[X] I find some way to speed the reloading process.
You take a long, hard look at your men as they go through the reloading process one last time. It doesn't take you too long to understand the problem: the patch.
Unlike Line Infantry muskets with their smooth bores, Dragoon carbines have rifling, spiral grooves cut into the inside of the barrel to impart a spin unto the musket ball, improving accuracy at range. However, to make that smooth lead ball take to the rifling, a patch of heavy cloth greased up with lard is wrapped around the ball as it is rammed home down the barrel.
It is this patch that is causing the most delay; your men waste precious seconds with each shot trying to force the ball and patch down a barrel that can barely fit both. After a few tests of your own, you conclude that a slightly smaller ball would make loading much easier without impacting accuracy.
You dash off a note to the regimental quartermaster with a special order for a new shipment of cartridges. When they arrive, you set your men to firing them, and the improvement becomes evident immediately; men who were barely able to manage two shots a minute can now almost do three.
It takes a few more days of drill to bring everyone up to standard, but you manage it in time for the inspection. Your squadron, barring a few customary misfires, manages three volleys in a touch under fifty-five seconds.
-
With your officers handling much of the daily administrative duties of your squadron and Corporal Marion dealing with your personal chores, you find yourself in possession of a great deal of free time over the long winter.
You make an effort to spend most of that free time productively, primarily focusing upon…
[] Self-improvement; I seek to improve my skills in all aspects.
[] Writing; I begin working on an account of my experiences as an officer. [] Social advancement; I socialise and associate with senior officers. (Not enough Charisma.)
[] Observation; specifically, I go off and see how Cazarosta is handling his unit. [] Broadening my horizons; I learn the Antari language. (Alaric has some knowledge of Antari already.)
[] I hone my understanding of the Antari language.
[] My squadron; I closely supervise drills and exercises, offering advice when needed.
[X] Self-improvement; I seek to improve my skills in all aspects.
You spend your mornings in the drill yard, your afternoons studying treatises on war and natural philosophy, and your evenings practising poise and elocution before the mirror in your rooms. It is not an easy regimen, but it does begin to show results. Soon, your body feels more robust, your thoughts come easier to you, and you find that you seem to know the right things to say a little more often.
The improvements are hardly great ones, but they are welcome nonetheless.
In the latter part of the spring of 609, His Majesty finally gives the order for the army to deploy. The King's plan is not a complex one. Half of the army under the command of the Duke of Havenport is to besiege the fortified port city of Kharangia to draw Mikhail of Khorobirit's army west. The second, under your sovereign's personal command, is to strike northwards while Khorobirit is distracted, defeating any other Antari armies led by lesser commanders and carving out a foothold in the open expanse of Antar's central plains.
The plan is an exceptionally daring one. Were something to go wrong, it would mean the complete destruction of both separate halves of the Tierran Army, but success would mean the seizure not only of a major port city but a chance to take control of much of the League's agricultural heartland.
Unfortunately, you are not to be a part of it. As the other two squadrons of the Royal Dragoons leave with Havenport's army, you and your men are given direct orders to remain in Noringia and maintain readiness for separate duties.
The reprieve is a welcome one. The extra time could be used to train your men further, and you have little desire to fight another 'glorious' bloodbath like Blogia.
Several months later, at the very height of summer, another naval convoy arrives at Noringia. However, this time the ships do not unload a cargo of men and supplies at the docks. Instead, the men aboard carry off immense wooden boxes, dozens of them, each easily capable of fitting a grown ox.
The boxes are heavy, too; it takes twelve draft horses to pull the heavy wagon carrying each of the boxes from the docks. From there, the boxes are carried off to one of the fortified warehouses built along the harbour by the Engineers in the first years of the war.
You hear no more of the boxes then. Almost nobody you ask seems to know what the boxes contain, and the few that do seem to know quickly change the subject. Perhaps it is a subject worthy of further investigation.
[X] Investigate the building where the boxes are held. [] It's not worth the trouble.
One day, you spend some time taking a discreet look at the warehouse where the mysterious boxes are stored.
The first thing you notice is that the warehouse's doors are shut, barred, and guarded. In front of the shut doors are no less than twelve men wearing neither the green-grey of the Dragoons, the burnt orange of the Line Infantry, nor the dark blue of the Navy. They do, however, carry swords on their belts and perfectly serviceable-looking muskets at their shoulders, with bayonets fixed.
A closer look reveals even more drastic measures. The heavy wood of the warehouse doors glows with a faint light, and your mind begins to tug in a now-familiar sensation; the doors are warded by banecasting, and any unauthorised attempt to open those doors would likely result in the interloper's swift demise.
You're not getting any answers this way.
A few days later, a uniformed runner appears at the door to your lodgings just as you are about to leave for the morning. The man hands you a note, sealed with wax and marked for your eyes only.
You dismiss the runner and close the door before breaking the seal on the wax and reading the message:
Sir Alaric,
Your presence is required at regimental headquarters at your earliest convenience to receive your orders. You are not to speak to anyone of this message until you have done so.
-Cunaris
Needless to say, your plans for the day have just changed.
CHAPTER III
In which the CAVALRY OFFICER must carry out a most CRITICAL assignment.
"Sir Alaric," the Duke of Cunaris begins as you report into his office that morning. "What news have you had of the Duke of Havenport's army?"
You shake your head. "Very little, sir," you reply. "I have nothing save that they had begun a siege of the city of Kharangia not three weeks after their departure. In the nearly three months since, I have heard nothing of them."
Cunaris nods. "That is to be expected. Havenport's army has done little worthy of note since then." The Duke sighs. "The city of Kharangia is the key to His Majesty's strategy; it must be taken. However, its fortifications are too heavy and too well-founded. Havenport's cannon have been unable to make a practicable breach, and his sappers haven't made much headway either."
You nod. If Havenport's army can neither breach nor collapse Kharangia's fortifications, that would mean that he would only have one recourse left: starving the city out, likely to be a painfully slow process.
"Then we are stalemated at Kharangia?"
Cunaris shakes his head. "Time favours the Antari. With every passing day, Havenport's chances of being able to take the city before winter dwindles. Within another two months, he shall have to decide whether to abandon the siege or dig in for the winter."
So, either abandon a year's worth of campaigning, throwing the King's strategy into disarray or subject eight thousand men to the horrors of an Antari winter in the open.
"Hardly a pleasant situation," comes an unfamiliar voice behind you. "One which we hope to soon rectify."
You turn to find yourself face-to-face with two unfamiliar figures. One is a middle-aged man standing stiffly in a sober black frock coat and vest, a silver-topped cane resting easily in his hands. The other, the one who spoke, is the very image of a noble-born Tierran lady, a petite figure in a close-cut, dark-red riding habit, her delicate-featured face framed by a carefully arranged mass of dark curls.
"Sir Alaric," Cunaris begins, "if I might present to you Master Edmund Garing of messers Garing, Gutierrez, and Truscott…and Lady Katarina of Royal Tierran Intelligence."
You nod somewhat numbly. Two civilians, and important ones at that. GG&T is one of Aetoria's largest and most famous gun-making firms. Royal Intelligence commands as much respect and awe within the King's government as the Navy or the Foreign Office, and certainly more than Grenadier Square does.
Although your image of a Royal Intelligence field agent certainly wasn't that of an immaculately poised noblewoman dressed in the latest Aetorian fashion.
Cunaris looks back at you, his expression somewhat uneasy. "Lady Katarina and Master Garing are overseeing an operation that may allow the Duke of Havenport's army to take Kharangia before the onset of winter. However, they have informed me that they shall need a squadron of horse to assist them."
Lady Katarina takes over. "It should be a simple enough task. I trust your men are up for a little bit of fieldwork?"
[] "My squadron is the best in the regiment, I swear it."
[] "The men are ready, my lady."
[] "The men need more time, my lady."
[] "In my assessment, my squadron is not fit for action, my lady."
Katarina smiles. "I should very much hope so. The task shouldn't present much difficulty at all if your men are indeed ready."
The Royal Intelligence agent turns to the man next to her. "Master Garing, if you would be so kind as to explain the task at hand?"
Edmund Garing nods to Lady Katarina, then turns to you, his expression excited. "The ship we arrived on was carrying several wooden boxes, perhaps you have seen them?"
You nod.
The arms merchant smiles wide, excitement swelling in his voice. "Those crates contain a special delivery: a set of special siege cannons and their ammunition, all designed and manufactured on His Majesty's order at an extravagant cost. It is these guns which will breach the walls of Kharangia. You and your men, Captain, are to be the ones to see them to their destination."
"We will be coming along with you, of course," Lady Katarina adds. "Master Garing must observe the effect of the new guns firsthand, after all."
The Duke of Cunaris nods, having, it seems, regained some sense of ease. "It is a simple enough task, I should think, one which you are more than capable of. However, you have questions, I trust?"
[X] "Might I ask why exactly you are here, Lady Katarina?"
The Duke shoots you a sharp look as if you were dipping your toe into waters too dark and too cold for your own good.
Lady Katarina, on the other hand, simply responds with an expression of sheer vapid obliviousness. "Why, the orders of Royal Intelligence, of course."
You nod; a perfectly reasonable and completely evasive reply. It seems you shall have to press harder to get a real answer out of the woman.
[X] "What is Royal Intelligence's place in all this?"
The intelligence agent's eyes narrow.
"Royal Intelligence is fighting this war just as much as the King's Army is," Lady Katarina replies, somewhat testily. "Although you may not see our agents carrying a musket in every inconsequential skirmish, what we do serves an integral part of the task of actually winning this war."
She takes a sharp breath, then exhales slowly before continuing, her composure returned. "While we do most of our work behind desks, it is occasionally necessary to go into the field and evaluate conditions ourselves. That is why I am here, sir."
You nod. Of course Royal Intelligence is fighting the same war in their own way; they serve the same sovereign you do, after all. There would be no more point in questioning every move of theirs than it would to interrogate a gunnery captain of the King's Navy in the same manner.
She takes another breath. "Now, have you more questions regarding this pointless line of inquiry, or would you prefer to move on to less pressing subjects, your duty as a King's Officer, perhaps?"
[X] "What precisely makes these cannons so special?"
Garing leans forward, opening his mouth in his haste to answer you. Lady Katarina stops him with a subtle look.
"I am afraid such information would be best left secret for the moment," she replies. "If the Antari were to learn of these weapons before they are delivered to Havenport's army…well, that would not do at all."
So much for that.
"Sir Alaric can be trusted," Cunaris assures [Lady Katarina]. "You have my word."
The Royal Intelligence agent sighs, hesitates, then nods to the arms merchant.
"These cannons are not normal artillery pieces, not in the least," Garing begins. "Not only are they large-bore pieces capable of throwing shot heavier than any field gun, but they also possess several innovations, including an initiation mechanism derived from quicksilver and fulmic acid, a substance which we feel has a great deal of potential. In addition…"
The explanation goes on for several minutes, but you grasp much of what the other man says almost intuitively. "Forgive me if I am mistaken, but you are saying you have found a way to render percussion fuzes reliable?"
Garing nods a little nervously. "Yes, that is correct."
To your mind, the advantages of such a system are obvious. Normally, the explosive shells used by siege artillery to reduce fortifications must rely upon simple lengths of match, prone to exploding too soon, too late, or not at all. A percussion fuze, on the other hand, is one which reliably detonates a shell the instant it strikes its target. Conventional military wisdom would consider such a thing impossible for a variety of reasons, but if Garing, Gutierrez, and Truscott were able to get around that issue—
"Why, you could revolutionise the field of artillery entirely!" You exclaim.
The man in the frock coat nods excitedly. "Indeed, which is why we have taken so much effort to arrange for field tests." He takes a calming breath. "I must admit, it is very rare to find a cavalryman so well-informed in scientific matters. Perhaps we might dis—"
Garing is interrupted by the sound of your regimental commander clearing his throat, a most unambiguous hint to continue the technical discussion at some other time. Garing promptly takes the hint. "Once the, uh, current matter is settled, perhaps."
Lady Katarina smiles a bit sourly. "Very good. Now, if we are done divulging state secrets, might we move on to any other matters which remain outstanding?"
[X] "Why exactly must this duty fall to us?"
"You were requested specifically," Lady Katarina answers. "By me, in fact."
Cunaris nods. "That was why you were left behind whilst the rest of the regiment was attached to Havenport's army. Royal Intelligence requested that you be held in reserve for an eventuality such as this."
Of course. Your squadron has spent the most time training whilst at full strength. It would stand to reason that Royal Intelligence would choose you for whatever task they needed. Of course, with Cunaris ordering you to go along, it's not as if you have a choice but to do Royal Intelligence's bidding.
[X] "Why must Kharangia be taken in the first place?"
The Duke of Cunaris leans forward. "One," he extends his index finger, "Kharangia is a heavily fortified city with an excellent natural harbour."
"Two," middle finger, "Kharangia sits beyond the northern edge of the Great Forest. If we take it, we shall have a base of operations allowing us to strike deep into Antar's central plains."
"Three," ring finger, "Kharangia is barely four hundred kilometres south of the League's capital at Octobirit."
"Four," Cunaris closes his hand into a fist. "The Antari know all of this. If Kharangia falls, they will divert their energies to retaking it, allowing the King's portion of the army free reign to do as he pleases further to the east."
You nod appreciatively; the Duke's reasons seem sound enough to you.
[X] "Are we expecting resistance?"
Lady Katarina hesitates a moment before replying. "Yes and no."
"There is only one road wide enough to accommodate the wagons carrying the cannon," Cunaris explains. "Unfortunately, Havenport's army is also using it as their main route of supply. Needless to say, the entire stretch is infested with partisans, some of the boldest we've seen yet."
"We've identified one major band operating in the area," the intelligence agent continues. "Approximately three or four dozen, led by a man who calls himself Strellyk; that's Antari for—"
"For 'Marksman,'" you reply. "I know."
Lady Katarina's lips twitch in a slight grin as she continues. "Strellyk has made repeated attacks on our supply convoys, six in the past two months. However, we have no reason to believe the man foolish enough to attack a caravan if it is guarded by two hundred formed cavalry."
You feel your eyebrow rise. "What if he does?"
"If he does," replies Cunaris, "then I shall expect a full squadron of the King's Dragoons to be more than capable of seeing off a force of irregulars a quarter their size."
Of course, rather obvious, that.
[X] "I've no questions. Might I go to brief my men?"
Cunaris turns to the Royal Intelligence agent.
"I shall be expecting you and your men to be at the northern gate by eight o'clock tomorrow," Lady Katarina answers. "I trust you shall be ready by then?"
You nod. Even the most indisciplined squadron could be made ready for departure given nearly a full day.
"Very good," Cunaris says. "Then you are all dismissed."
-
It is noon by the time you are able to call your squadron's officers together. In your own quarters, around a bottle of passable claret and a plate of asparagus in oil, you fill them in on your squadron's assignment.
"Are you sure we're ready, sir?" Sandoral essays as he eyes his half-full glass warily. "I fear some of the men might still be shaky."
"Still shaky, eh?" Blaylock growls, his knife and fork dismembering a stalk of asparagus with deft precision. "Give me the day. I'll beat the shakes out of them; by the Saints."
"Surely that won't be necessary, m'dear Blaylock," Lord Renard replies smoothly. "If there ain't to be trouble, then we tell the men so. All we need do is assure them that there ain't nothing to be fright about. That'll smooth 'em."
"What happens if there is trouble, then?" Sandoral replies. "With the forest as thick with life as it is, an enemy force could very well creep right up to the edge of the road, masked from both view and banesense. In such a case, I'd rather have our men alert and nervous than relaxed and off-guard if we ride into an ambush."
Your officers turn to you. Ordering your men to take precautions will likely lower their mood, but if your men are attacked while half-asleep, the results could be disastrous.
[] "Tell the men that they can relax."
[] "Tell the men to maintain some minimal caution."
[] "Order the men to maintain normal readiness."
[] "No half-measures; I want every precaution made."
"Outriders to the front and rear, along with parties watching the flanks then, sir?" Sandoral asks.
You nod. "I want to be prepared for trouble, Lieutenant."
Your subordinate nods eagerly, ignoring Lord Renard's pointed glare. "Very good, sir."
There are only a few more orders of business after that. Then it is time for a bowl of garlic soup and a plate of roast beef, accompanied, of course, by another bottle of claret.
By the time you have finished both meal and meeting, it is after three o'clock, and your officers soon leave for their respective units to ready their men.
In the meantime, you spend the rest of the day getting your own affairs in order. By the time the summer sun finally slips under the horizon, you are already exhausted and climbing into bed.
-
The next day, you find your men assembled in column and ready to depart at Noringia's northern gate.
Your squadron is hardly a marvel to be seen, but they appear serviceable enough. Although a few men may be unshaven or missing a few pieces of kit, your command is still in reasonably good order, and the dressing of its ranks, though not perfect, is not the worst you have ever seen.
A little rough, perhaps, but you have no doubt that they will do their duty well enough when the time comes. Master Garing and Lady Katarina are waiting for you as well, the former in a sober black overcoat, the latter in a finely cut, skirted approximation of a Hussar's tight-fitting jacket, done in iron grey and blood red. Behind them sit a dozen oxcarts, each laden with an immense wooden crate and guarded by a handful of hard-looking men in grey jackets.
"Your men are ready to depart?" The intelligence officer asks after you exchange the obligatory pleasantries.
You nod. "We are, indeed, my lady."
Lady Katarina nods back. "Then let us be off."
With that, you work your way up to the head of your column, where Lieutenant Sandoral awaits.
"Royal Dragoons!" you shout in your familiar tone of command. "Forward at the walk, march!"
Shouted orders fill the air as your lieutenants relay your orders to their own units. Then, slowly, your column lurches into motion, out of Noringia and into the hostile wilds of Antar.
-
The first two days go well. It is easy enough to make good progress in the Antari summer when the roads have been baked hard by the sun, and your elevated seats keep you well above the dust kicked up by the passage of both horse and cart.
The forest remains quiet, though the precautions you've ordered your men to maintain keep them on edge. In any case, there is no indication of partisan activity.
On the third day from Noringia, you begin to see rather less encouraging signs: smashed and upturned carts lying on the side of the road, the rotting carcasses of butchered draft animals, and trees pockmarked with bullet holes. More than once, you pass trees and stones marked by crude approximations of the Antari double-headed eagle in some white paint.
On the fourth day, you are attacked.
It is one of the outriders on the flanks who sees the attack first. He gives a shout of alarm, his arm pointing frantically at dark shapes gathering in the forest; there are perhaps two dozen of them, hidden in the brush, the unmistakeable shapes of muskets in their hands.
Thanks to your preparations, whatever element of surprise the enemy had is now gone. Some of your men reach for their carbines before you even give the order. The distinct cracks of Dragoon carbines echo through the forest as the quickest of your men open up on your would-be ambushers.
The partisans, their attack well and truly foiled, begin to fall back. Some curse and shake their fists at you as they run back into the woods. Others discharge their muskets in your Dragoons' general direction, forgetting, in their haste, to aim. Neither has any real effect.
With the enemy on the run, both Staff Sergeant Lanzerel and Lieutenant Sandoral turn to you, their expressions expectant.
[X] "Staff Sergeant, your advice?"
Staff Sergeant Lanzerel grits his teeth in frustration. "We shouldn't be letting those bastards get away, sir. Normally, I'd be all for sending a troop of men off to cut that lot down, but…"
Lanzerel sighs. "Any pursuing force would have to go in on foot; the horses won't handle woods that thick. That means they'll be running right into the enemy's ground, with no easy way of escape. If you think it's worth the risk…"
You look back at your senior NCO. "Do you?"
"It's not my decision to make, sir," Lanzerel replies. "It's yours."
[] "Lieutenant Sandoral! Dismount your troop and run that rabble down!"
[] "Give them a good volley to speed them on their way."
[] "Let them run. They aren't worth the trouble."
[X] "Give them a good volley to speed them on their way."
"Very good, sir," your staff sergeant replies before turning to face the bulk of the men behind you. "Squadron to form close order and prepare to give fire!"
Within moments, your orders are being relayed down the line by bellowing sergeants in rapid succession. Your squadron coalesces into order, troops solidifying from the chaotic milling of men and horses. Your men form into two ranks, facing the fleeing partisans as they rush for the safety of the deep forest with renewed speed.
"Present!" You command. The front rank brings their weapons to bear on the retreating Antari with a precision that you might have been hard-pressed to expect from clockwork. "Fire!"
Flame ripples down the line of your formed squadron as the air around you fills with the thunderous crackle of Dragoon carbines. Shrieks of pain and fear answer your volley, with half a dozen of the Antari falling and several more staggering as your men's musket balls strike home.
Seeing their ambushers fall does wonders for your men's spirits. Some jeer and taunt the surviving Antari as they flee into the forest with even greater urgency. Others simply cheer in victory. However bare the victory, it is a victory nonetheless.
-
It is nearly noon before the column is ordered and moving again. For the rest of the afternoon, your men eye the forest warily. Some even carry their carbines loaded in their laps, not even daring to accept the half-second delay that pulling their firearm from their saddle holster might cost them.
Still, the partisans do not attack again. When you are next disturbed, it is not by enemy fire but by a woman's voice.
"I think you could have handled that encounter back there rather better," Lady Katarina remarks with scandalous informality as she pulls her horse up next to yours.
"Would you have done differently?"
The young noblewoman nods with an unladylike vigour. "Absolutely!" She replies, her voice laden with frustration and the barest hint of bloodthirst. "I would have ordered a pursuit, run them all the way back to their camp if need be."
[] "The Antari were luring us into a trap. I saw no reason to oblige them."
[] "I did not want to risk the lives of my men."
[] "Perhaps you are right."
[] "I have no wish to discuss this."
[] "We were still able to kill some of them with that volley."
[X] "The Antari were luring us into a trap. I saw no reason to oblige them."
"Even so," Lady Katarina replies, "you should have engaged the enemy more closely, inflicted more losses."
You nod. "That is true. I could have done that, but only at the cost of my own men, and I would rather find a way to fight the enemy which does not involve throwing their lives away, not when their goodwill and their willingness to fight rests upon their belief in my ability to keep them alive."
Lady Katarina grimaces. "I suppose you are correct," she concedes, sounding as if she were pulling a hot splinter from under her fingernail. "Very well, I withdraw my objection."
For a moment, you ride on in silence, the young noblewoman's words hanging in the air between you.
It takes you an embarrassing amount of time to realise that Lady Katarina is merely waiting for you to change the topic of conversation.
[X] "How do you fare, my lady?"
"Well enough, I suppose," Lady Katarina replies. "Why do you ask?"
"Well…" You pause, perhaps for far too long, trying to come up with a way to word your next sentence tactfully. "It is merely that, well…".
"You are wondering why I have not shattered like glass or melted under the heat of the summer sun, perhaps?" Lady Katarina replies. "I am an agent of Royal Intelligence, sir, and I am more than capable of doing without a parasol and chaperone."
She smiles a little to take the sting out of her rebuke. "Rest assured, the only comfort I require is your assurance that you shall attempt to the best of your ability to get us and our cargo safely to Havenport's army."
[X] "What's your opinion of my men thus far?"
Lady Katarina looks back over her shoulder for a moment at the bulk of your men still riding in column behind you.
"They are unwashed," she replies as she turns back to you. "They are unschooled, vulgar in speech and deed, and unspeakably unpleasant to those of gentler dispositions."
She tilts her head and grins playfully. "That is to say, they are soldiers, and having had some experience with them in the past, one might say with confidence that they are very much what I expected them to be."
The Royal Intelligence agent glances back again for a moment. "Though one must admit that your men seem in exemplary spirits."
[X] "How do you find Antar, my lady?"
"Surprisingly dry," she replies. "Unpleasantly so, in fact."
"Surely, it is no drier than most parts of Tierra," you reply, somewhat puzzled. Southern Antar wasn't a steam house, but it was hardly a desert, either.
Lady Katarina shakes her head and sighs. "When one is brought up on the Salt Coast, one's conception of proper climate becomes rather warped."
"Is the weather there pleasant?" You ask.
The noblewoman shakes her head, her laughter like the ringing of silver bells. "Hardly. It is rare enough to see three consecutive days of sun."
You shake your head. "That sort of weather hardly seems 'proper' to me."
Lady Katarina's smile turns sardonic. "I did not leave my family's estates until my début in Aetoria at sixteen," she replies drily. "I hardly had much in the way of comparison."
"Yet still, it is the Salt Coast's climate that sets your standard?" you ask.
The noblewoman laughs again. "I suppose familiarity brings comfort to even the most miserable circumstances," she muses. "As wretched as the storms and salt spray were, I rather miss it."
[X] "If there is nothing else, then I bid you a good day, my lady."
"There is actually one more matter," Lady Katarina replies.
The Royal Intelligence agent rides up closer to you until her knee is almost touching yours. "Considering the situation and the value of our assignment, my mind would be set more at ease if we took additional measures to diminish the chances of another partisan attack."
"How would we manage that?" you ask.
Lady Katarina smiles sweetly. "Why, by moving faster, of course."
The dark-haired noblewoman pulls out a folded map from a hidden pocket within her riding habit. She turns it toward you so that you might see your route upon the paper, traced in a grease pencil. "As you likely know, we are here," she points to a spot about a third of the way up the line. "Up here," her finger moves down the route, to a spot about three-quarters of the way to Kharangia, "is a bridge, the only crossing over the River Kharan for fifty kilometres in either direction. If the partisans are to ambush us again, it will be there."
You follow Lady Katarina's finger to the spot she is pointing at and nod. Even an idiot could recognise such a perfect point for an ambush, and the only way to stop a potential ambush from happening would be to cross the bridge before they got there.
"Well, I'm sure you can see the picture clearly enough," the young noblewoman concludes as she folds the map away. "I give you joy of the day, Sir Alaric."
You consider the possibilities as Lady Katarina pulls her horse away. While it is true that your column has been moving at a relatively leisurely pace, you have had good reason to do so; neither man nor rider can sustain a swift pace without an undue amount of strain, to say nothing of how the carts and their heavy cargoes would react.
Will you risk overstraining your men and order a faster pace, or will you maintain your current speed and allow the chance of a second partisan ambush?
[X] I ask my staff sergeant for advice.
"Aye, we could speed this up a bit, probably move at double the speed if we needed to," Lanzerel muses when you bring Lady Katarina's suggestion to him. "It might kill some horses, though. We'd probably break some wagons too."
The staff sergeant looks over his shoulder at the column behind you. "Of course, it'll be the men who'll really suffer. I can't guarantee you that this lot is hard enough to handle a quicker pace."
[] I drive the men and horses as hard as they will go.
[] I order the column to make moderate haste.
[] I maintain our normal pace.
[] I send a detachment to rush ahead and hold the bridge for me.
[X] I send a detachment to rush ahead and hold the bridge for me.
You try to think of another way to approach the problem. After a few moments, you think you may have a solution that lets you secure the bridge without tiring the majority of your men or straining the wagons. "Lieutenant Sandoral, how would you like a taste of independent command?"
Sandoral looks puzzled as he brings his horse up next to yours. "Independent command, sir?"
"There's a bridge up ahead," you explain. "It's about a hundred kilometres down the road. Our lovely friend from Royal Intelligence considers it a likely spot for an ambush."
Sandoral nods. "Yes, sir?"
"I need you to take your men and 2nd Troop on ahead with the greatest possible haste. Secure that bridge, and await my arrival."
Your subordinate snaps you a quick salute. "Yes, sir, right away, sir."
With that, Sandoral peels off to gather up his men. Within a few minutes, they are riding ahead, leaving you and three-fifths of your squadron behind with Lady Katarina, Master Garing, and the heavily laden carts.
For the next few days, you continue on your way at the same leisurely pace, barely faster than walking speed. Some of your men peer into the forests nervously as they ride, their eyes searching for any movement or flicker of a shadow that might reveal the location of a partisan ambush.
They never find one. After another week, you ride out of the forest to find yourself before the waters of the River Kharan.
The bridge proves to be a weathered series of granite arches holding up a road of plank-covered dirt. A ruined tollhouse stands upon your side of the crossing, its stout stone walls crumbling under the burden of long centuries of neglect.
You fought your first battle in Antar upon a bridge like that one in the first autumn of the war. Your small group of Dragoons had been on detached duty under the command of Captain Hunter then, a dashing Wulframite officer of the elite Aetorian Grenadier Guards.
That battle had been an ambush against an Antari supply column. That time it had been Tierran foot in burnt orange that skulked in the woods while you and your dragoons waited in hiding inside the ruins of a tollhouse much like the one before you.
That action had been a glorious victory; you'd won fame, the esteem of your fellow officers, no small amount of prize money from the Antari commander's ransom, and the prized Gryphon of Rendower, Tierra's highest decoration for bravery.
That was a long time ago, though. Most of the men who fought in that action are long dead, including Hunter, who had been promoted to lieutenant colonel only to be killed leading his grenadiers at Blogia. Little remains of that battle but your memories of that bridge, so much like this one.
Still, that had been a different time and a different bridge; over a hundred kilometres further upstream, if you remember your geography right. There are other subtle differences, too: the arches are more shallow, the river swifter, the roadway narrower, and of course, there is the fact that it is guarded by the men you sent on ahead. It is not long before you and the rest of the column are recognised by the sentries at the end of the bridge and given leave to approach.
Almost immediately, you notice the high spirits evident. While the camp may not be the most organised, its occupants go about their duties with evident good cheer, never a bad sign.
While all seems well now, you note that the stonework of the bridge is newly pitted with the sort of craters left by musket balls, and the smouldering remains of what appears to be a pyre, the sort used for cremating the dead, sits like an ashen blemish upon the far bank.
"The Antari came out of the woods yesterday morning. It was barely even a fight, sir," Lieutenant Sandoral reports. "One of the sentries gave the alarm. I ordered the men to form ranks and begin volley fire. They got a few shots off, but after the second volley, they broke and ran."
The young officer glances over his shoulder for a moment at the far bank. "We, uh, we lost one, and another died of his wounds this morning. We burned them along with the enemy dead."
It only takes an hour or two to pull down the camp and continue onwards.
While there remains the lingering danger of a partisan attack, the news of Lieutenant Sandoral's victory the previous day does much to settle nerves. The constant air of tension which characterised so much of your past week seems almost gone, something which is much helped when, at around midday, the forest begins to thin.
By nightfall, the men are sitting easy in their saddles once more.
-
The next day, your column continues onward. The forest, which had presented itself as a solid mass of stout wood and darkness just the day before, continues to thin until an hour before midday when it gives way entirely to rolling green hills overgrown with shaggy summer grass.
For the first time since you have arrived in Antar, you and your men are surrounded by open ground, truly open ground, not the patchwork clearings of forest hamlets or the cleared hinterlands around Noringia, for unlike those pockets of grassland in the sea of trees which forms the southern forests, this is a different sort of region entirely.
Now, you ride into Antar's central plains and towards Kharangia, that mighty fortress city that guards the approach to central Antari proper, that city which must fall if the King's Army is truly to break into the League's rich grain-producing regions.
It is an almost alien sight to you now, the thought of looking to your left or right and not seeing trees but an immense openness, where there is naught but a horizon between green earth and blue sky. It cannot help but fill you with a feeling of…
[] Vulnerability; open ground means we're open to attack.
[] Freedom; we're finally liberated from the confines of forest roads.
[] Disappointment; mostly at the fact that this land moves me little at all.
[X] Freedom; we're finally liberated from the confines of forest roads.
Your heart swells, and your spirit lifts at the sight of nothing but open ground around you. After the oppressively narrow roads and cramped clearings of the Great Forest, you feel almost like a songbird newly released from a dark cage.
It is a glorious feeling, and at moments when your self-possession begins to wane, it seems as if only your self-control stops you from simply riding out of the column and into the open plain to run at full gallop across its endless face with the sun forever warm in your face.
Your column makes good progress that day, forging forward until it is too dark to do anything except set up camp.
-
The next morning, you spot a grey haze above the horizon before you, the sort that only comes from smoke rising in vast quantities. By midday, that haze has become a cloud, and you begin to see the low, dark shapes from which the blackest and heaviest smoke rises.
By mid-afternoon, the sky grows dark from the smoke, which begins to blot out the summer sun above you. Finally, you and your men crest the top of one last ridge, and you breathe a most involuntary sigh of relief when you finally have a clear view of what is before you.
Not three or four kilometers ahead of you lies an expanse of canvas tents staked out and arranged neatly in rows around a large pavilion. Beyond that, there is a hellish expanse of trenches, earthworks, and fighting positions, boiling over with men in the burnt-orange coats of Tierran line infantry…
…and not a few hundred paces beyond them, scarred, battered, scorched, but still standing proud and unbreached, are the defiant walls of Kharangia.
Chapter IV
In which the CAVALRY OFFICER takes part in the SIEGE of the fortress city of KHARANGIA.
The young red-haired man opposite you fixes you with a piercing stare. His expression is intent as his fingers dance around the unbroken wall of his defences, the glow of the candles throwing his grim, hard-featured face into an infernal contrast of light and shadow.
In a single fluid motion, he makes his move. His green eyes flashing, he sets two playing cards of lacquered paper on the polished wooden table, alongside the two already there, a confident smirk on his lips.
"Sroc-hjunkuswerd," he declares, his voice soft and thunderous in the same breath. "Would any of you gentlemen care to answer?" he asks, louder this time, loud enough for you to hear the light Kentauri burr in his voice.
The two other men at the table withdraw behind the defensive barriers of their own hands, hiding their expressions behind lacquered paper as they consider their next moves.
One of them, like you, wears a jacket of green-grey and blood red, his thin face matched by a perpetually tired expression: Lieutenant Colonel Roland d'al Keane, commanding officer of First Squadron, and with the Duke of Cunaris no longer fit for action, the de facto field commander of the regiment. He looks down at his hand one last time before folding it and shaking his head.
The other man also wears the rank insignia of a lieutenant colonel, but he wears the burnt orange of the Line Infantry: Winthrop d'al Hartigan, the newly ascended Viscount of Hugh, commander of the First Battalion of the 5th Regiment of Foot. He too backs down.
Hartigan was your old friend Elson's cousin by marriage, and the two of you have been on friendly enough terms. It had been he who extended you an invitation to the evening's game. After all, there could have been no other way for a mere captain to be invited to this particular table, in this particular tent, belonging to the red-haired, green-eyed young man opposite you; for he is Lord Marcus d'al Havenport, the Duke of Havenport's younger brother and Lieutenant Colonel of the Kentauri Highlanders at barely the age of twenty-one.
Lord Marcus looks to you. "Do you seek to face me, Sir Alaric, or will you come to your senses and back down as these gentlemen have? After all, you could still walk away with some bit of coin."
Your winnings for the night sit to your left: a meagre pile of silver and copper. If you back down now, you could almost break even, but if you were to force a showdown, you would need to risk even that bare consolation. However, if you were to prevail, the pot would be yours, and you'd make a tidy profit instead of a slim loss.
You eye the cards before the Kentauri warily. There are few combinations better than Sroc-hjunku in Tassenswerd, and your own hand certainly could not match it. However, all you have to go on is the young nobleman's word, and while Lord Marcus seems confident, it seems far more likely to you that he is merely bluffing.
How will you act?
[] Call his bluff.
[] Back down.
[] I try to turn the tables with a bluff of my own.
