Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I shall be all right, having accepted that all men must die.
Valar morghulis.

Click to shrink...

You have seen enough of the world to know that nothing is eternal, be it nations, sentiments, or the lives of men.

No living thing in creation does not die, and your father had been no exception. To have sunk yourself in pointless grief and self-pity over it would have been as useless as to rail against the sunset.

Your father is dead; you remember him, but you will not shame him by clinging pitifully to the last strands of his memory.

"Yes, I am quite all right," you reply, with only the barest hint of self-deception.

You turn in your saddle to see the source of the intrusion: a young man in the white and blue of the Lancers, lieutenant's pips fresh on his collar.

"His Majesty's compliments, sir," he reports as he offers you a crisp salute that you quickly return. His fingers reach into his jacket to hand you a piece of folded paper. "Your battle orders, sir."

With one hand, you take your fresh orders as you keep the reins in the other. Your thumb flicks open the wax seal with a practised motion. "Thank you, Lieutenant," you murmur as you begin to read. "Carry on."

You barely notice the lancer as he spurs his horse away. Images of the King's plan take shape in your mind as you read through the short, terse words outlining your duty. Thoughts of the battle to come push the lingering sentiments of your father from your mind.

Today, you will have rather more pressing concerns.

-​

"The challenge we face today is a simple one, gentlemen," you announce to your officers as you lead your squadron off the road and into your position on the right flank of the army's formation. "Of course, simple does not mean easy."

The nature of that challenge is displayed in open daylight before your eyes; eight hundred paces before you, beyond a stretch of open ground, lies the remains of a vast camp. Khorobirit and his mighty army stayed there for nearly two years. Now, out of the vast arrays of tents and pavilions, only a small fraction remains - a skeleton of a camp to serve the skeleton of an army that Prince Khorobirit left behind to guard his route of supply.

"The enemy numbers three to four thousand," you continue, pointing at the dark shapes which crouch in readiness behind the spare earthworks surrounding the mostly abandoned camp. "That does not mean that they are to be dismissed. Even a greatly outnumbered force might still give us trouble. In any case, the Line Infantry and the Lancers will be the ones to see them off; we have a rather different job."

Your hand shifts, no longer pointing at the enemy or their camp but beyond, where the River Kharan flows swift and blue before the outskirts of the town of Mhillanovil. Your finger homes in on a series of low, rectangular shapes, moored to a makeshift dock on the near bank: barges, not the proper river barges so common on Tierran rivers but flat-bottom ferries moored to a line, each one loaded down with cargo heavy enough to make the ungainly craft sit low in the water.

"Those barges are our objective," you explain. "While the main body of our forces ties up the majority of the Antari, we are to pierce the enemy's defences at their extreme flank. The King wants whatever's on those barges, intact if possible, destroyed if necessary."

"We shall have to move swiftly then," Blaylock notes. "If this cargo is as valuable as it seems to be, the enemy will seek to deny it to us the moment we show any sign of getting our hands on it."

"I am rather more concerned with holding the ferry barges," Sandoral replies. "We shall be behind the main body of the enemy, and while our force as a whole outnumbers them, even a quarter could easily overwhelm us."

"The Lancers will be riding to support us as soon as they break through the enemy on our left," you answer. "We shall not be isolated for long."

Their orders explained and with all pressing matters addressed, you can do nothing but send your subordinates to their respective commands and make your last-minute preparations for battle.

[ ] I shall be wanting to fight this battle in armour.
[ ] No armour, not this time.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I shall be wanting to fight this battle in armour.

Not ten minutes later, the battle opens with the rolling thunder of cannons.

To your left, the three dozen artillery pieces of the King's division roar one by one, hurling smoke, fire, and solid iron at the distant shapes of the enemy. Even from eight hundred paces away, you can see the great gouts of earth spray upwards as cannonballs skip off of the sloped frontage of the Antari trenches. Round shot is an ineffective weapon against earthworks, but it is a weapon to which the Antari have no answer; their guns are with Khorobirit in the south.

For a quarter of an hour, the bombardment continues, a futile gesture in material terms—despite the rare cannonball which finds itself driving through the body of an unlucky Antari peasant—it is at the Antari morale that each gun is truly aimed, an expression of superiority hammered home with every ball shot from a Tierran gun without even the faintest hint of challenge.

Then, the infantry goes forward.

They seem endless, a tide of orange jackets, white gaiters, and burnished steel, even though the reasoning part of you knows that there were twice as many of them at Blogia. In their steadily advancing ranks, they seem invincible, though you remember that each battalion is made up of men no more or less fragile than any other. Still, as you feel the ground shake under their tread and the air fill with the cacophonous rattle of their drums, you find it so very easy to forget.

Then, cutting through the rattle of the infantry's drums and the echoes of the guns, there comes the silvery peals of a bugle, the instrument through which the cavalry—and only the cavalry—is commanded.

Your ears strain to hear the first triplet of notes and then the next. Your mind translates music into words with a veteran's ease. The command takes shape in your head. Your mouth goes dry, your hands tightening around the hilt of your enruned knightly longsword.

"Cavalry on the left flank: advance at the charge. Cavalry on the right flank: advance at the charge."

It is the order you have been waiting for.

"Squadron!" you shout, drawing your blade from its scabbard and letting its runes set it ablaze over your head.

"At the walk! Advance!"

-​

Even at the walk, it is not long before you find yourself passing the vast lines of infantry. Beyond the orange-jacketed mass, you can see the leading squadrons of the White Rose Lancers do the same, their sky-blue guidons held high as they close with a meagre mob of Antari horse, already sallying from behind the earthworks. With every passing second, the two forces pick up speed, accelerating towards a terminal clash.

A shout of alarm snaps your eyes away from the developing skirmish to your side. It seems you have more pressing matters; ahead of you, a small band of horsemen peel away from the main body of the Antari, bound not for the developing melee on the other flank but towards your own dragoons.

They number no more than three dozen, but even less than forty spirited horsemen could make no small amount of trouble, and enthusiasm is clearly something that these riders do not lack, their sabres already out and flashing in the summer sun. Their small, nimble horses carry them towards your dragoons faster and faster, making clear their desire to charge home.

There is no going around them, that is certain; they are already extending into a thin line, wide enough to make any detour impossible. No, you will have to fight through them.

The question is…how?

You could certainly ride right through them. If you were simply to use the weight of your numbers to bull through, you'd be in contact with the enemy for only a moment before brushing them aside. You'd risk only a few losses, but that would also leave the enemy horsemen free to make mischief among the friendly infantry now passing behind you.

Taking the time to come to grips with the enemy and rout them comprehensively presents its own problems. Whether by sabre, carbine, or clever manoeuvre, defeating the enemy horse would take time, a luxury that your orders do not provide you in great abundance.

The enemy cavalry is three hundred paces away and closing. Your squadron pounds towards them at the jog-trot. How will you meet them?

Discipline: 49%
Morale: 51%
Loyalty: 65%
Strength: 94%

Click to shrink...

[ ] We shall ride right through them.
[ ] I'll lure the enemy into their own destruction!
[ ] We can stop them with a good volley or two.
[ ] We shall meet them with the sabre and smash them quickly!

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] We can stop them with a good volley or two.

"Squadron!" you shout. "Halt and make ready for volley fire!"

There is a risk to what you plan to do. Your squadron must be on steady horses to deliver a volley with anything that might be described as accuracy. You can think of no more disadvantageous way to meet an enemy cavalry charge than standing still.

You will need to break the enemy with a volley before they can close; a simple thing, if enough of your men can keep steady atop their shifting saddles and hit the enemy.

If.

The Antari are at a hundred paces, close enough for you to see the lather streaming down their horses' necks.

"Squadron! Present!" Around you, the men of your command bring their short-barrelled carbines to bear.

Eighty paces now. Sixty, forty—

"Fire!"

There is a single moment of thunder, fire, and smoke as all around you, the men of your squadron unload their carbines into the enemy.

Your hand closes around the hilt of your sword as you peer into the powder fog, preparing yourself to meet those of the enemy who have survived your volley.

They do not come.

When the smoke blows away in the summer breeze, it reveals that the ground before you is covered with naught but shattered men and broken horses. The surviving Antari are already beating a hasty retreat.

You order a pursuit without delay; you have wasted enough time with this skirmish. Now you must make haste to fulfill your orders before it is too late.

-​

You can now see the Antari camp defences in detail as you lead your squadron towards them; they are no more than a sloped berm of packed earth, perhaps waist-high. By the standards of your own army's military engineering, it is positively laughable: no stakes to fend off cavalry attacks, no ditch to slow down infantry, not even bastions to make use of flanking fire. Quite frankly, by itself, it is little obstacle at all. You have confidence that even a mediocre equestrian could vault a horse over it with ease.

No, the problem lies with the men still defending it.

There are not many of them; you count no more than twenty directly before you, but even at two hundred and fifty paces, you can see the long slim shapes of muskets in their hands. They bring their weapons to bear with something only a coffee-house comedian would dare call 'good drill,' but they bring them to bear nonetheless.

Two hundred paces away now, and the Antari at the earthen parapet wait for you to close into range, the sun flashing off the barrels of their mismatched guns. They may not be anything close to disciplined Line Infantry, but a musket ball fired by a peasant will kill a man just as well as one fired by a grenadier, and a charging squadron of cavalry is a damned hard target to miss at close range.

A hundred and fifty paces; you could try to ride around them, but that would cost you valuable time. You could try to rattle their nerves, make them break.

Or, you could ride right into the teeth of the enemy's volley, swallow the inevitable loss of a few men and risk no more of your precious time.

[ ] We'll tough out the enemy volley and ride right through.
[ ] Let us see if I cannot rattle their nerves.
[ ] We make a detour; better to lose time than to lose men.
[ ] I have a plan. One that will lose us neither men nor time.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I have a plan. One that will lose us neither men nor time.

The thought comes to you as the defeated remnants of the Antari cavalry speed on ahead: if you could block up the Antari infantry's field of fire, you could ride right up to them and put them to flight with the sabre. It would be the simplest thing, and all it would require is an appropriate obstruction…

…like a gaggle of fleeing Antari cavalry.

"Squadron! Keep at the tails of those Antari horsemen, but do not overtake them!" you command. "Forward at the gallop!"

Just like that, your dragoons close the distance with the fleeing Antari cavalry until you are so close behind that you feel as if you could practically reach out with your longsword and slice off the bounding tail of the rearmost stragglers.

The distance closes, and the Antari peasant infantry, so inured to the idea of seeing anyone upon a horse as superior to them, dare not fire upon you for fear of hitting their own cavalry.

Fifty paces, forty, thirty. If those musketeers were to open fire now, the results would be devastating.

Yet they do no such thing. Instead, when it becomes clear that they are soon to be within reach of your Tierran sabres, they throw down their arms and abandon their position, fleeing in all directions.

You allow the surviving Antari horsemen to flee to safety as you lead your dragoons through the last enemy line of defence without a single man lost or a single shot fired. Their purpose is served; now you must see to your own.

-​

Your squadron is already riding deep into the enclosed space of the Antari camp as the rattle of musketry echoes from behind you, battalion volleys melding together into a rising tide of lead and fire; the main body of the King's Army has joined the battle.

Far to your left, you can see the shattered remnants of the main force of the Antari cavalry fleeing. They had charged into battle with sabres high and voices raised in ferocity, yet the fighting spirit of the Antari could not match Tierran drill and Tierran numbers; even before the infantry battle in the centre could properly begin, the cavalry battle on both flanks had already ended in Tierran victory.

Ahead, you see your objective: the low shapes of the ferry barges of the river, not three hundred paces away now. The only things that lie in your path are the disordered ranks of tents that had served to house the small and scrawny force which is already meeting its destruction behind you.

That does not mean the success of your mission is no longer imperilled; human shapes clamber over the barges, working at moorings and ropes. It is clear they mean to cut the ferries free from the crossing line and escape downstream.

You order your men to follow you through the camp with the utmost haste, but not all of them listen. The looting of a defeated opponent's camp and baggage is a matter of course for a victorious army, but some of your men are not waiting for victory. Even as you try to lead the rest towards the riverbank, some are peeling off or dismounting to sift through the tents and supply carts, flinging back canvas covers in search of coin, trophies, and women.

It is a breakdown of discipline, for sure: your own men abandoning you for plunder before the assembled eyes of the King's division…but will you spend precious time to restore discipline? Will you place the mission above your reputation?

Or, will you discard both? Your dragoons are the first into the enemy's camp, so you have first pick of the plunder. Not since the fall of Kharangia have you been presented with such an opportunity to fill your own pockets. Will you take it?

[ ] I'll deal with the looters later; my orders come first.
[ ] Discipline comes first; get the looters back in line before proceeding.
[ ] Threaten to shoot any man who deserts his post to plunder. Alaric isn't Ruthless enough.
[ ] The battle is all but won; surely I might look to my own financial welfare?

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I'll deal with the looters later; my orders come first.

You fix your eyes on the barges ahead, trying your best to pretend as if your men were not peeling away to loot the undefended Antari baggage. Your attention must be fixed upon carrying out your orders; anything else is of secondary concern.

Still, you cannot help but glance over your shoulder as your squadron covers the final distance to the riverbank. Your heart pounds. How many of your men have abandoned you? How many even now make a spectacle of looting the camp before the eyes of your sovereign, shredding both discipline and your reputation as a man fit to maintain it in pursuit of plunder?

Apparently, less than you had feared.

Only perhaps a dozen of your men have broken off. While this anarchic, dismounted handful tears their way through the enemy camp, the rest remain behind you, sabres drawn, firmly in their saddles.

As far as the vast majority of your men are concerned, it takes a great deal more than the temptation of loot to draw them from your side.

Leaving the pitiful fugitives behind, you lead your steadfast and loyal men onwards.

-​

The Antari have barely even begun cutting loose the ferries when you burst out of the camp at the head of your dragoons.

Sabre out, you spur your mount into a charge with your squadron at your back. The Antari bargemen, armed only with knives and hatchets, quickly decide against mounting any sort of resistance. Before your men can get close, they are throwing down whatever is in their hands and fleeing down the side of the riverbank, leaving the barges undefended.

By the time your men secure the ferries and their mysterious cargo, the battle is all but over. In the distance, you can see the Antari infantry fleeing in all directions as ranks of orange-clad Tierran infantry pursue them with charged bayonets.

As for the enemy cavalry, they are long gone. The only fighting men ahorse nearby aside from your own are those of the White Rose Lancers, their white jackets now splattered with filth and their lance points dripping with blood. Even as most of the Warburtonian regiment hunts down the fleeing enemy, another troop heads for your dragoons. The officer who leads them wears a uniform unsullied by battle: a staff galloper.

"Daring stuff, that," the Captain in charge comments as he brings his charger to a halt before you. "We saw it all, smartly done," he declares as he grins broadly under the waxed points of his moustache. "Almost as quick as Lancers, you fellows."

A rather impertinent fellow to be addressing a superior officer with such familiar jocularity, don't you think?

[ ] That was a compliment, I think; nothing lost in humouring him.
[ ] I restrict myself to smiling back; now is not the time for a lecture.
[ ] I best lay down some discipline where I can.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] That was a compliment, I think; nothing lost in humouring him.
This choice doesn't affect anything in terms of mechanics, so to move on, I'll select the option I feel fits Alaric's character best.

Click to shrink...

You smile back. If it is a compliment, then it is certainly a back-handed one, but you are in too good a mood to shit in a fellow officer's hat.

"His Majesty sends his compliments and congratulations," the lancer continues. "We're to serve as your relief. The King has ordered your men set at liberty to salvage."

Ah yes, 'salvage,' which is to say, loot the Antari camp. The men behind you barely wait for your confirmation before heading off, and why should they? Your orders have been fulfilled, and the enemy is beaten; you have won for yourself and your regiment glory and the high regard of your sovereign.

The battle is won.

-​

The next afternoon, you are supervising the billeting of some of your squadron's horses at a stable near the outer edges of town when you are approached by a lieutenant in the burnt-orange jacket of the Line Infantry.

"Major Castleton? Of the Dragoons?" he asks as he steps into the cool shade of the half-enclosed stable.

You nod. "Your servant, sir," you reply.

The infantry officer snaps off a quick salute. "Lieutenant Stanhope, sir, 11th of Foot. The King has seen fit to give us the duty of guarding the prisoners taken in yesterday's action."

"Is there anything you require of me?" you ask.

The more junior officer nods. "I currently have the honour of maintaining under guard the commanding officer of the Antari force we fought yesterday. He has asked after you by name and has requested a meeting. I came to beg a reply."

An Antari nobleman? Asking after you? Surely, you have no personal acquaintance with any Antari nobleman. What in creation could he want with you? "I do not see why an Antari lord would ask after me."

Stanhope's eyebrow rises. "You insist that you have no personal acquaintance with such a fellow? None at all?"

You shake your head. "None at all, sir," you reply, perhaps a little too firmly.

The infantry officer frowns in puzzlement. "That is indeed quite strange; he certainly insists that he knows you."

Quite strange, indeed.

[X] "Of course. You may lead me to him directly."
[ ] "This seems rather suspicious to me. I must refuse."
[ ] "I have no desire to entertain an Antari prisoner—any Antari prisoner."

Within minutes, Lieutenant Stanhope leads you towards the centre of town, where the prisoners of war are being held.

Soon, you begin passing by strings of men sitting despondently along the side of the street. They rest in close clumps of ten or twelve, and as you take a closer look, it becomes clear why: the members of each group are tied to each other by the hand with thick ropes.

Each of the captives possesses the light skin and fair hair of the Antari, and each wears clothes fouled by the black stains of gunpowder or the brown of dried blood. Their rough clothing marks them out as serf soldiers, captured by the hundred in the pursuit following yesterday's battle. Under the watchful eye of armed Tierran infantrymen, they sit exposed to the summer sun, looking thoroughly miserable.

Stanhope takes you across a square full of such wretched figures, then towards an elegant set of townhouses at one corner. Here are kept prisoners of a rather different quality: baneblooded lords awaiting ransom.

It soon becomes clear that these prisoners are subject to little discomfort. In the drawing-room, a pair of noble-born prisoners chat over a pot of coffee, while in the dining room, yet more captives tuck into a late dinner of honey-roasted pork and potato wine. Only the presence of a pair of guards in the antechamber gives off anything of the air of a prison cell.

It seems that the King's Army has not stooped to such barbaric levels as requiring nobles of the blood to share the same indignities as common men, not even in captivity.

The infantry officer leads you up the stairs towards a set of doors attended by another pair of guards.

"The quarters of the gentleman who asked for you are right through this door," Stanhope tells you. "Do not mind the guards; though he has made no attempts at escape, I am told that it took nearly twenty men to subdue him. I supposed the precaution necessary."

Without another word, the officer nods to the guards. As one, they push open the double doors and allow you through.

The room, like the rest of the house, has been lavishly appointed; a large four-poster bed sits on one end, a writing desk and an iron stove at the other. Its sole occupant sits in the middle, resting in one of three cushioned armchairs arranged around a sitting table.

He is nearing middle age now, the man in the chair, but his streaming moustachios, his long blond hair, and the muscular frame underneath his Hussar's jacket make him instantly recognizable.

Yes, you have met this man before, though it had been only briefly and a long time ago, on a bridge along the River Kharan in the first winter of the war.

"Ah! Castleton" rumbles the deep voice of Karol of Loch. "It is good to see that you are well."

-​

"In truth," the Antari nobleman relates to you over tea, "I am rather glad to see you well, despite—" He waves a massive hand towards the guards at the door. "—the circumstances."

Lord Karol's Tierran is more fluent now, his accent less pronounced. It seems you have not been the only soldier in this war to have been learning your opponent's language.

"You have my sympathies regarding the current circumstances, sir," you reply politely, "even if I do not quite share your opinion of them."

The Antari manages a sour smile. "Indeed, and why should you? Your King has just won a great victory and he advances deeper into my homeland. Your own fortunes seem to be on the rise, as well. I hear that you are some sort of senior officer now, a captain?"

You smile back. "A major, actually."

"You have certainly advanced far since our last encounter," he remarks, as if a headmaster commenting on the progress of a favoured pupil. "A mere cornet barely out of your Captain Hunter's shadow." A pause and a look of confusion now. "If I may be so bold, might I ask where Hunter is now? His regiment is with this army, is it not? Yet I have seen or heard nothing of him."

Then he does not know. "Hunter is dead," you reply heavily. "He was killed when his battalion was overrun at Blogia."

Lord Karol shakes his head sadly. "I see, a pity."

"He will not be forgotten," you reply steadily. "He will be seen as a Saint of the Red if I have anything to do with it."

The Antari nods approvingly. "I do not doubt that the Mother of Ascension has already called him to sainthood, but I appreciate your sentiments nonetheless."

"Why would you grieve so at the death of an enemy?"

"An enemy?" Lord Karol replies pensively. "No, he was not my enemy. That would have to imply some level of enmity or anger." He shakes his head. "Sir Enrique was a man who wore the uniform of a country at war with mine. That did not make him my enemy, only my adversary."

"He killed your men," you point out. "He captured you personally."

The Antari nods. "He did; because it was his duty as a servant of his liege and as a soldier. It was a duty he carried out with gallantry and skill, and when it was done, he never once saw his duty as an excuse to extend us the slightest discourtesy." Lord Karol sighs. "Creation is poorer for the absence of such a man. Is that not reason enough to grieve?"

You nod, and for a moment, the two of you share a moment of commiseration for the loss of such a courageous soldier and such a good man. Yes, you suppose it is. "I must present to you my compliments; you fought well."

Lord Karol smiles wanly. "It is good of you to say so, but we had little choice. Honour demanded it of us."

You shake your head. "I could hardly say that," you reply. "We had your men outnumbered three to one in infantry and more in cavalry. You had no artillery at all. In short, you were outmatched in all aspects."

The Antari returns your look levelly. "What of it? I was ordered to hold the town, so I stayed to hold it," he states as if it were a truth cut into a slab of granite.

For a moment, you can do nothing but goggle at the Antari lord's stony expression. What sort of lunacy is this, to throw away nearly four thousand fighting men upon a matter of principle?

"A Tierran officer would have withdrawn," you finally reply. "No superior would have blamed him for saving his command in such a circumstance. We Tierrans would not have countenanced committing an army to such a fruitless and hopeless battle."

Lord Karol answers with a low, bitter chuckle. "Then perhaps that is why you Tierrans keep winning."

"Shall you be ransomed soon?"

Lord Karol shakes his head. "I do not think I shall be ransomed at all. Prince Khorobirit does not often forgive failure, and now I have failed him twice."

"Then what will you do?" you ask.

The Antari sighs. "My parents are dead, I have never married, Loch was never good land, to begin with, and surely Khorobirit will find some way to take it from me, which leaves me nothing but my pride and my honour; still something, at least." He shrugs. "Perhaps I will see this Tierra of yours once the war is over. If it made men like Hunter, it cannot be as bad a place as they say."

[ ] "Should you want for employment, you may inquire after me when this war ends."
[ ] "I wish you the best of luck."
[ ] "Given the circumstances, your predicament is exactly what you deserve."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Should you want for employment, you may inquire after me when this war ends."

You could think of a thousand places within a noble household for a baneblooded soldier, even a foreign one: a master of arms, a commander of the houseguard, a confidential messenger, perhaps.

Lord Karol nods. "Perhaps I shall," he replies, keeping his emotions closely guarded. "Yes, perhaps I shall if this war ever ends."

After that, there seems little for the two of you to talk about. Speaking of the uncertain future has placed the Antari into a mood fitter for introspection than conversation. It is clear to you that this meeting is over.

You say your farewells and excuse yourself, leaving Lord Karol alone with his thoughts.

-​

Your stay in Mhillanovil proves significantly more comfortable than the weeks you spent in Solokovil. For one thing, the King's new base had been a considerably larger town before the war, and serving as Prince Khorobirit's field headquarters for two years had only caused it to grow further.

The summer heat is significantly less tiresome as well, not because of any matter of location, for Mhillanovil is barely thirty kilometres to the north of Solokovil, but because the town is bounded on three sides by the cool waters of the River Kharan, and on the fourth by a not-insubstantial belt of trees, perhaps the last northern vestige of the Great Forest.

It is the presence of this forest that seems to be the new focus of the army's efforts, for every day, companies of foot march out into the trees armed with hatchets and saws. They return with carts full of newly felled logs to be piled in the town square, cut into planks by yet more companies of infantry, and set to dry in the hot summer air.

Though your dragoons are still required to patrol in search of any approaching enemy force, no longer are they required to keep the obsessive watch that had so fatigued them earlier in the summer. Now, it is a rare occasion when any more than one out of eight of your men are posted as vedettes at any given time. To your dragoons, it is practically a vacation. Liberty in a well-provisioned and well-established town does nothing but good for their spirits.

You too are no longer worked to exhaustion every day. Your duties seem to have been pared back to handling one or two patrols a week and dealing with the occasional breaches of discipline which come almost naturally to any group of young, fit, and courageous men with too much time on their hands.

In fact, once the patrols are cut back further with the end of the campaigning season and the onset of the autumn rains, you find yourself with barely any work and a great deal of free time.

How do you plan to spend it?

[ ] I shall refine my knowledge of the Antari language.

[ ] I think I shall write an account of my experiences as a King's Officer.

[ ] I'll use the time to oversee the development of one of my lieutenants.
-[ ] I instruct Blaylock on how to command his men more effectively.
-[ ] I coach Sandoral on the rougher aspects of command.
-[ ] I try to instill some appreciation for common sense into Lord Renard.

[ ] I shall call upon and spend time with a personal acquaintance.
-[ ] I shall call upon Lady Katarina.
-[ ] I shall call upon Countess Welles.
-[ ] I shall call upon Lord Cassius.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I shall call upon and spend time with a personal acquaintance.

While it is true that you have made very few particular friends among the officers of the King's division, that does not mean that you are entirely without confidantes in Mhillanovil.

Surely, you may count upon at least one individual to regard you with enough affection to tolerate or even welcome your regular company.

[X] I shall call upon Lady Katarina.

You find Lady Katarina's apartments quite close to your own, in a section of the city set aside for the nobly-born feminine component accompanying any army: officers' wives and in a few rare and cleverly disguised cases, officers' mistresses.

Lady Katarina, of course, is neither of those categories, but as you quickly find out, she has taken great pains to keep that fact hidden. Her quarters seem less like the office of an intelligence agent and more like the tastefully opulent rooms of a kept woman.

She looks and acts the part, too. When you call upon her, you most usually find her coiffed, poised, and in the company of other women, be they Tierran officers' wives or local Antari ladies, and perhaps a dashing cavalry officer or two (a description which you yourself fall into) as well. In such circumstances, she plays the very part of the ingénue, asking obvious questions with an ignorance that must be feigned.

When the two of you are alone, however, or only in the company of Lady Welles, her most frequent visitor, she dispenses with the façade. Then, she speaks with deadly earnestness.

"It is all coming to a head," she says one day, of intrigues and stratagems far above a Major's purview. "If I might dare hope that all goes well, then we may be on our way to a victorious conclusion by this time next year, Saints be thanked."

Countess Welles, sitting opposite you, frowns. "You are pleased by the prospect? Even if we are victorious, the establishment will not look kindly upon us. We who have been given responsibility despite our sex due to extremity shall be deprived of it once more."

"I have taken steps to ensure my own position, Ellie," the Royal Intelligence agent replies. "As for the war, it has compelled me to subordinate all my energies to the interests of the state. What liberty have I to pursue personal matters?" She looks at you then, a brief glance, no more than half a second, but it is long enough for you to see the glimmer in her eye. Could it be possible that she knows of your affection towards her?

Could it be possible that she reciprocates them?

You look for some certain sign of it, some evidence that she may see you as you see her, but as the weeks pass and winter reaches its full-throated fury, you can see nothing. Though the two of you grow more acquainted with each other's company and more intimate as friends, you cannot perceive the emotions within her breast or the thoughts behind her midnight-blue eyes.

By then, however, you have more urgent problems demanding your attention.

-​

It first comes to your attention on the morning of the first Monday of OIE 611. As with the first Monday of every month spent in garrison, you call out the entire strength of your squadron so that they may be paraded and inspected in the open. When the five troops under your command file into the square you were allowed for your review, you note that your force seems rather smaller than it should be.

At first, you think it is a trick of the winter; the day is a cold and blustery one, and the snow makes it difficult to see. However, when Lanzerel takes roll call, your suspicions are confirmed: nearly a third of the men who should be present is missing.

"Corporal, it seems to me that a great number of my men are missing," you remark neutrally to Marion as your Staff-sergeant finishes working down the roster. "Might you have some idea as to why?"

"They're probably ill, sir," Marion replies. "Frostbite, the shivers, putrid extremities; exactly what you might expect, given the extreme circumstances."

"Circumstances?" you ask. "What circumstances?"

"Firewood rations for enlisted men were halved last week, sir," your bat-man reports. "No change to officer allocations, of course, which is likely why you have not noticed."

No wonder so many of your men are sick. While half-rations of fuel would keep your men from freezing to death in their own barracks, it would make them much more susceptible to winter illnesses, the sort of illnesses that make men lose fingers and limbs and the sort which can reduce even the healthiest and best-prepared unit into a gaggle of amputees and invalids.

Bloody Martyr.

-​

"I do not see how this is a concern," Sandoral remarks when you call him and your other officers to an emergency staff meeting and explain the problem. "Could we not simply gather some hatchets and allow the men to cut their own firewood from the trees outside of town?"

"Have you even been outside of town these past three months?" Blaylock replies incredulously. "The infantry cut down all the bloody trees. There's barely enough wood left standing out there to light a candle, let alone a stove."

Sandoral scratches his head in confusion. "Trees do not vanish into thin air simply because they have been cut down. The timber must have gone somewhere."

"It's still here in Mhillanovil," Lord Renard says. "I know a fellow on Castermaine's staff, betrothed to me cousin he is. The wood's all cut, stacked, and seasoned in a set of guarded warehouses by the river, says he."

Blaylock leans in expectantly. "This fellow of yours…I don't suppose he'd be willing to give us some of that lumber for firewood, would he?"

The young lordling shakes his head. "The wood's reserved for a higher purpose, says he, ain't even Castermaine knows what. I ain't much chance of convincing him."

"Saints be damned," Blaylock growls. "I bet if the Colonel were here, he'd be able to talk some sense into the fellow."

Lord Renard nods in agreement. "I wish he were, most likely more than you do; but he ain't."

No, the Duke of Cunaris isn't here, but the next best thing is; as a Major with a heroic reputation, you'd get a lot further than a lieutenant trading upon an illustrious father's name. Perhaps you could see this fellow on your subordinates' behalf?

[ ] "If we cannot obtain fuel without compromising our honour, then our men must endure."
[ ] "Surely, there must be fuel for purchase somewhere." (-188 Wealth)
[ ] "Introduce me to this fellow, Lieutenant. I might be able to talk him around."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Introduce me to this fellow, Lieutenant. I might be able to talk him around."

It is quite remarkable, the effect that war has had on the subtleties of Tierran society. A decade ago, it would have been you asking for your more highly-born subordinate's help in such a matter. After all, Lord Renard is heir to a dukedom, while your family estates are barely worthy of the name. Yet now, a gentleman who had already balked at the idea of aiding Cunaris's son is all smiles and 'I shall see what I can do' for a Hero of Blogia, of Kharangia, a Knight of the Red, and a man seen to be on the cusp of the King's favour.

He is as good as his word. The fuel arrives in covered wagons the next night. You see it distributed by morning.

To say that your men are thankful would be an understatement. The fuel you secure them is not quite enough to bring them up to their full ration, but it is sufficient to keep them warm and dry through the winter. They show their appreciation in small ways: quicker salutes, friendlier faces, and once, a dragoon gesturing to you for the benefit of an infantryman with the distinct motions which could only be accompanied by the words 'that's him: our fellow.'

Even so, the winter is hard. Men still fall sick, though none die, and many of your dragoons show up to inspections coughing and shivering. It is a relief when the first signs of the spring thaw come. At last, it is almost over.

And at last, you see the reason for which the King had been compelled to allow his own army to freeze through the winter.

Barges.

You begin seeing them take shape on the riverside even before the banks of the Kharan are free of winter ice. Once again, it is the men of the infantry made to do the heavy lifting. They work in teams, assembling each section before fitting them together into the sort of shallow-hulled, flat-bottomed watercraft so common on Tierran rivers, yet all but unknown in Antar.

Construction proceeds at a rapid pace. Within a week of the first frame being laid, the first set of hulls is already being caulked.

By then, there are dozens of them, each fit to carry a hundred infantrymen, if not more; enough to carry every Tierran in Mhillanovil, if needed.

Perhaps that is what the King plans.

It is on the day that the first barges are launched into the Kharan that you find out for sure.

-​

That afternoon, Corporal Marion knocks on the door to your office with news that Lady Katarina is waiting outside with a matter of great importance. The order to let her in barely escapes your lips before the Royal Intelligence agent steps in. Despite the dark circles under her eyes, her expression is one of utmost excitement.

"Castleton, I approach you with the most wonderful opportunity," she begins, "but I fear it is a matter of great delicacy. Would you very much mind setting Marion at liberty for, say, the next hour?"

You dismiss your bat-man with a nod, then turn back to the dark-haired spy. "Opportunity? What sort of opportunity?"

Lady Katarina's lips curl into a smile. "The opportunity to make history, Castleton."

"A chance to make history?" you echo questioningly. What could she possibly mean by that?

Instead of replying, Lady Katarina gestures towards your window with a wave of a delicate hand. "You have seen the construction by the riverbank, I trust?"

"The barges?" you reply. "Yes, they are rather hard to ignore."

"They are to carry the majority of the army south," Lady Katarina explains, "where they are to reinforce the Duke of Havenport so that he might repel Prince Khorobirit's attack across the River Kharan."

That makes little sense. "How are you so sure that Khorobirit will attack when he has sat on the riverbank doing nothing for the past year?" you ask.

The intelligence agent's grin widens. "I am so sure because we have taken the greatest pains to make certain that he does," she answers. "While the main body of the army moves south, a smaller force will move northeast, where it shall strike the House of Khorobirit so unexpected and grievous a blow as to compel him to seek his own destruction. The only thing that the strike force is in great need of is a mounted component. I offer you and your dragoons the chance to fulfill that need."

Lady Katarina's words swim through your mind like a school of eels. They promise great things and hint at immense designs, but she has revealed only the barest outlines. "Surely, you might give me more detail than that," you ask of her.

She shakes her head as her grin turns impish. "One must have her secrets, Castleton, certainly ones of too much weight to be freely given away," she replies. "All will be revealed if you come with us."

"If I come along, what do I stand to gain?"

"Fame, a chance to render Tierra an immense service," Lady Katarina replies, ticking off each item with her finger, "the gratitude of your King, of Royal Intelligence…". She turns away for a moment. Only the blue pools of her eyes stay fixed upon you, wide and suffused with a hidden longing. "…as well as mine."

"They are all yours for the winning," she whispers, her voice a soft caress against your thoughts, "but only if you are with us."

"Will I come out of this with my honour intact?"

Lady Katarina's eyebrow rises. "Your honour? And what is that, exactly?"

Always with the damnable rhetorical questions; can she not give you a straight answer at least once?

"Is it duty to your King and Tierra? Surely this enterprise offers you no better chance to fulfill that," Lady Katarina continues. "Your loyalty to your fellow soldiers? Ending this war will save their lives by the thousand. Or is it to honour your oaths as a Knight of the Red to seek glory in open battle? I assure you there shall be plenty of that."

"So," she concludes with a toss of her dark curls, "if that is what honour is, then you may be assured that yours will come away from this intact."

She smiles her customary impish grin. "Which means you will be with us, will you not?"

[ ] "Then you may consider me at your disposal."
[ ] "You are my friend, madam, and I would not leave a friend in need."
[ ] "For you? Anything."
[ ] "I am afraid I must refuse."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I am afraid I must refuse."

Lady Katarina shakes her head and sighs. "Might I not entertain the hope that you will reconsider? I thought to approach you because you are an officer of good judgement and a man of demonstrated courage. I would not very much like to settle for a substitute."

You shake your head. "I must insist, my lady. I shall go south with the rest of the army."

The young noblewoman sighs again, but this time she nods. "Very well, if you cannot be persuaded to assist a lady in need, I shall have to seek out some other gallant. A lancer, perhaps."

[ ] A lancer? I'll not trust Lady Katarina's scheme to those tight-trousered fops.
[ ] Saints be damned, spy or no, I cannot leave a lady of the blood in the lurch.
[X] I'll not rise to this last prodding; my decision stands.

"Then I wish you the best of luck in finding one," you reply swiftly. "Shall there be anything else?"

Lady Katarina shakes her head. "No, Castleton, there shall not. Good day, sir."

Without another word, she heads for the way out. Beyond, a shadowy figure opens the door and closes it behind her as she leaves.

That is the last you see of Lady Katarina for a long, long time.

-​

Later that afternoon, Marion hands you a set of sealed orders that all but confirm what Lady Katarina has told you.

Your squadron has been ordered to make themselves ready for action; all extraneous trappings and accoutrements are to be discarded, and all weapons and uniforms are to be inspected. Your dragoons, in particular, are to see their horses are properly prepared for shipment by boat.

To you, it seems as if the final day of reckoning is soon to be at hand.

The only question is…when?

-​

For the next few days, Mhillanovil is in constant activity as the King's division prepares for yet another year of campaigning. The squares are filled with companies of foot and troops of cavalry doing final inspections. The streets are crammed with carts piled high with ammunition crates, bags of hardtack, and beef rations. The little snow that remains on the ground is trampled into brown slush by the passing thousands of boots.

By the end of the week, all is in readiness; the last inspections made, the last too-heavy bit of loot disposed of, the last flint fitted, and the last sabre sharpened. Even the camp followers and soldiers' wives have been made ready for travel. The King's division is prepared down to the last gaiter button.

Still, the barges remain moored along the riverbank, only a few loaded and only with the heaviest cargoes: cannon, furniture, and the massive crates that your dragoons had taken during the capture of the town last summer.

As for the rest, they sit empty, riding easily along the shallow banks of the Kharan, waiting for something.

Three days later, you see what. It first comes an hour after dawn as a vast, gurgling wave: a surge of cold, newly melted water cascading down the course of the river like a stampede of wild horses.

Though the winter snow in the lower parts of Southern Antar melted away days ago, it is only now that the vast snowbanks of the foothills upstream have finally succumbed to the coming warmth of spring. The melt from these hills now transforms the Kharan from a shallow and rapids-constricted river to an immense waterway. By sunset, the river has risen by half the height of a man. The docks are almost swamped.

That night, the King's division is finally ordered to board the barges. By late morning the next day, no more men or supplies are left on the docks. The whole of the King's forces are aboard the vast riverine armada, save the King's own First Battalion, Grenadier Guards, and a squadron of Lancers, earmarked for Lady Katarina's great scheme.

At one o'clock in the afternoon, the orders are finally given to cast off. Like leaves in a stream, the swollen current carries you and your dragoons south, towards Havenport, towards Kharangia.

Towards Prince Khorobirit.