadron is divided into. The remaining two troops will have to be commanded by cornets: bright, newly minted boys with a life of potential but precious little experience.
With each section of your command now led by its own officer, your men begin to show improvement very quickly. Over the next few months, your squadron becomes better drilled and more spirited; and even begins to redirect any resentment over punishments and long exercises from you to their new junior officers.
You also take the time to appoint a personal servant; the commanders of infantry companies and cavalry squadrons are permitted to retain an enlisted attendant, or 'bat-man,' to see to your personal needs in exchange for easier duties and a substantial pay bonus. You pick out one of the more loyal of your men, Corporal Marion, to serve in this purpose. You soon find that having someone else available to shave you, see to your uniforms, and prepare your tea makes life much easier.
As the seasons turn once again and your officers settle into their duties, you find yourself facing another decision. When you were the only commissioned officer in the squadron, you led the entire unit as a unified command. Now, with each troop led by a commanding officer of its own, you must choose which troop to accompany into battle should you ever be deployed separately.
In addition, the commanding officer of the troop you pick would be the one most likely to be at your side on the field. You spend some time going over your officers' strengths and weaknesses. The two cornets commanding their own troops are too inexperienced for the job, which leaves your three lieutenants.
First, there is Lieutenant Sandoral, commander of 1st Troop, a lanky figure with a stooped back and glasses. Every day, he reads lines of Kian philosophy and M'hidiyossi poetry to his men before they drill. One would think that such a habit would make him an object of ridicule amongst his men, yet the Dragoons under his command seem to respect and even almost like their soft-spoken, bookish officer.
Second, there is Lieutenant Blaylock, commander of 3rd Troop, a powerfully built young man who joined the army after he had been thrown out of Aetoria's Royal University for duelling. Abrasive and often crude, you must admit that the young man is an exceptional swordsman, a crack shot, and a gloriously skilled equestrian.
Lastly, there is young Lord Renard, or rather, Renard d'al Findlay, the Duke of Cunaris's eldest son and commander of 4th Troop. He is slim, dashing, and possesses a personal magnetism that even you find hard to resist. His aristocratic upbringing has made him eloquent and a fine horseman. He is also, unfortunately, profoundly dense.
Which troop do you decide to attach yourself to?
[] 1st Troop, under Lieutenant Sandoral.
[] 3rd Troop, under Lieutenant Blaylock.
[] 4th Troop, under Lieutenant Findlay.
In the spoiler below is the original article from Cataphrak's website, complete with drawings he made himself. However, if for some reason, you can't see the image, try clicking this link.
Starting the next day, you begin attending drill exercises with Lieutenant Sandoral's 1st Troop.
The diffident young officer adapts to your presence with surprising adroitness; that is to say, he doesn't seem to change a single thing, continuing the routine you've already seen him establish. He continues to read high literature to his men, and he continues to give orders in that same quiet, firmly polite tone, though with a few hints of deference when he orders his commanding officer to fall in as well.
Indeed, you find that it is you who must adapt to seeing your Dragoons in drill and not leading them yourself. Still, you wouldn't be alive were you unable to keep steady under changed circumstances. Within a week, it is as if you have always been attached to Sandoral's troop.
-
Noringia swells with fresh reinforcements as the seasons begin to turn once again. Regiments that had been devastated after Blogia are once again at near full strength. Indeed, even the losses you took in that first action as squadron commander a year ago have been entirely made good.
However, despite the rejuvenated state of the army, His Majesty, in direct command of his armies, refuses to take the field. Instead, he merely sends out enough forces to maintain control of the small strip of the southern forest under Tierran control. The bulk of the army remains at Noringia, training.
Surely, you must have an opinion on that?
[] With our ranks refilled, we should be attacking. Blogia must be avenged!
[] I'd rather not try to second-guess the decisions of my monarch.
[] We need the extra time to train and make ready.
[X] We need the extra time to train and make ready.
Absolutely. There is certainly a difference between freshly raised units and well-drilled troops. It takes weeks, even months of such training to turn a mob of civilians with uniforms and muskets into a real fighting force. The extra time is a blessing if you view it that way.
Still, perhaps the King has his own plan as well.
-
Soon, winter comes again, a particularly harsh one this time. For the first time since you arrived in Antar, you witness Noringia covered in thick blankets of snow.
The sheer amount of the stuff on the ground makes any sort of equestrian drills or marching exercises impossible. It is only through the efforts of some of the Line Infantry units, roped into clearing the roads with shovels, that the town is able to function at all.
As a result, your men are restricted to practising close-order drill in the cleared squares of land set up specifically for that purpose, along with musketry practice. It is during an instance of the latter that you notice something of a problem.
The King's regulations demand that each soldier in service be capable of firing three rounds a minute from their weapons in any weather. While such requirements were somewhat loosened in the frantic months after Blogia, Grenadier Square seems once again insistent that this basic standard be met, enough to send inspectors to each company and squadron of each regiment.
Your squadron is not to be inspected for another two weeks; however, you can already see that the men are not up to the job. While you can usually manage three shots a minute, your men are less able; the veterans can generally work their carbines fast enough, but most of your men are still short. Worse yet, a few can barely even manage their second shot before time runs out. If your squadron is to pass the upcoming inspection, you must do something.
[] I order extra drill until all the men can get it right.
[] I offer rewards for the fastest shots in the squadron.
[] I find some way to speed the reloading process.
[] Hopefully, the problem will work itself out.
