Chapter X
Wherein the CAVALRY OFFICER fights in a GREAT BATTLE.
The warm spring breeze plucks at your coat as the barges carrying your squadron edge towards the near bank of the River Kharan. Around you, your men stamp their feet anxiously, and you do not blame them; after four days of being trapped on the uncertain deck of a flat-bottomed barge, you too will be happy to have your boots on solid ground again.
The walls of Kharangia are still far into the distance, but even from here, you can see the shattered remains of the bridges that had once connected the city to the other side of the Kharan. Beyond the shattered stumps, you see the dark, hazy shapes of distant ships, a forest of masts rising from the fog-filled basin of Kharangia's harbour: the assembled might of the Northern Fleet.
You will not have a chance to get a closer look, for you and the rest of the King's division are disembarking a day's march short of the city at a series of piers built specifically for the purpose.
It is there that you find yourself once again in the presence of the Duke of Cunaris. He meets you as you come ashore, accompanied by a small group of men. Cazarosta stands to the left of him. To his left, another officer stands, dark and slim, the slightest trace of a smirk on his face. The last fellow stands behind the Duke's wicker chair, a wisp of a boy whose resemblance to Lord Renard is too uncanny to dismiss.
"Welcome back, Major," Cunaris greets you easily as he returns your salute. The Duke waves a calloused hand towards the scarred deathborn to his side. "I trust you are already familiar with Sir Caius?"
You incline your head politely to your old comrade. Cazarosta nods back, the slightest hint of a smile touching his carefully neutral expression.
Cunaris continues, waving his hand at the officer to the left of the deathborn. "Major, may I present to you, Captain Adalberto d'al Garret, commanding officer of Fourth Squadron, recently arrived from Tierra—" Then, to the young man behind him, "—and Cornet Laurent d'al Findlay, my second son."
"I'm glad you've been able to return to us in time, Castleton," the Duke continues, his voice growing earnest enough for you to realise that his words are no mere pleasantry. "It simplifies matters greatly."
He leans forward in his chair. "You realise that it is His Majesty's opinion that we soon face the prospect of open battle against the Antari?"
"Yes, sir," you reply. Why else would he concentrate his force in front of Prince Khorobirit's host?
"In such an eventuality," Cunaris continues, "the regiment will need an officer to lead it in the field."
The Duke's implication is obvious; you are to command the regiment in the battle to come, all of it.
He reaches into the breast of his jacket and hands you a folded sheet of parchment stamped with the royal seal. "Your brevet to lieutenant-colonel, effective until the current situation is resolved."
[ ] A fresh chance to prove my worth, which I welcome eagerly!
[ ] I should not get too excited; it is only a brevet promotion.
[ ] More responsibility only means more ways to fail.
[ ] I fear I am not ready for such a burden.
[X] A fresh chance to prove my worth, which I welcome eagerly!
A brevet commission carries all the responsibilities of a higher rank but none of its attendant perquisites; you'll still pull a major's pay, and Grenadier Square could revert you to your permanent rank with but a word.
Still, to be given command of the entire regiment is a terribly exciting thing, a chance not only to prove your worth as a soldier but your potential as a senior officer, as well. Do well enough, and the powers that be might even deign to earmark you for a regiment of your own or perhaps even appointment to general-of-brigade.
That, however, lies yet in the future. First, you must prove yourself competent in the now. You take the warrant with an almost unseemly eagerness, knowing that it may prove the path to greater things.
Then there is a short exchange, with Cazarosta and Garret formally accepting your authority over them as interim regimental commanding officer. Only when they are dismissed and gone does Cunaris turn to you again, his expression pained. "I must apologize, Castleton; this must all be quite a shock," he says. "It was not my will to impose this responsibility upon you so suddenly."
[ ] "Are you sure I'm ready for this, sir?"
[ ] "On the contrary, I must thank you for your confidence in me."
[ ] "Why can't you command the regiment, sir?"
[X] "On the contrary, I must thank you for your confidence in me."
"There is no need to thank me, Castleton," Cunaris replies. "I have read the reports of your conduct at Kharangia and with the King's division," he continues. "Do you know what they tell me?"
You shake your head. "I do not, sir."
"They tell me that time and time again, you have proven yourself to be a solid fighting officer and a steady leader of men," the Duke replies, "that you are a first-class soldier with experience, seniority, and no small amount of competence."
He looks at you, eyebrow raised as if challenging you to disagree. "What confidence I have in you has been well-earned, Castleton, and I have no doubt that you will continue to prove yourself worthy of it."
You can offer little, save a nod in reply. Cunaris nods back. "See to my regiment, Colonel. Dismissed."
-
Havenport's division is encamped in a vast fortified cantonment outside of Kharangia, an immense scar of canvas, bare earth, and fortification cut into the open plains north of the city. Close enough to the River Kharan to control its crossings yet far more difficult to encircle or surprise than the walled city itself, it is here that the two divisions of the Tierran army finally combine their forces for the first time in two years.
The Dragoon encampment is in the northeastern corner of the camp, abutted on two sides by the fortified ditch and immense earthen rampart that surrounds the cantonment. It is into the shadow of this great barrier you lead the men of your squadron to set up camp and prepare for the battle that Cunaris seems so sure is coming.
It is not just Cunaris, either. The rumour has already spread throughout the forces of Havenport's division, and it soon spreads to the camps of the King's men, as well: Khorobirit is coming, with the whole of his power, to throw the Tierran army into the sea or destroy himself in the attempt. They are no ordinary rumours, for even the most senior officers seem to believe them; you can only assume that they came from some reputable source, some forward scouting party, or perhaps even Royal Intelligence.
So, it is no wonder that you spend the next few days in feverish preparation; horses are reshod, sabres honed, worn flints replaced with fresh-cut ones, all in advance of the moment which the over twenty thousand men of the combined army awaits, the moment in which some official announcement is made, and rumour is given substance.
On your fourth day in camp, that moment comes. That morning, Marion tells you the news as he serves you breakfast.
"A runner from Havenport's staff came by while you were sleeping, sir," he informs you as he sets down your tea. "He told me to tell you that there is to be a meeting at His Grace's tent at eleven o'clock and that you are required to attend."
"Did he mention specifically what this meeting is meant to address?" you ask as you begin spooning sugar into your Kian-style congee.
Marion shakes his head. "He did not, sir, though he did say that the meeting was of utmost importance and that the commander of every regiment was required to attend, which can really only mean one thing."
You nod. There is no other reason why Havenport would see the need to bring together every single senior officer in the army.
"Prince Khorobirit is coming," you conclude aloud.
Your batman nods. "Prince Khorobirit is coming," he echoes, "and soon."
-
It is a quarter to eleven by the time you finish dealing with the morning's crises. Only then are you able to throw on your good jacket, buckle your dress sabre, and make your way down to the Duke of Havenport's massive command tent in the centre of the cantonment.
You are almost to the entrance when you find yourself met by a small group of officers, their forest-green trousers and jackets splattered with spots of wet and splashes of river mud from the waist down. They stand with the relaxed posture of country gentlemen rather than the straight-legged rigour of line infantry or the bowlegged swagger of your fellow cavalrymen.
The man at their head, a tall, rangy major with a face that seems more angle than surface, salutes you with a languid cheerfulness as you approach them, only for his eyes to throw themselves wide with recognition as you come closer.
"Good morning, sir! Lieutenant-colonel Castleton of the Dragoons, are you not?" he asks with a genteel enthusiasm that might almost excuse his borderline-uncivil forwardness.
You nod. "I am, sir," you reply, somewhat warily.
The other officer's face breaks out into a wide grin as he extends a hand towards you. "Wonderful! Might I have the honour of shaking your hand, sir?"
Your mind cannot help but reel. You have never met this man, yet he wants to shake your hand? "I would be happy to," you manage to reply, "though I do not think we have ever been introduced, Major…"
"Major Victor d'al Reyes, commanding officer of the Experimental Corps of Riflemen, at your service," he proclaims. "Your squadron rescued one of my officers last year; Lieutenant Lewes, I do not suppose you have forgotten him? He has told me all about you."
"Nothing too bad, I hope?" you reply awkwardly, still off-balance from the force of Reyes's exuberance.
"Nothing but compliments, glowing ones at that," the Experimental officer replies brightly. He leans in as if to tell you a secret. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think that he was wanting to go to bed with you."
"Not while there's a war on, sir," replies a deeper, rougher, more familiar voice from the rear of the group. "That's against the King's Articles; I'm only for women while we're still in Antar," Lieutenant Lewes intones as he shifts his way forward, dark blond hair glittering in the morning sun.
"Behave yourself, Cedric," Reyes answers chidingly, his words laden with an exaggerated pretension. "You're an officer and a gentleman for the duration, and that means you must act scandalised whenever a brother officer speaks of anything save poetry and killing."
"Apologies, sir," Lewes replies, feigning contrition. "I'm not much good at acting scandalised."
"Then you must practise, sir!" Reyes answers with jocular ease. "You must practise!"
[X] "I'm happy to see Lieutenant Lewes is well."
For once, Lewes does not have a bitter reply held in reserve. "Thank you for your concern, sir," he replies with a stiltedness that borders on the rehearsed. "And I apologise if I gave any offence during our last encounter. My men owe you their lives, a service which warrants gratitude, not abuse."
For all of its awkwardness, the green-jacketed Lieutenant's show of gratitude seems to you an entirely earnest one.
"We were only doing our jobs, Lieutenant," you reply magnanimously. "Besides, you repaid us by guiding us to Fort Kharan."
For a moment, there is an awkward silence between the three of you as the ruffianish Lieutenant seems to struggle to say something further.
"Listen, sir," he finally manages with considerable effort. "I know that sounded like something I read off a scrap of paper, but I'm serious; my men and I owe you our lives. Our camp's by the south end of the cantonment, between the 7th of Foot and the engineers. If you should ever have the opportunity to visit, we'd be happy to have you."
Reyes nods. "Agreed. You saved my men, sir. We'd be happy to save you a drink in return."
[X] "I thought the Experimentals were still at Fort Kharan?"
"Oh, we were," Reyes answers. "We were just ordered down here a little more than four weeks ago."
"I was under the impression that Fort Kharan is being besieged by a large Antari force," you reply. "How did you make it out?"
"Fort Kharan was being besieged by a large Antari force," Reyes replies. "They made the mistake of stockpiling all of their winter rations in a single place, so about a month before the first snows, Lewes and I led a dozen men through their camp and set the whole thing ablaze; we smelled like burnt turnips and charred buckwheat for six whole days."
"They couldn't bring more supplies down, not with the roads as bad as they were during the autumn rains and winter not a few weeks away," Lewes explains, "so they had to either lift the siege or starve to death. They chose to run. We routed eight thousand Antari without losing a man."
"There's no doubt the enemy is planning to make another attempt this year," Reyes adds, "though if we are fortunate here, we shall not give them the chance."
[X] "Are you always this familiar with your subordinates, Major?"
"You mean to ask if I always endeavour to cultivate an atmosphere of ease betwixt myself and the men under my command?" Reyes asks rhetorically. "I do."
"What you call an atmosphere of ease, some might think a lack of discipline," you reply.
The other officer nods. "They might," he concedes, "but the sort of reflexive obedience that keeps the infantrymen of a line battalion alive will kill a rifleman of the Experimental Corps; a man cannot win a forest skirmish by drill book. He must think on his feet, respond to changing circumstances, and take the initiative quickly. He cannot do that if he feels the need to ask permission each time he wishes to take cover or fire his rifle."
Reyes's explanation makes some sense, though you understand somewhat better why some of your fellow officers might view the Experimentals with suspicion or disgust.
"In short," Reyes concludes, "if I seem overly familiar with my men, it is not merely due to personal preference but to military necessity, as well."
[X] "What have the Experimentals been doing since you left Fort Kharan?"
"What we are best at, sir: reconnaissance," Reyes replies cheerfully. "I trust you are familiar with the rumours - the ones about Prince Khorobirit leaving his winter camp and marching down to attack us as soon as the spring melt ends and the river is crossable?"
Of course, you are. By this point, you would be surprised if knowledge of those rumours had not yet reached Aetoria itself. "Are they true? The rumours, I mean?" you ask.
Lewes nods, his face grim. "Every single word of it; Khorobirit hasn't just left his winter camp, he's burned it to the ground. He's throwing everything at us, every gun, every horse, every bloody urchin with two legs and a pointed stick."
You feel a shiver work its way down your spine, though you do not know if it is excitement or fear. So, the rumours are true. "It is to be a fight, then?" you ask, giving voice to the question to which all three of you already know the answer.
"It is, sir," Reyes replies gravely. "I do believe it is."
[X] "Excuse me, sirs. I have pressing business; good day, gentlemen."
Reyes nods. "Of course, sir. I apologise for having detained you. Good day, sir."
Lewes nods to you as well. "Good day, sir, and thank you again for helping my men," he says as he passes you.
You continue to the command tent under a distinct cloud of unease.
To have heard the rumours and to intellectually know that there was some grain of truth to them is one thing. To hear them confirmed by a man who had seen the truth of it with his own eyes is quite another.
Now that truth is unavoidable, inescapable: Khorobirit is marching for you this very moment, his forces perhaps only two or three days away, an endless horde of peasant infantry, invincible tides of Church Hussars, and who knows what else.
You walk into the Duke of Havenport's pavilion with a sense of dread, knowing that the meeting to come will only confirm twice over what you already know is coming.
-
By the time you arrive at the Duke's pavilion, the immense structure is almost full to bursting. The entire space is a kaleidoscope of uniform jackets and gold braid.
Even above the normal smells of a military encampment, the air reeks of worry. The officers around you speak in hushed, anxious voices as you push past them towards the immense map-covered oaken table at the centre of the floor. Every man here knows or at least thinks he knows what is about to come, though few of them voice their thoughts aloud.
A few familiar faces greet you as you pass them by: Viscount Hugh of the 5th of Foot, Milton of the 11th, Lord Marcus Havenport commanding the Highlanders, Wiltshire of the 3rd of Horse, Palliser of the Lancers, all blooded and experienced officers, all of them looking as nervous as schoolboys.
You are not sure you can blame them. The last time a Tierran army staked this much upon a single decisive engagement had been Blogia, something which you are sure every man in the room, from the enlisted sentries at the door to the Duke of Havenport himself, must be uncomfortably aware of.
After a full minute and a half of 'beg-pardon's and 'excuse me's,' you finally get situated near the centre of the tent, standing just behind the row of generals-of-brigade sitting at the edge of the table itself.
Your timing proves to be nearly perfect, for not a moment later, a shouted voice brings the room to a standstill. "Officers to attention!"
The pavilion falls silent to the crisp sound of three dozen pairs of bootheels snapping against each other. The crowd opposite you parts to let through a tall, powerfully built man, his shoulders swathed in a Kentauri particoloured cloak and his short-cropped auburn hair flecked with grey.
"At ease," the Duke of Havenport replies, matching gesture to words with a wave of his fingers. You feel your body relax by instinct as the Duke makes his way towards the centre of the tent.
"You all know why you are here, gentlemen," he declares as he takes his place at the head of the table, "so let us not waste our time; to business."
Havenport looks over the table, his expression grave but confident. "First, allow me to confirm what many of you have already suspected: early this morning, our forward scouts reported that Prince Khorobirit has left his winter camp and is now advancing towards us with all his power. At his current rate of movement, he shall be upon us in three days."
Worried murmurs rise from the officers around you, whispers of anxiety to mark the passage of dreaded conjecture from abstract truth to hard fact; that once again, a Tierran army shall have to face the White Bear of Khorobirit upon the open field of battle.
Yet Havenport remains serene. "Though some might consider such weighty news a harbinger of our destruction, I would beg to differ." The corner of the Lieutenant-general's mouth curls upward into something almost like a smile. "In fact, the current situation is our best opportunity not only to defeat Prince Khorobirit but to annihilate his army and break his power entirely."
More murmurs, this time of excitement. As afraid as your brother officers are, the Kentauri General's assured calm gives many of them hope.
The Duke pulls out a thin rod of willow as one of his aides pushes their way to the table and unfolds upon it a huge map displaying the last thirty kilometres or so of the River Kharan's course, right up until the point where it reaches Kharangia's harbour and empties into the Calligian Sea.
"The Antari have many advantages," Havenport begins, his willow rod flicking to the far end of the map, where Khorobirit's army is likely to approach. "Their infantry outnumbers ours by far, their light cavalry is more seasoned, and of course, they have their Church Hussars, heavy cavalry to which we have little answer."
You find yourself nodding along unconsciously. It was the Church Hussars who had nearly broken the Duke of Wulfram's army at Blogia, and given the chance, they could easily break Havenport here. Judging by the anxious looks on the faces of some of your fellows, you are not the only person thinking upon such matters.
Still, Havenport does not bat an eye, "Take heart, gentlemen, for every single one of the enemy's advantages is worthless. We hold the only advantage that matters." With the slightest hint of a smirk on his face, he moves the tip of his rod until the green end of the willow rests plainly on the blue ribbon coursing through the centre of the map.
"We have the river."
"We could ask for no greater defensive fortification than the River Kharan," Havenport explains. "With the bridges destroyed, the Antari shall be forced to ford the river at one of two dozen points. The water at the shallowest of these crossings comes up to a man's waist."
The Kentauri General leans back, slapping the end of his willow switch into the open palm of his hand with evident satisfaction. "I am sure the implications are clear to you, gentlemen; infantry cannot bring their numbers to bear when constricted by a narrow crossing, light horse cannot manoeuvre when they are flanked on both sides by deep water, and not even a Hussar's charger can manage a gallop whilst up to its belly in running water."
"So long as we hold the river," Havenport continues, punctuating each word with a tap of his willow against the edge of the table, "we can keep Khorobirit at bay."
"With all due respect, sir," calls out the Earl of Castermaine from his position at the far end of the table. "Holding Khorobirit at bay will only give us a stalemate, not a victory, and certainly not the crushing blow you have promised. At best, it will only fix the Antari in position."
"That is all I need it to do," Havenport replies. "For while the bulk of the army holds the crossings, we shall ferry our cavalry across Kharangia harbour. When Khorobirit piles his last reserves into our line of defence, our horse will sweep up from the coast and strike him in the rear."
"So long as the crossings hold against the full might of the enemy," Castermaine replies acidly. "If the Antari can make a breakthrough, they could swarm across the Kharan, overwhelm the defenders, then destroy our cavalry in detail. If this plan works, it will be the most brilliant victory of the war. If it fails, there will not be enough left of the army to burn the dead."
Havenport nods gravely. "Which is why we cannot fail."
For a moment, there is quiet in the pavilion, a fresh pall of uncertainty, but only for a moment.
"If you are quite done speculating," Havenport begins, the commanding tenor of his voice ending the silence before it could sour once again into new mutterings of fear, "I would very much like to return to the task of ensuring that your dire predictions do not come to pass; I would rather dislike being dead."
The tent responds to the jest with only a furtive ripple of laughter. Kentauri are not, after all, known for their sense of humour. However, it does break the tension.
"Now, if I might continue," Havenport says, snatching up his willow switch yet again. "The order of battle for the river positions shall be as follows: Castermaine, you will anchor the left flank from the walls of Kharangia to the first two fords. Your brigade will consist of both battalions of the 9th of Foot, the 1st of the 11th, and 2nd Battalion, Grenadiers. Matheson, your position…".
So it continues. Havenport moves his willow down the length of the riverbank, assigning his generals-of-brigade the battalions and squadrons they are to command, along with the crossings which they will be responsible for defending. In rapid succession, he assembles and assigns brigade after brigade, barely taking a breath in between.
Finally, he comes to the crossings on the far right flank, nearly seven kilometres from Kharangia's walls. "Cunaris. Your brigade shall hold the last three crossings—"
"My brigade, sir?" your immediate superior interrupts, confusion plain in his words and features. "I beg pardon, sir, but I was under the impression that I was to retain my command of the cavalry."
Havenport shakes his head. "Palliser will have the cavalry," he replies matter-of-factly. "You shall have the right flank."
"With all due respect to Colonel Palliser, he has commanded the Lancers for less than a year," Cunaris says in return, outrage building in his voice. "I would very much like to know why I am to be given an unfamiliar command instead of the one I am best suited for."
"You will have your dragoons, and I am giving you both battalions of my Highlanders as well," the more senior General replies. "You'll also have the Experimentals and both battalions of the 5th. It is a very solid brigade, sir." Havenport speaks in soothing tones, taking care not to offend the other man; though Cunaris is inferior in rank, he is the Kentauri's political equal.
Yet Havenport's attempt at appeasement seems to only have drawn more of Cunaris's ire. "Saints be damned!" he exclaims in frustration. "I can command the cavalry better than anyone else in this room!"
"Can you lead a charge of horse, sir? Can you gallop as first sabre into the enemy? That is what I would require of you," the General rails back, his voice rising with each sentence until the last comes out as a full-throated roar. "What good is a commander of horse who cannot ride?"
This time, the silence lasts longer and is yet more terrible, for the eyes of the entire room are fixed upon the face of your commanding officer, his bearded features made slack with shock.
For what seems like half a day, Cunaris sits, his eyes wide.
Only after a long moment does Cunaris finally gain some self-possession. "I beg your pardon, sir," he mutters, his voice most wretched. "Might I be excused?"
Havenport seems no less shocked by the effect of his words and temper. He can manage little, save a nod and a brittle "of course, sir."
What follows is no less painful, for Cunaris cannot simply get up and walk away. Only the creaking of the shattered Duke's wicker chair can be heard over the roaring silence as he slowly brings his ungainly apparatus about and wheels himself dejectedly from the table.
When the Duke of Havenport speaks again, his voice is quiet - small even. "Will—ah, will there be any further questions?"
Some of your fellow officers are already putting questions forward, no doubt eager to put the previous awkwardness behind them. You find no objection to joining their number. "Do we have exact knowledge as to the numbers and composition of the enemy force, sir?"
Havenport shakes his head. "We do not, Colonel. Reyes and his men were unable to make a thorough count before being forced back by the threat of detection. However, his report mentions at least one hundred and twenty banners."
Fresh mutters of uncertainty fill the room now as the implications of the Lieutenant-general's statement sink in; though lacking the uniformity of the King's regiments, the Antari march in rough columns under the banners of their baneblooded commanders. From experience, you know such a war band could number anywhere from two to eight hundred troops…
…which means the army now advancing upon you and not half a week away might well number over sixty thousand men.
From the other end of the room, an unfamiliar tongue gives voice to the thoughts filling the air. "Saints be damned! Does that not mean that the Antari army we are to face is considerably larger than the one at Blogia?"
Havenport nods. "It does, but at Blogia, we did not have the river, or fixed defences, or the support of the Navy." His lips pull taut in a grim smile. "Khorobirit's army might be bigger, but our position is also better."
Yet the Duke's words fill you with little confidence; Wulfram had thought his position would give him the advantage at Blogia too, and you do not need to remind yourself how that turned out.
Hopefully, this time will prove different. "How can we be sure that Khorobirit means to attack us?"
Some of the other officers nod in agreement; perhaps you were not the only one thinking it. While it would be easy enough to assume that Khorobirit was advancing to attack, that does not make matters certain. A man who once hid five thousand Church Hussars in an 'impenetrable forest' would certainly have the cunning and the audacity to be planning something more subtle than a frontal assault across a defended river.
Havenport, however, does not share your doubts. "He means to attack us, I am sure of it. Not only is he advancing towards us, but he has also burned his camp, destroyed his stockpiles of provisions, discarded his excess equipment, and dispersed his camp followers. Does that make things clearer?"
"Yes sir, of course, sir," you reply as you nod in understanding. If Khorobirit has destroyed his camp and his supplies, then he must be intending to attack. While an army unburdened by extra supplies and camp followers would be able to move much faster, it would also be entirely reliant upon forage and carried provisions for food and ammunition. An army the size of Khorobirit's could not survive long in such a state.
Clearly, Khorobirit means to overwhelm the King's Army and take Kharangia before his own much-diminished stock of supplies runs out; nothing else would make sense.
There are a few more questions, nothing worth remembering; queries about ammunition storage, acceptable positions for brigade headquarters, and the minutiae of an army preparing to fight for its life.
It takes another quarter of an hour for every question to be answered. Only then, when the whole pavilion falls silent, does Havenport look up to address all of you at once again.
"Gentlemen, know that the success of this plan relies upon every single one of you," he begins, his voice weary. "Victory depends on the steadiness of every battalion, every squadron, every man. If even one crossing is lost, our army is likely to be destroyed. If our army is destroyed here, Tierra cannot afford to raise another."
His voice turns grave now, the Kentauri burr in his words growing increasingly prominent. "This plan allows for no half-measures, no contested victories, no salvageable defeats; by the time this battle is over, we must either stand in triumph or not at all."
The Kentauri General's eyes narrow, his features settling into the fierce expression of a man resolved to fight to the last. His voice rises to a full bellow. "There is naught before us but victory or death!"
"Victory or death!" comes the shouted refrain, though not from every throat.
"Saints guard the King!" Havenport roars in reply.
This time, every man answers. "Saints guard the King!"
-
The next two days are spent digging in.
If Cunaris retains any lingering bitterness over his confrontation with the Duke of Havenport, he shows no sign of it. Instead, he throws himself wholeheartedly into preparing the three crossings assigned to your brigade. At all hours, Cunaris and the brigade's other banecasters go back and forth across the muddy riverbanks, staking out and setting up immense patterns of baneseals in the path of any probable Antari attack.
Only at the rarest intervals is Cunaris at a pause, usually to brief you and the other regimental commanders in detail upon some matter of importance pertaining to the battle that is to come; matters which you, in turn, must impart to your junior officers and sergeants when you brief them almost immediately afterwards.
They are not the only preparations being made. While your dragoons help the infantry in clearing brush and staking out fields of fire near each crossing, the hill behind you swarms with engineers. Some prepare the site chosen for brigade headquarters, but most work the crest of the heights with pick and shovel, gouging an immense crescent scar into the dark earth and piling the displaced dirt into a mighty breastwork along its outer edge.
Yet it is only on the morning of the second day that you find the crowning glory of your brigade's defences.
That morning, you wake to find the hilltop redoubt swarming with men as they assemble the biggest guns you have ever seen.
There is no comparing these new artillery pieces to the sleek field guns which customarily accompany the King's Army or even the great naval cannon which populate the lower decks of the Royal Tierran Navy's larger ships of the line. Even the immense siege pieces that had reduced Kharangia's walls seem so small to you now compared to the monstrous black engines of war being assembled atop that nameless Antari hill.
They are no ordinary cannons, either. Instead of sitting level upon their trunnions, they slope upwards, their barrels rising until their muzzles tower at thrice the height of a man; these guns are howitzers, designed not to destroy walls but to throw explosive shells over them, into the fortress or city beyond.
Upon closer inspection, you realise that this is not the first time you have encountered these new guns. The barrels are still stamped with the marks of Prince Khorobirit's foundries; this was the cargo held by the barges which your squadron had fought so hard to capture at Mhillanovil last year. The guns which Prince Khorobirit had commissioned to shatter Kharangia would now be used to defend it.
Yet despite the Antari origins of the guns themselves, the shells they are to fire are undoubtedly Tierran; they arrive by the cart, driven by men of the Royal Tierran Navy, spherical iron cases the size of a horse's head, each loaded with ten kilograms of gunpowder and thousands of lead musket balls. Each one comes with a set of pre-cut fuzes, all courtesy of Garing, Gutierrez, and Truscott.
By the middle of the afternoon, each gun stands assembled and ready, sitting on massive rotating frames which the engineers assure you will allow your brigade's newly sited artillery support to lay down fire quickly and effectively upon almost any point within two thousand paces of their hilltop emplacements.
Such assurances come none too soon, for that evening, the plains beyond the River Kharan come alive with what seems like an endless swarm of dark shapes and glittering steel. As night falls, the horizon glows dull orange with the light of ten thousand cookfires, their smoke thick enough to blot out half the stars in the night sky.
Khorobirit's army is here.
-
Despite the looming inevitability of the battle to come, the mood back at the cantonment that night is far from sombre.
Instead, the air is filled with the sounds of song and cheer, along with the stink of spilled wine and spirits. Not even the precautions that Havenport has ordered can dampen the mood. The immense bonfires meant to light the riverbank only add to the festive mood. The sight of entire companies standing guard as picquets against any nighttime attack seems to make little impression at all.
Why should it? The men of the King's Army know exactly what kind of danger the enemy poses. It is, after all, the very reason for their carousing; with battle on the horizon and death not far behind, it is only natural for soldiers to seek out friends and companions who they may never see again, to say what could be their final farewells, be it through a solemn affirmation of fellowship or one last round of desperate celebration.
Perhaps you ought to be doing the same?
Select two of the following options. However, depending on your subsequent choices, you may receive more time for socialization.
[ ] I shall seek out Cazarosta; no doubt he could use the company.
[ ] Perhaps Lord Marcus is up for one last game of Tassenswerd.
[ ] I've not seen Lady Welles since Mhillanovil; I look for her.
[ ] Best I take the Experimentals up on their invitation now; I might not have another chance to.
[ ] I wonder if Lord Cassius has any time for me?
[ ] I would like to see the men of my squadron, one last time.
[ ] No, tonight I would have no company, save my thoughts.
[X] I wonder if Lord Cassius has any time for me?
[X] I would like to see the men of my squadron one last time.
[X] I shall seek out Cazarosta. No doubt he could use the company.
Looking for Cassius doesn't actually take up any time, leaving us free to visit Cazarosta and our squadron. That said, depending on the outcome of this next choice, we may have time to visit Lewes, Reyes, and the Experimental Corps.
One would think it would be easy to find Lord Cassius vam Holt.
Even aside from the fact that he is likely the only man with blond hair, pale skin, and pointed ears in the entire cantonment, there is also the reality that for all of his informality, Lord Cassius is still the ambassador to one of the most powerful states in creation. You could not imagine that even the temporary residence of such an important personage would be easy to hide.
In fact, it isn't hidden at all. A quick question posed to a passing staff officer leads you directly to it, a large, sturdy-looking, and rather gaudy pavilion not a hundred paces from the Duke of Havenport's, done up in blue-and-silver stripes with a Takaran flag hanging from its entryway, surrounded by a detail of grenadiers and watched over by Lord Cassius's own retainer.
The only problem is that Lord Cassius isn't there.
"His Excellency is away at the moment," answers Leud, the ambassador's manservant, when you ask as to his master's whereabouts. "I'm not at liberty to disclose where."
Away? At a time like this? For a moment, you imagine the youthful-looking, exuberantly earnest Takaran nobleman set loose upon a camp full of drunken Tierran soldiers, an image that fills you with equal parts amusement and dread.
"Might you at least tell me when he is expected to return?" you ask.
The ambassador's retainer shakes his head. "I'm afraid that I cannot, sir," he replies with stiff resignation. "If I knew, I would tell you, but I don't, so I can't."
So much for that notion. What shall you do now?
[X] I would like to see the men of my squadron one last time.
-
The men of your squadron are hardly difficult to find, for they gather within the massive canvas walls of your squadron's common mess tent, not twenty paces away from the entry to your own tent. Inside the immense structure, where the men of Sixth Squadron had once gathered in orderly lines to take their meals, the sounds of raucous laughter and song mingle with the orange light streaming from the open entrances.
Surely, it would be a simple enough task to stride in, announce yourself, and do that thing which you suppose you ought to do—raise their spirits and all that. After all, your men love you, don't they?
Apparently not.
You are not half a dozen paces from the entrance when you are stopped by a familiar figure: your Staff-sergeant. He steps out into the night, smelling strongly of Antari potato wine.
"Sir?" he asks. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought I would talk to the men a little," you reply. "Is there anything wrong with that?"
Lanzerel hesitates for a moment as if reaching for the right way to reply with the appropriate amount of delicacy. "Is that a good idea, sir?" he finally asks.
"Is it not a good idea, Lanzerel?" you reply.
"You're not a lieutenant anymore, sir," he answers. "You can't just walk in and sit down next to the men. When it was just us, before Blogia, perhaps, but now?" He shakes his head. "It'd be like a duke eating dinner with his footmen; they won't know how to act around you."
Your Staff-sergeant's words give you pause; are you truly so far above your common dragoons that you cannot even drink next to them or speak to them without having them stand before you at attention?
[ ] Lanzerel is right; this isn't my place anymore.
[ ] I should at least let them know I wish them well.
[ ] I will do as I damned well please; I am going inside.
[X] I should at least let them know I wish them well.
You suppose there is a sense to it; you are not a junior officer anymore, and you can no longer afford to act like one.
Still, it seems so very wrong to simply treat your men like something less than human beings, to have no more connection to them than you would to fighting automatons in green-grey coats, to put on a stone face as they pass by and see them only as if their sole purpose was to fight and kill and die at your command.
You shall not intrude upon them, but you shall at least make a gesture so they know.
"Staff-sergeant, could you at least convey to the men my compliments?" you ask, keeping your voice as steady as you can. "Tell them I am proud of them and wish them the best of fortune for tomorrow's battle."
Lanzerel's face softens as he nods. "Yes, sir. I'll do that, sir. Is that all?"
"It is," you reply. "Carry on."
You stay outside the entrance as Lanzerel makes his way back inside. The voices die down as he shouts for quiet. Then, with a loud and clear voice, you hear him convey your words to the men. For a moment, there is silence.
Then it comes. "Three cheers for the Colonel!" a voice calls out, its owner hidden by the folds of tent canvas.
The tent erupts in robust cheers, hundreds of voices united. "Huzzah!" they roar, "Huzzah! Huzzaaaaah!" The third cheer stretches until it fades and is drowned out by mugs clashing and glasses being shattered in your honour.
It is only then that you turn and walk away, with the lusty voices of your men ringing in your ears and tears of bittersweet joy stinging your eyes.
For a moment, you consider turning back. Considering the way your men have welcomed your words, surely—
No, you quash that thought. Perhaps it is better this way, to stand as a distant figure of authority rather than a present one, standing over your men more like a god or a king than a companion.
It is partly a galling thought; gods do not receive friendship and affection from their worshippers, only offerings and supplication.
You try to push that heavy thought out of your mind. At least you will have the rest of the night to do it.
-
You find Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta exactly where you would expect him to be: in prayer.
The makeshift chapel set up in one corner of the cantonment is nearly empty when you arrive. Designed to minister to the spiritual needs of an entire army, you barely see a dozen supplicants within its candle-lit, tent-canvas walls. With the day of battle mere hours away, it seems the majority of the King's Army has opted for the more temporal solaces of loose company and strong drink rather than the more tenuous comfort of the ever-watching Sainted Martyrs.
Perhaps that is a good thing; it is one matter to command or even fight alongside a deathborn-bastard, but to be seen seeking out his friendship? That would certainly not do your reputation any favours.
You find him kneeling before a brightly-lit shrine, his lips flickering open and closed in silence before the alabaster ranks of the Saints of the Red, head bowed low towards the miniature celestial host, and face gleaming bronze under the massed candlelight.
"Sir Alaric," he says as you approach, more a statement of fact than a question.
"Yes," you reply. "How did you know?"
"My men have orders not to disturb me during prayer, and nobody else would see me had they the choice," he replies. He stands up and turns to face you, even offering you his hand and the barest hint of a smile as he does so.
"You look well," he remarks with surprising ease as he shakes your hand. "Regimental command must agree with you, sir."
"I trust you do not mind being under my orders?" you ask.
"Of course not," Cazarosta replies. "Is there any reason I should be?"
The moment you hear the other man's reply, you feel foolish for even asking the question. Of course, Cazarosta will follow your orders. Whatever the rest of the army might think, he is your friend and a solid fighting officer besides. What reason have you to doubt him now?
"Ah—no, of course not," you reply sheepishly. "How fares the regiment?"
"You know the condition of your own squadron better than I do," Cazarosta replies. "As for Third Squadron, it remains understrength, but…" He pauses for a moment, hesitating. When he speaks again, it is with a heady mix of pride and certainty. "Third Squadron is the best squadron of horse in the King's Army, I would stake my life on it."
Your eyebrow rises. "Truly?" you ask. From any other officer, you would have dismissed such claims as pure bluster, but you have never known Caius d'al Cazarosta to be a man for empty boasts.
"Truly," he replies, with an earnestness in his voice more convincing than any printed service record.
"What about Fourth Squadron?" you ask, changing the topic to the true subject of your questioning. You had known Cazarosta would have kept his squadron in excellent enough shape. It is the newcomers and their officer commanding who is to you more a source of worry.
The other officer shakes his head. "Green, very green. Fourth Squadron is at full strength, but most of that strength is made up of conscripts, and very few have seen anything resembling a battle."
"What about its officer commanding?" you ask, fearing the answer you will receive. "I've not even had a chance to speak to Captain Garret yet. Is he at least competent?"
Cazarosta ponders an answer for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Competent? Perhaps. A quick study? Definitely. He is also a scoundrel of the highest degree; I can tell you for a fact that he is lazy, a chronic gambler, and a drunkard. It would not surprise me if he were an opium smoker and a womaniser, besides."
You nod gravely. You are not one to judge a man's personal tastes, but you cannot help but think that an officer prone to such excesses might not be the sort of man you'd want leading unblooded troops in a fight. "So they are not to be relied upon," you conclude.
"They are not to be relied upon," Cazarosta replies.
"You keep praying to the Saints; do they ever reply?" you ask.
The scarred officer throws a look over his shoulder to where the candles continue to burn. "You mean to ask if they whisper their will in my ear as I kneel before their altars?"
"Do they?" you ask.
Cazarosta replies with a smile of faint amusement. "Of course not," he scoffs. "Only the insane and the deluded claim that the Sainted Martyrs give orders to them directly. All I can do is guess and trust that they are always watching."
"I should be off. Good night."
"Very well," the other officer replies. "Then I shall see you on the field tomorrow, sir?"
You nod. "Yes, of course."
"Saints go with you, then," he replies as he shakes your hand again, his eyes filling with a little of their old, familiar, hardened edge.
-
You find the Experimental Corps' tents exactly where you expected to. However, you also find what seems to be the whole of the Experimental Corps itself there as well, a strange enough thing; while the King's regiments do have something of an insular quality during normal times, such distinctions rarely hold any substance in times such as these. Tonight, Highlanders drink with line infantry and lancers dice with artillerymen. Even your own dragoons have scattered to the winds, seeking old friends among the men of other regiments.
Yet here you see no Line Infantry orange or Lancer blue, only solid masses of dark green, broken up only by the light blouses and woollen jackets of the camp followers among them.
"What do you want?" an enlisted man calls out, his words taut and hostile, perhaps a result of the contents of the half-empty bottle he sloshes about in one hand.
"I'm here on Major Reyes's invitation," you reply.
The drunken Experimental seems less than impressed. "Yeah, and me mum's Saint Stanislaus. Piss off," he replies with an egregious lack of respect. Perhaps he does not see the lieutenant-colonel's insignia on your collar and shoulders.
"Now then, Maitland, is that any way to speak to an officer?" enters a vaguely familiar voice, whimsically lilting with a Warburtonian accent. "This is none other than the good Sir Alaric d'al Castleton, who saved Mister Lewes and me last year." The speaker steps out of the shadows, a big sergeant with a head of curly hair and sideburns fit to match even Staff-sergeant Lanzerel's.
"Don't mind Maitland, sir," the Sergeant mutters to you under his breath. "He's a fine rifleman but loses his manners at the bottom of a bottle, so he does. I'll knock his teeth out and have him recite you an apology later," he says with a grin. "The Major and Mister Lewes are this way if you'd follow me."
The Sergeant leads you to a large fire-lit clearing in the centre of the Experimentals' camp, where Major Reyes and Lieutenant Lewes sit surrounded by perhaps two or three dozen officers and men in green. Almost every one of them has some sort of bottle or flask in their hands. The only exception sits at the edge atop a camp stool, plucking the strings of a Takaran shamisen and accompanying the carousing of his comrades with the words to The Last Grenadier in a well-worn voice.
"Good evening, sir!" Reyes calls out as he spots your approach. "Gentlemen! A seat for Colonel Castleton! Quickly now!" he calls out.
At once, some of the men in the circle shift, and one fellow produces another camp stool and places it next to where the green-jacketed Major lounges upon the packed earth.
"More comfortable than a saddle, ain't it?" he remarks as you sit down, his breath smelling sharply of alcohol. With one hand, he offers you the open silvered flask in his hand, its surface still emblazoned with the regimental crest of the 8th of Foot. "Have a drink, sir?"
With a nod of thanks, you tip a little of the flask's contents into your mouth, doing your best not to cough as it burns and pillages its way down your throat and proceeds to lay siege to your gut.
"Strong stuff, ain't it?" Reyes says with a grin. "Nothing like what the lads are drinking though, and most of them can't even stomach what Lewes is pouring down his misbegotten gullet."
"It's an acquired taste, sir," Lewes replies, his sullen tone made joking by his crooked grin.
Reyes snorts derisively. "Perhaps in the sense that only one with no taste could acquire it," he retorts as he returns his subordinate's grin, sharing between them what must be a much familiar joke.
"Is there a reason why your men keep to themselves like this?" you ask.
"I beg pardon, sir?" Reyes replies, trading question for question.
"You could go to the camp of any other regiment tonight and find visitors from other units sharing drinks and stories," you clarify. "Yet there are no such visitors here. In fact, judging by the demeanour of the man who first greeted me, I could almost say that your men don't care much for the soldiers of other regiments."
"They don't care much for us, either," Lewes answers bitterly. "Putting on the green coat means making yourself a target for the army's contempt."
"Lewes has the right of it," Reyes adds sourly. "I suppose it must be different for you—after all, you dragoons do skirmish work yourselves—but the officers of the Line Infantry hold us in very low esteem. They do not like how we fight; they think it dirty, beneath them. The fact that we operate under the personal sanction of the King does not better their mood, either."
"I don't understand," you reply. "Are you not all recruited from the Line Infantry? Even if the officers show their contempt, why would their men display so much antipathy to their former comrades?"
Lewes shakes his head. "It's more simple than that. Those of us who're born common, we're brought up to follow," he answers, the bitterness in his voice growing by the moment. "When a man who speaks the right way and carries himself just so, his orders are to be obeyed, his claims to be accepted as fact. After a while, you start doing it without thinking."
"Mind you," Reyes interjects, "they're right, those officers; there's a difference between facing a man in battle and slitting his throat as he sleeps, or shooting him from a bush as he eats his supper." He shakes his head. "Perhaps one day, all our wars will be fought in such a manner. Some part of me would rather be ashes in the wind before that."
"Is it a good idea to get this drunk the night before a battle?" you ask.
Lewes responds with a bitter chuckle. "No. I'll be waking up with my head rattling like a drum; most of us will."
"Then why do it?" you ask. "Would it not be better to fight a battle unencumbered by roiling guts and a headache?"
The green-jacketed Lieutenant shakes his head. "Headache or no, they'll fight just as hard and shoot just as well," Lewes proclaims, his words halfway between boast and statement of fact. "Besides, there's little time for fires and gin when you're trying to stay hidden. The men don't often have a chance to spend a whole evening sitting on their arses, getting tattered. For a lot of them, it's going to be their last."
Your eyebrow rises of its own accord. "You expect heavy losses tomorrow?"
"There are many ways for a skirmisher to die in an open battle," Reyes answers. "We could be trapped in a crossfire, caught by a rush of enemy infantry, but there is no death that a rifleman fears more than being run down by cavalry. We don't have close-order drill or bayonets to fight them off with, and we can't flee from them without horses of our own."
The Major shakes his head sadly. "I would rate my men the best of their kind in creation; they fear neither heaven nor earth. What they do fear are cavalrymen; Khorobirit's army has tens of thousands of them."
Reyes offers you a thin, meaningless smile. "So, I let them drink; this time tomorrow night, most of them may well be dead."
"I don't suppose either of you has any advice?" you ask.
"Coming to us for advice?" Lewes asks, as lips curling into a crooked grin. "The mighty cavalryman? Knight of the Red and all that brasswork? I wouldn't have believed it if I'd not just heard it with me own ears."
You smile back, perhaps a little sheepishly. You suppose it is rather odd for a cavalry officer to be asking infantrymen for advice. "I could use all the wisdom I can get," you reply. "I'm not so discriminating as to turn away practical knowledge, no matter where it comes from."
"All right, how about this?" the green-jacketed Lieutenant replies with an amused chuckle. "Never trust any man above the rank of colour-sergeant!" he shouts out, loud enough for every man in sight to hear and loud enough to elicit barks of laughter from every single one of them, officers and men.
Reyes is quick to reply. "On the contrary, that would mean ignoring a bit of advice that has served me quite well over the years." He reaches out with his free hand, flicking the lieutenant's pips on Lewes's collar. "Never take advice from scruffy, unshaven lieutenants jumped up from the ranks!"
A fresh wave of laughter washes over the clearing, just as loud as the last. Reyes leans back and takes a deep slug from his flask.
"In all earnestness though, sir," he continues, this time directing his words to you alone. "I do have advice: never lose sight of your men. Keep your graces about you when you are with them, and knock a few heads about when needed. That will remind them that you are their officer. Yet if they see that you are willing to drink with them, they will be more easily convinced that you are willing to die for them."
For a moment, Reyes looks away at the carousing shapes of his own men. A fond smile forms on his lips. "Convince them of that, and they will never fail you."
"I should be going. Good night, gentlemen."
"You must go already, sir?" Lewes asks. "You just got here."
"The gin is warping your conception of time, Lewes," Major Reyes replies easily. "It is nearly eleven o'clock; we should be sending our own men to bed soon, as well."
The more junior man nods, both in reply to his own commanding officer and to you in farewell. "Watch yourself out there tomorrow; there are bloody few proper officers in this army without their heads stuck up their arses. We can't afford to lose any of you."
"Saints go with you, sir," Reyes adds, a more traditional goodbye to see you off as you leave the Experimentals to their rest and head off to your own bed.
-
You return to your tent to find the camp rather changed in your absence.
It is, of course, somewhat quieter. With the hour approaching midnight, the army's revelry is dying down, slowly but steadily. By now, only a few holdouts remain awake, and within the cantonment, the cookfires go out one by one.
Yet two things strike you as profoundly peculiar as you step into your tent. The first is that the camp stove and lamp that you had left cold and dark now both blaze merrily, filling your canvas shelter with warm, orange light. The second is that there is a Takaran diplomat in your chair.
How and why Lord Cassius vam Holt is sprawled out in your writing seat is entirely beyond you, yet there he is, in your chair with a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. He looks up as you step inside, grinning merrily. "I was wondering when you would show up," he says, waving his still-unopened bottle by way of greeting.
"Your Excellency! I was looking for you earlier!" you manage to blurt out, hiding your surprise as best you can.
"Well, congratulations, Colonel; you've found me!" he replies cheerily.
You master your shock long enough to ask the question foremost on your mind: "Your Excellency, why are you in my tent?"
"No need for any 'your excellencies' here," he replies lightly, elegantly sidestepping the question. "We Takarans don't hold much on titles between friends in private surroundings; 'Cass' is fine, 'Lord Cassius' if you insist upon being formal."
"Very well, Lord Cassius," you essay as you feel your patience slowly ebbing away. "Why are you in my tent?"
The Takaran's smile grows yet wider. "To share with you a friendly bottle of best-grade Cunarian brandy before you ride off to glory, death, or glorious death tomorrow morning, of course!" he answers, raising the bottle in one hand. "Also, to tell you the news."
"The news?" The vestiges of your shock turn to puzzlement; what development could be momentous enough to warrant the ambassador of a Great Power coming in person?
"Yes!" Lord Cassius replies excitedly. "I have determined that given the circumstances, it is well within my responsibility as ambassador to get as close a view of tomorrow's battle as possible. As a result, I have decided to attach myself to your regiment as a diplomatic observer."
Wait, what?
"So," the Takaran continues brightly as your thoughts seem to seize up entirely. "How about that drink?"
"I trust you've cleared this with my superiors?" you ask.
Lord Cassius gives his answer in the form of a short, derisive bark of a laugh. "Of course not! If it were up to your superiors, I would already be on a ship back to Varsovia!"
"Surely, you do not mean to attach yourself to my regiment without permission," you reply incredulously, stating what you would hope to be blatantly obvious. "It would be a gross breach of discipline, to say the least."
That only seems to make the Takaran laugh yet louder, a most unpromising sign.
"Surely, you must understand that my ambassadorial privilege supersedes any Tierran chain of command," he replies with supreme self-assurance. "My mandate includes the authority to investigate the state of the war in Antar by any means necessary, and that comes backed with the full authority of the Richsenaat. I will almost certainly never have a better chance to see that up close than during tomorrow's battle. Will Tierran officers block the lawful powers of a Takaran envoy? I think not."
You nod. With the war taking up the whole of Tierra's abilities, the Unified Kingdom is in no state to anger a state as mighty as the Altrichs vam Takara. As reckless as Lord Cassius's decision might be, no Tierran would dare try to stymie it on official channels.
It seems that in this matter, at least, Lord Cassius is happy enough to use the threat of his homeland's power to get his way, your 'mere' Tierran chain of command be damned.
"Now," the Takaran continues, raising the glasses in his hand. "Drink?"
"I cannot allow it; you may be killed!"
Lord Cassius shakes his head. "I doubt it. As I have already explained many a time, I am quite handy enough with a sword," he replies chidingly as he pats the two sheathed weapons at his side with a grin.
"And this mastery of the sword, will it render you impervious to musketry and cannon fire, as well?" you ask sourly.
"It does not, but considering how poorly the Antari shoot, I might just as likely be killed tripping over a fire log, getting thrown from my horse, or getting brained by a jealous wife or husband," he replies easily. "Actually, more likely in the latter case," he adds musingly.
"Which doesn't change the fact that if it does happen while you are attached to my regiment, I would be held responsible for it," you reply bitterly. To have a Takaran ambassador die on your watch would mean the complete destruction of your career, at best, an international incident that the Unified Kingdom can ill afford, at worst.
In reply, Lord Cassius pats you on the shoulder reassuringly. "There's no need to worry about that, my friend. I have already drafted a missive accepting full responsibility for my own actions."
"I am to trust that both our governments would take this missive of yours and accept it without consequence?" you ask doubtfully.
"You might," the diplomat answers lightly, "or you may trust in my sword arm. Either way, you cannot dissuade me; tomorrow may be my first and only chance to see your army face Prince Khorobirit's in open battle, and I would not miss seeing it up close for all the light in creation."
The Takaran's eyes flicker towards the bottle in his hand. "Now…brandy?"
"What if the Antari see a Takaran diplomat fighting alongside their enemies?" you ask.
Lord Cassius offers a careless shrug in return. "So what if they do? The League has no standing army. That means Khorobirit's troops qualify as private citizens by Takaran reckoning. I am allowed to defend myself against private citizenry, am I not?"
Yet again, you find yourself stating the obvious. "I doubt the Antari will see it that way; Khorobirit has the sanction of the League Congress, and they could simply declare his army a provincial militia or something to that effect."
"Again, so what if they do?" the Takaran ambassador repeats, his disregard for the matter even plainer this time. "Will the high and mighty League Congress seek to threaten us with the navy they don't have? Or maybe they will menace us with the prospect of ending the trade between our two countries that doesn't exist?" He leans back with a look of ultimate self-confidence. "Perhaps the Antari seem threatening to you, but against us? Powerless, absolutely powerless."
"Not if they go to the Kian," you reply. "All they need do is imply that Takara is backing us, and the Kian will hop into bed with the Antari in the blink of an eye."
Lord Cassius shakes his head. Not even the invocation of Takara's bitterest foe and only real rival seems to shake his confidence. "You must understand how absurd that would be; the Kian make more money off this war than we do. Are they not the ones selling you grain to make up for the imports you no longer receive from Antar? Is it not in their best interests to see this war last as long as possible and Antar's ability to grow and export grain destroyed before it ends?" The ambassador smiles reassuringly. "Trust me, so long as Varsovia does not supply you with arms and soldiers, the Kian are practically on your side."
The Takaran tilts the bottle in his hand towards you. "Now, shall we be drinking or not?"
"Why attach yourself to us?" you ask.
Lord Cassius's eyebrow rises. "I beg pardon?"
"You could have attached yourself to any regiment in the King's Army for this," you reply. "It is not as if the dragoons are going to have a monopoly on the heavy fighting, so why choose us?"
A flutter of sadness flashes over the Takaran's features for a moment. "To tell the truth, you are the closest thing to a friend I have here, besides Leud, of course. That and…" He smiles, erasing any sign of melancholy. "…there is a certain appeal to dragoons; you stole that idea from us, you know."
You nod as half-remembered facts dredge themselves up in your mind. "Yes, the Richshyr does field a substantial number of Dragoon regiments, including one in your Imperial Guards, the…".
"The Irunahalt Regiment," Lord Cassius finishes for you. "Yes, my mother's unit."
"Your mother was a dragoon?" you reply, trying to keep the surprise out of your voice. Of course, you are acquainted intellectually with the fact that the Takarans have women soldiers, but to be reminded of that fact on such a personal level…
"A Dragoon officer, in fact," the Takaran replies. "Major Verakura vam Holt. She met my father when he was commanding the Imperial Life Guards Regiment." He shakes his head. "Don't ask what she was like; I barely knew her."
Was? Then… "You mean she…".
Lord Cassius nods. "Dead years ago, when I was very young. From a training mishap, I have been told," he replies sadly. "The Richshyr endeavours to make its exercises as much like real war as possible. That means sometimes there are real casualties, as well."
Then the moment passes. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to mope," he says, the smile returning.
The Takaran all but hands one of the glasses to you. "Won't you have some brandy?"
[ ] "No, thank you."
[ ] "Very well, I suppose I'll need it."
At your words, the Takaran aristocrat springs into action, setting both glasses on the table with one hand as he rips open the seal with the other. The contents come out a rich, smoky dark orange. Lord Cassius pours a generous portion into each glass and hands one to you.
The other man raises his glass. "Takara aun Tau'zenkai!" he shouts, the traditional toast of the Richshyr. "Aldkizernen aun Tau'zenkai!"
You raise your own in response, offering the Tierran equivalent. "Saints guard the King!"
Then you drink, the amber fluid filling your mouth with smoke, sweetness, and fire until it is all gone. The Takaran refills his glass, then yours.
Lord Cassius smiles wider, his features boyish in the orange light. "To our continued friendship!"
You smile back, perhaps falling prey just a little to your guest's exuberance. "May it last forever!"
So it continues, into the deep night, until the bottle is finally emptied, Lord Cassius takes his leave, and you find yourself alone once more.
-
The next morning comes cold and sodden. You step out of your tent to find the whole cantonment filled with low, thick fog. Amidst the low shapes of the massed tents, you see men stumble to and fro, some hung over, others simply yet-waking, greatcoats clutched tightly around their bodies as they emerge from their canvas shelters.
Marion is waiting for you, bleary-eyed and pale but ready with a basin of warm water in one hand and your shaving kit in the other.
At first, you put down your batman's rather worn state to last night's revels, but it soon becomes clear that it is not throbbing temples and a sour stomach that makes the razor tremble in his hands.
"Nervous, Marion?" you ask, both to take up the silence and to get the Corporal's mind off his shaking hands.
"Terrified, sir," he replies.
"Good, that shows you haven't gone mad," you answer drily. "Only a fool would ride into a battle like this without some sort of fear."
"What about you, sir?" he asks warily. "Are you scared?"
You smile back. "Haven't you noticed? I'm frightened out of my wits, Corporal."
"No, sir, I haven't," Marion replies. "You seem as composed as you always are."
Whether he says it out of loyalty or honesty, you do not know, but you do know that his hands have stopped shaking.
Breakfast consists of two slices of cheese on toast, tea, and a bowl of green olives; a blessedly light meal, yet still almost too much for your nerves to handle. You force down each bite anyway; you may not have a chance to eat again today, and it is far better to be a little dyspeptic now than to be too hungry to think straight whilst on the field.
Marion stays by your side, waiting silently until you finish breakfast.
"Shall you be going into battle armoured, sir?" he inquires.
[ ] "Yes, I think I shall."
[ ] "Not today, I do not think."
You are not sure you could afford not to wear your armour and longsword today. Yes, on a day like this, you will need every advantage you can get.
Your bat-man nods. "Very good, sir. I shall return shortly," he replies before stepping into your tent.
A few moments later, Marion returns. He brings with him the full burden of your knightly harness; under one arm, he lugs your padded arming doublet, and under the other, your longsword and helm. Finally, on his back, he carries the portable armoire that serves as a travelling case for the banehardened steel plates of your armour.
With well-practised hands, your bat-man helps you into your chivalric gear, fitting on your pauldrons as you lace on your greaves, strapping on your cuirass, buckling on the straps which fit your gauntlets, and last of all, hooking your great knightly longsword to your belt. You take a moment to look yourself in the mirror after putting it all on, both to ensure that everything fits and perhaps to indulge in just a little self-admiration for the smartness of your ensemble; there is certainly no harm in being well-turned out for a momentous occasion, and what could possibly be more momentous than the battle that might decide the war?
-
Your regiment is already formed up by the time you are shaved, fed, and attired. Lanzerel meets you at the head of your squadron with the regimental colour in his hand, the silk banner cased tightly around the oaken pole. With Colour-sergeant Wagar returned to Tierra, it is your Staff-sergeant who must carry the flag into battle.
Cazarosta is already at the head of his own command, a slim, elegant shadow in the early morning fog with a sleek guardless sabre belted to his side, ramrod-straight in his saddle.
In contrast, Garret shows up a few minutes after you do, the picture of rakish dishevelment. Still, despite the half-open jacket and rough-tousled hair, you smell no liquor on his breath, and he swings into the saddle with an entirely sober—if needlessly extravagant—alacrity.
Your trip through the cantonment is not a silent one. Everywhere, the air is filled with noise and a cacophony of ordered confusion. The rattle of drums and the low notes of trumpets fill up any silence that might remain betwixt the sound of marching boots, bellowing sergeants, and the clatter of an army rousing itself to battle. Through the fog, dark shapes of fighting men filter from their tents, form up into ranks, and march off into the haze, bound for their assigned place in the line.
The sounds fade as you lead your regiment out of the cantonment and into the open fields, but only a little. Even here, the lead elements of the King's Army are already moving into position. As you head up, you pass companies of Highlanders in particoloured cloaks and the 5th of Foot in their orange jackets—the infantry regiments of Cunaris's brigade—as they shuffle their way towards the river crossings they are to block.
Cunaris had been given three crossings to guard with his brigade. The largest, and the one closest to the Tierran centre, was given to the two depleted battalions of the Kentauri Highlanders. Each of the two smaller fords was to be held by one of the more numerous but less seasoned battalions of the 5th. The Experimentals were assigned to the job of the flank guard, picqueting the brigade and by extension, the army's extreme right flank.
Your dragoons were to be employed in an entirely different fashion. Your command was designated a mobile reserve to be deployed in support of any unit that might find itself hard-pressed. Mounted, a squadron of Dragoons could react to such crises with much greater speed than a battalion of infantry.
So, while the infantry of your brigade head for the river, you lead your men up the hill towards Cunaris's brigade headquarters. That is where you are to start the battle, far away from the enemy's line of attack.
Whether you will end it there is an altogether different matter.
You find Lord Cassius already waiting for you atop the hill, astride a white charger and resplendent in the dark-blue dress tunic of an officer of the Takaran militia, his warsword and sword bayonet buckled at his side. He peers into the fog with a pair of opera glasses. His valet, sitting atop his own mount to one side, taps him on his shoulder to warn him of your approach.
"Ah! Good morning, Castleton!" he calls out as you approach, waving exuberantly. "Well, not really a 'good' morning for a battle, I suppose. Do you think this fog will clear up anytime soon? I would hate to spend the entire day staring at mist."
No sooner does he say the words than the first rays of the morning sun finally pierce the grey haze.
Little by little, the fog burns away under the rising heat of the spring sun. Bit by bit, dark outlines and rough shapes around you resolve into living images. The towering forms of the monstrous siege guns entrenched a hundred paces before you reveal themselves as the mist gives way to a bright morning.
Past them, you see the massed ranks of Tierran infantry as they take their positions along the shimmering ribbon of the River Kharan, moving up behind the breastworks and angled stakes which guard each crossing, their bayonets glittering by the hundreds as they ready themselves to face what the lifting fog reveals next.
Now you can see clear to the river and open plains beyond, where the immense components of Khorobirit's army move into position for attack. The distant ground is packed with them, packed so tightly and in such great number that you can feel their presence pull upon your mind from two and a half kilometres away; gigantic frayed ribbons of peasant levies, great swarms of light horsemen, and the solid blocks of Church Hussars, their armour shining, pennons fluttering from the heads of their long lances.
Yet the sight that fills you with the freshest apprehension is that of a dozen blocks of men, uniform and grey in the distance, marching in step, regimental colours at their head, their bayonets glinting in the sun.
Line infantry. When the bloody Martyr did the Antari get line infantry?
Your thoughts are interrupted by Corporal Marion clearing his throat to get your attention.
"Sir," he says quietly as he points to your left, "there's a lady coming this way."
You turn in your saddle to see an unmistakeably female figure atop a slim courser gallop down the road towards you. She rides without escort, approaching you with the aloof boldness of a veteran officer.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Lady Welles calls out as she reins her horse in not twenty paces away from you. "Might one be so kind as to direct me to the positions of Second Battalion, Fifth of Foot?"
[ ] "Allow me, my lady."
[ ] "What the bloody Martyr do you think you're doing this far forward?" [ ] "A battlefield is no place for a lady, madam." Feminism for the win!
You bring Faith alongside the Countess's horse and lean towards her, taking care to keep some distance between you for the sake of propriety. "Second Battalion should be deployed along the axis of the northernmost crossing," you reply, pointing in the relevant direction. "They should be about a kilometre that way."
The smile the Countess offers you in reply is small but warm. "I am much obliged, sir."
"Shall I detail a troop to escort you, madam?" you ask. Surely, she could not mean to wander the middle of a battlefield without some sort of protection.
Yet she shakes her head. "I would rather discharge my duties unimpeded by an escort, sir," she replies surprisingly. "Not that I am not thankful for the offer, of course."
You probably should have expected an answer like that. Not that she is wrong, of course; it is far easier to observe and record the events of a battle without two dozen cavalrymen getting in one's way or marking one as a target. Besides, considering how confidently she wears the two pistols and sabre at her belt, you have no doubt that she is quite capable of defending herself.
"Now then," she continues. "If there is nothing else?"
"Why seek to attach yourself to Second Battalion?" you ask.
"I beg pardon?" the Countess asks.
"My lady said she was looking for the Second Battalion of the 5th," you reply. "Why not the First Battalion? Is there a reason?"
Lady Welles nods. "Viscount Hugh—Lieutenant-colonel Hartigan—commands the regiment from First Battalion," she replies. "He knew my father well from when the 5th was his regiment, and he knows me at a glance. I would be recognised."
Your eyes narrow in suspicion. "Recognised? Are you not about the King's business?" you ask. "Would being recognised as an agent of the Crown not be advantageous?"
She shakes her head. "Lord Hugh would move heaven and earth to render me aid," she answers regretfully. "Unfortunately, his idea of what that would entail is likely to involve using half his battalion to see to my safety and wrapping me in cotton wadding, if any was to be found," she muses with the slightest, most momentary of smiles. "I would get in the way of his duties, just as he would get in the way of mine. Second Battalion's commanding officer is a fresh transfer from the 7th of Foot who does not know my face. I must take my chances there."
You nod, supposing the Countess does have a point. The First of the 5th would be little use if its commanding officer was distracted by other matters, no matter how well-meaning.
Welles shifts in her saddle with a dignified impatience. "Was that all?"
"Are you sure you would rather not observe from here, my lady?"
The Countess's eyebrow arches upwards. "Why would one wish to do that?" she asks.
"My lady would have a clearer view of the battlefield from here," you reply. "Surely, if you wish to observe, it would be best to do so from a distance, where one can see the larger picture?"
Welles shakes her head. "I have seen enough of larger pictures," she answers sourly, her lips curling in disdain as she all but spits out the last two words. "I want to see how men fight up close. I want to smell the powder and hear the drums. If I wanted to examine the movements of battalions and squadrons, I would stare at a map," she declares, her voice growing fiercer and more vehement. "I want to see how a battle is fought, and I cannot do that from here."
"You would place yourself in considerable danger so close to the line of attack," you reply calmly as if you were not stating the obvious.
The Countess purses her lips and replies with a look of exasperation. "If it puts one's mind at ease, I shall endeavour to keep myself out of reach of the fighting."
"And if the fighting comes to you?" you ask.
Welles's hand slips to the hilt of her sabre. She flashes you a grin, brilliant and confident. "Then I defend myself, of course."
For a split second, the Countess's eyes widen in shock. Have you misjudged by being so familiar as to use her given name? You curse yourself for being so overly presumptuous. Surely, you have made an ass of yourself.
But no, in the space of a second, her surprise is gone, replaced by a smile, small but warm. "I would say the same to you, Alaric," she replies softly. "Take care."
Then she is gone, galloping towards the distant curve of the River Kharan. Not a half-minute later, the foreboding calm of the quiet morning is broken. Deep behind the Antari lines, you see a bank of fire and smoke rise from the enemy's guns. The sound of the opening cannonade reaches you a second later, the low, rolling beat of a distant storm.
Before you and to your left, the near riverbank explodes with scattered plumes of mud and water as it is flayed by a ferocious volley of heavy iron balls. Your guns remain silent; positioned far back so as to be able to cover as many crossings as possible, the batteries of the King's Army do not have the range to strike back against the faraway Antari artillery, nor do the massed heavy cannon of the Northern Fleet, poking uselessly out of the open gunports of ships as they lie in the distant harbour.
Yet though the enemy strikes these opening blows with impunity, they do not strike with efficacy; when the splashes of water settle, you can see the massed battalions of the King's Army almost entirely unharmed. Khorobirit may have sought to protect his guns by leaving them so far to his rear, but by doing so, he has rendered them close to useless.
Still, the Antari continue their bombardment. With every minute, Khorobirit's gunners empty more and more heavy shot uselessly into river beds, open ground, or the breastworks which shelter the line battalions. Only a few lucky hits mark the orange-clad ranks of the Tierran Line Infantry.
For what feels like half an eternity, the cannonade continues, volley after volley of unopposed but entirely ineffectual fire. By the time forty minutes have passed, the furious bombardment seems to have done little but kill or maim perhaps a dozen men, splatter the uniforms of a few dozen more, and waste a truly prodigious quantity of shot.
Then the guns fall silent, only to be replaced by a new sound. All along the far bank, the air trembles with the din of a thousand war horns, each united in a single, rumbling note. No sooner do the horns fade, the banners rise, the sabres twirl, and the far-off drums begin to rattle.
Only now does the grandiose, half-jumbled, half-ordered mass of Khorobirit's army begin to settle into movement, a great bear rising from hibernation, a colossal apparatus of war making the ground tremble under its waking throes.
The might of the League of Antar advancing to war.
-
The Antari host marches towards the river but not as a single mass. Even as the great crowds of infantry and massed ranks of horse slowly make their way forward with a deliberate ponderousness, swarms of horsemen spring forward, rushing for the crossings at a rapid pace. Some fall behind, forming a screen around the main bodies of the Antari army. The rest rush ahead at a gallop, riding into the far bank, splashing along the water of the Kharan as they probe the river for the location of the all-important crossing points.
Again, the air fills with the low reverberations of distant thunder, but now a battery of Tierran guns is the cause; in moving forward so rashly, the Antari scouts have placed themselves within range.
Plumes of mud and churned river water rise from the far bank. The guns of the King's Army fire considerably lighter shot than their Antari counterparts, but their barrels are longer, and their crews more experienced. The first round of fire brings down one horseman and sends half a dozen of his comrades to flight. Another battery fires now, more distant, likely behind Baron Redmarch's brigade on the centre-left. This time, their shot lands amidst a scouting party almost a third of the way across the river, sending up great plumes of water around the unfortunate Antari, who immediately turn tail and fall back, unharmed.
The enemy tries to probe your brigade's crossings, as well, but instead of answering with cannon, Khorobirit's scouts are met with the sharp cracks of rifle fire. Horsemen, made tiny by distance, tumble from their saddles as the green-jacketed Experimentals shoot down any man who even gets within arm's length of the riverbank.
Yet for all that is sent against them, the bold-hearted Antari on light-footed horses rush forward, braving the heavy guns and deadly rifles of your army to get just far enough to mark the locations of each crossing with long, brightly coloured lances. They shove them deep and point-first into the shot-scarred mud of the riverbank before falling back behind the cover of the mobs of infantry that follow them.
Now, it is the Antari foot that advances. Banners held high, the fingertips of Khorobirit's army creep forward into the muddy water, the first ranks of the peasant levies; that great horde of illiterate, stubborn, and unyielding manhood whose predecessors had filled out the bulk of every army raised on the Calligian continent since the host of Saint Stanislaus himself.
It is in the example of those predecessors that they follow now. It is in an age-old way they advance into a battle spurred on by political forces they do not understand, for lords who only despise them, and for a cause that will not benefit them.
It is in an age-old way that they are about to die.
Even from a kilometre away, you can feel the distant pull on your mind as the forward elements of the Antari infantry wade along the river crossings. You can feel it build even as you see the clouds of steam begin to rise from the water around the enemy vanguard, even as the first of the Antari slow, stop, and begin to fall back.
Yet it is too late. The pulling on your mind surges for the barest instant. Before you, the river crossings burn with green fire as the patterns of baneseals, carefully buried under the mud of the riverbed, burst into incandescent heat, triggered by the presence of life within its deadly killing field.
Flash-boiled by the sudden flare of banefire, the water explodes into gouts of scalding steam. The forward edge of the Antari advance devolves into panicked chaos as the killing mist sears exposed flesh. The screams grow louder as the unfortunates gasp for breath, only to admit the terrible searing cloud into their mouths and lungs. Their deaths come as choking agony as the blisters in their insides open, and they choke on their own blood.
Yet even as the front ranks of the Antari foot die in agony, their leaders force those behind them to go forward, marching through still-steaming, blood-stained water; only now, they advance with fresh urgency, pushing aside the bodies of their dead predecessors and trampling those still left alive in the silt of the river bottom.
Yet their suffering is but at a beginning.
This time, when the thunder comes, it is loud enough to make your ears ring. Faith shifts and prances under you, snorting in fright as the ground shakes. Before you, the black shapes of the siege howitzers recoil as they vomit columns of smoke and flame into the once-blue sky.
Your eyes follow the shells' dark forms as they arc high into the air and descend upon the mass of Antari infantry. Some of them burst early, spraying their fragments uselessly into the water. Others burn too late, burying themselves into the bottom of the river, their fuzes extinguished by the Kharan's waters.
The rest go off on time, and the rest are more than enough.
Now, where men once stood, there is nothing between heaven and earth but a churned-up froth of bloody water and the broken shards of meat and bone that once were men. The storm of iron swept the crossing clear of anything once living, leaving only pulverised human debris behind.
The carnage that GG&T's new shells have inflicted is far beyond anything you have ever seen out of an artillery piece before, a carnage perhaps equal to or exceeding that inflicted by Cunaris's banefire traps.
You cannot help but wonder if one day, such machines might supersede the need for such feats of banecasting altogether.
[ ] War without banecasting? Might as well imagine a ship without sails!
[ ] Perhaps, especially if such machines become more common.
[ ] Does it matter if they both kill the enemy in equal measure?
[ ] I would rather that someday we might be rid of war entirely.
[X] Perhaps, especially if such machines become more common.
You cannot help but frown a little at your conclusion. You doubt your opinion would be popular, especially among your brother officers.
Yet the logic to it is inescapable; as powerful as a high-calibre banecaster might be, there are only so many of them, perhaps one in a few hundred thousand, and only a fraction of them would be fit for combat. What profit would there be in risking such extraordinary personages on the field of battle when a state could simply commission a battery of machines to do their work? What state could resist doing the same once they knew their enemies had grasped such an advantage?
Perhaps the future of war lies in the hands of great machines and the men to make and crew them. Where does that leave the banecaster, or even the baneblooded officer, whose natural aptitude for command is partly proven by his ability to sense the power of banecasters at work?
Where will that leave men like you?
You are ripped out of your thoughts by a low, rippling reverberation: the splintering crackle of musketry made dull echo by the vagaries of distance and terrain. The sound comes from your far left.
You turn to see drifts of white smoke rising from the positions of Castermaine's brigade as his distant infantry make first contact with the enemy, emptying their volleys into the leading edge of the peasant masses before them. Puffs of smoke from within the Antari bloom in reply, their distant pops rendered soft and muzzled by a far-too-great stretch of creation.
From more than five kilometres away, the first clash looks like a battle in miniature, all of the war's fury transplanted into abstract blocks of smoke-spitting soldiery, packed so close together that individual soldiers are difficult to tell apart from each other.
Then, a fresh volley of musketry, still echoing, still muffled, but sharper, much sharper. It comes from the positions of Tollmark's brigade, adjacent to your own. They too have made contact with the enemy.
A moment later, your ears seem to fill with the rattle of battalion volleys, some ragged, others crisp; some are far to the left, others close and almost right ahead of you. All along the line, the crack of infantry muskets fills the air as the Antari close into range.
Within moments, the sound of the battle becomes a jumble of echoes and gunshots. The isolated white drifts of smoke turn into great sheets of acrid, breathable debris. At Blogia, the very sun had been blotted out by the powder smoke. Today, it is only thanks to the stiff morning breeze that you can see any of the battle at all.
Even so, you can snatch nothing but glimpses in between the heavy veils of powder fog; a battalion there, falling back by companies as they bleed the enemy for every pace of ground, and there, a handful of Antari falling back across the river, firing wild parting shots as their orange-coated adversaries cheer and reload for the next rush.
So intent are you upon watching the battle ahead that you do not even notice the sound of hooves approaching from behind until Lord Renard pulls his bay mare up against Faith with an obviously nervous officer—his brother—in tow.
"Go on," your Lieutenant whispers to the Cornet. "Say what y'came here for. Ain't becoming t' let a colonel's badge give pause to a Findlay, wot?"
The younger officer closes his eyes and takes a breath before nudging his own horse forward. "His Grace's compliments, sir," he begins in the half-stilted, half-frantic tone of a man too terrified of the words in his mouth to relax. "He wishes me to convey to you the news that Lord Hugh reports First Battalion, 5th of Foot to be heavily pressed by the enemy and that you are to provide one of your squadrons as reinforcement if you deem it acceptable to do so."
The Cornet's last words come out as a rapid jumble. The young officer's face is nearly beet red, whether it be from embarrassment or the fact that you did not see him take a single breath in his entire report, you are not quite sure.
In any case, you have more pressing matters before you. While Hartigan's battalion might need aid at the moment, deploying one of your squadrons to assist him would mean you would have fewer men at your disposal later.
To your side, both Lord Renard and his brother await your reply with bated breath. Will you send someone to answer Hartigan's call for aid? If so, whom?
If you choose to send in a squadron, they will be committed, meaning you won't be getting them back.
[ ] I shall send Garret and Fourth Squadron.
[ ] Cazarosta and Third Squadron will go to Hartigan's aid.
[ ] I shall go myself.
[ ] I cannot spare the men this early in the battle; Hartigan will have to make do.
