Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I shall send Garret and Fourth Squadron.

You turn to Lord Renard. "Convey to Captain Garret that it is my will that he take his squadron and ride to the assistance of First Battalion, 5th of Foot," you command.

Your Lieutenant only pauses long enough to snap off a quick salute before putting spurs to his horse, closing the few dozen paces to where Garret and Fourth Squadron await with an almost over-hasty enthusiasm. With the immediate matter taken care of, you turn back to find the younger of the two brothers still waiting next to you, his reins grasped in white-knuckled hands.

"If there is to be nothing else, Cornet, you may return to brigade headquarters," you tell him. Send my regards to His Grace."

The young man—a boy, really—bobs his head up and down with a frantic desperation to escape your gaze. "Yes, sir! Of course, sir!" He begins to turn his horse, a task made substantially harder by how his hands shake with nerves.

"Oh, and Cornet?" you call out with as much friendliness as you can. Despite your efforts, the young subaltern freezes as if he had been speared in the back.

He turns towards you again, his lip practically trembling. "Yes, sir?"

"There's no need to be frightened of me. I was in your place not so long ago, and I do not think I have grown any more terrible since then," you confide. "Though I did remember to salute superior officers, even then," you add, with a quick grin to soften the blow.

"Yes, sir! Of course, sir!" he all but blurts out, his hand snapping to the brim of his helmet in a brittle salute.

You return it with an intentional languidness. "Carry on."

The Cornet barely waits until the words are out of your mouth before bolting, a look of stark terror on his face. You could not imagine that you had ever been that jittery, though perhaps that is only because your memories have been edited to a more pleasing shape by hindsight.

"Gentlemen! The Antari have offered us a dance!" announces a voice from your left, carefully pitched to carry over the background noise of the battle. You turn in time to see Captain Garret drawing his sabre. "It would be damned rude to refuse, would it not?"

His squadron replies with a round of laughter of that strange sort driven half by nerves and half by genuine amusement. "Damned rude, sir!" one man shouts back with an informality that few other officers would have tolerated.

"Then it's time to show 'em what we can do!" Garret declares with a jovial ease. "Squadron! At the trot! Advance!"

With that, Fourth Squadron begins to lurch forward, settling into the trot by fits and starts as the inexperienced riders jostle their mounts into motion. They are not the best-drilled of men, but within a few seconds, they manage to get themselves all going in the same direction into the powder fog.

You watch your men disappear into the smoke with a head full of errant thoughts.

For so much of your career, you have fought at the head of your men, leading them into a battle where you would share their risks and victories. As the commander of a patrol, a troop, or even a squadron, you were where your men were.

Now, you are to simply look on as dragoons under your command ride off on your orders while you are left behind, perched upon your unmoving saddle.

[ ] It's not right; I should be going myself.
[ ] I suppose this is the price of high command.
[ ] I actually prefer this; it puts my neck in rather less danger.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I suppose this is the price of high command.
To break the three-way tie, I'll select the option that doesn't change our Idealism.

Click to shrink...

Realistically speaking, there is no way around it.

It might have been possible for the commander of a troop of forty to lead his men in person, or even for the commander of a squadron of two hundred, but to demand that the man in charge of multiple squadrons lead each one into battle whilst commanding the remainder must be a concept that verges on the absurd.

Mind you, that is not to say that you very much like the idea of sending your men out to their possible deaths while you, the man responsible for placing them in that peril, remain safely away from any sort of danger, but that is a hard reality you cannot change; you simply cannot be in two places at once, nor can you bring the whole of your mental faculties to bear upon two tasks simultaneously.

You suppose you must simply resign yourself to your new circumstances. You can only hope that the lump of wrongness that you feel in your stomach will only rest easier with time, for you imagine you shall feel it a great deal more in the days to come.

Lord Cassius's voice pulls you out of your thoughts. "Castleton, are you all right?" he asks, his voice tinged with worry as he pulls his horse up to yours. "You seem…wrought."

"I was thinking, that's all," you reply warily, still somewhat off-balance.

The Takaran nobleman makes a sound halfway between a chuckle and an amused grunt. "Thinking? In this racket?"

"It's just musketry—" you reply, only to be interrupted by the distant report of a twelve-pounder. "—and cannon fire, I suppose. Have you not heard them both before?"

"Of course I have," the Takaran replies swiftly. "The Richshyr trains with live ammunition but never this much of it. The echoes do not help, either; I can barely hear my ears ringing, let alone my thoughts. How do you stand it?"

You shrug. "One gets used to it, I suppose."

It is not until after those words come out of your mouth that you realise you have gotten used to it. You have been at war for a substantial portion of your life, and you have gotten used to a great many things: the sounds of battle, long spells on horseback, sleeping in the cold, the comforting weight of your helmet and sabre…

When you first began your service in the King's Army, all those things had been so foreign to you. When the war ends, will you find your old life just as strange?

That is a thought you ponder for some time as you tune out the sounds of battle to which you have grown so accustomed. You are not sure you come to a satisfactory answer.

The sound of fresh hoofbeats brings you back to the here and now, not from ahead but from behind you; another young galloper from brigade headquarters.

Only this officer is obviously not a member of Cunaris's staff. His horse rides up lathered and blown, its grey flanks splattered with mud. Its rider is in no less ragged a state, his face stained with black splotches, two bullet holes showing prominently upon his particoloured Highlander cloak, and carrying with him the reek of death and spent powder.

"Begging your pardon, sir, I come from the young Havenport by way of brigade headquarters," he reports hurriedly, greeting you with only the most cursory of salutes.

Not 'His Grace' but 'the young Havenport.' That could only mean one man. "Is there trouble?" you ask, concern for your friend lending your voice no small urgency. "Is Lord Marcus all right?"

The young Highlander officer nods wearily. "Aye, but 'tis hard going; the Antari have gotten some of their light horse across and are now using them to harass our flank companies. Young Havenport requests a squadron of Dragoons to drive them off."

[ ] I'll send Garret and Fourth Squadron to the Highlanders' aid. Garret is busy helping Lord Hugh.
[ ] Cazarosta and Third Squadron should suffice to give the Highlanders a hand.
[ ] The Highlanders will have to make do; nobody can be spared.
[ ] I'll lead my own squadron in.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] The Highlanders will have to make do; nobody can be spared.

You shake your head. "I must regret to inform you that given the circumstances, I cannot consider it practicable or wise to commit my men," you reply solemnly. "The Highlanders must stand alone for the moment."

The Kentauri officer acknowledges your answer, but he does not accept it. "With all due respect, sir, the situation is dire," he answers, his words weighted with growing vehemence. "The Antari press us hard, and we Highlanders are not so fit on the defence as we are on the attack. I can offer no guarantees that they will stand at all."

"Nor can you offer any guarantees that there will not arise any more dire crises in the hours to come," you reply heatedly. "By my reckoning, this battle is not yet resolved. If I send men to your regiment's aid, then I may find myself in great need of them at a more pivotal hour."

"The possibilities of the future do not change the circumstances at present," the Highlander replies with an insolence that would have been unheard of from the junior officer of any other regiment. "The young Havenport needs reinforcement."

You shake your head again. "I can only send him my best wishes," you reply, underlining your voice with as much of a tone of finality as you can. "Carry on."

The Highlander only gives you the barest flash of a salute as he pulls his horse away, his teeth bared in frustration. Within seconds, he is back on his way to the Highlander position, driven onwards only by barely concealed fury, galloping headlong into the powder smoke.

For a few moments, you cannot help but have second thoughts; what if you have misjudged the situation? What if, by refusing Lord Marcus his reinforcements, you have allowed the dire predictions of his galloper to come to pass?

Your mind fills with images of the Kentauri Highlanders being overwhelmed by a tide of the enemy, beaten back by their sheer numbers, outflanked, routed, or perhaps wiped out to the last man. If you truly have made the wrong decision, then there is no doubt where the blame for any such debacle would lie.

Yet as the minutes pass, you see and hear no evidence of any great reverse taking place at the river crossings to your front; no sounds of Antari battle cries from the near bank, no terrified riders reporting a complete collapse to brigade headquarters, no streams of routed men fleeing from a victorious enemy.

As far as you can tell, the Highlanders still hold.

You have made the right choice. Bit by bit, the grey haze is torn away by the sudden wind, its smoky tendrils receding like an army of fog being driven into the sea, revealing more and more of the field in its wake.

Before long, you can see all the way to the masts of the fleet anchored in Kharangia's harbour to the tops of HMS Rendower, where the King's banner flies from the mainmast, lifted into its full glory by the rippling wind.

That is not to say that the wind has rendered the field entirely clear. Great columns of haze still rise from the gun batteries and the entrenchments at the river crossings, where the shadowy outlines of infantry battalions spit volleys into the enemy infantry, a rippling storm of fire and lead birthing fresh masses of powder smoke like the burning edge of some immense thundercloud, lit not by lightning but the fire of ten thousand infantry muskets.

Yet for all of the awe-inspiring fury of the Tierran infantry's defence, it does not seem to be enough. Beyond the smouldering blocks of line infantry, you see fresh columns of Antari advancing in ever-greater numbers. With them are mixed companies of Church Hussars, bane-runed sabres gleaming in the filthy sunlight as they splash across the river, piling in with the enthusiasm of men on the verge of victory.

And they are; at two points along the centre, you can already see the ranks of powder-stained orange begin to give way. One distant company of men fall back out of the smoke in good order, bayonets fixed as they are beset by a pursuing swarm of enemy horse. Closer to your position, you see the whole of the 13th of Foot being pushed out of their entrenchments, bit by bit, by an immense mob of Antari peasantry.

A dire sight, but all is not yet lost. Havenport's reserve brigades are already springing forward to close up the gaps. In the distance, you see the rag-tag array of sailors and marines that is Havoc Matheson's Naval Brigade rush into the fray. Closer to your position, Viscount Weir's five battalions of Line Infantry march at double time towards the beleaguered crossings.

Within minutes, the Antari are pushed back to the river, but that is no excuse to breathe easy. Now, the King's Army has no more brigades in reserve. Should Prince Khorobirit break through again, then Havenport will have no fresh regiments to stop them. The Tierran infantry teeters on the brink of collapse.

Yet for all the precariousness of the situation on your left, it is nothing compared to what you see when you look to your right. It is a sight fit to send a bolt of fear rattling down your spine, for at the very far side of the shallow river bend that anchors the Tierran flank, a column of Antari light horse are making their way across the river along a crossing not on any of the maps, a crossing whose defence was not assigned to any unit of the Tierran Army.

The Antari light horse splash across the River Kharan. No musketry meets them, no cannon fire, no resistance whatsoever. Within a minute, they will be on the near bank of the Kharan and in a position to outflank the whole Tierran line.

Lord Cassius rides up alongside you, his opera glasses still held in gloved hands. "Castleton, do you see that?" he asks, his voice taut as he raises his hand towards the Antari light cavalry working its way up your flank.

You nod. "I do, Lord Cassius," you reply as you try the best you can to keep any hint of panick from your voice.

"I don't see any Tierran units defending that crossing," the Takaran replies, "and your Duke of Havenport no longer has any reserves, correct?"

Again, you nod. "That is correct, sir."

The blond-haired ambassador nods again, his mouth forming into a thin slash. "So, now that we have established that my suspicions are indeed true, I must bring you a question, which I shall expect you to answer with utmost honesty. May I?"

"Yes, of course," you reply, the only polite answer available to you, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to refuse.

"Castleton," Lord Cassius begins, his voice barely above a whisper. "Has Havenport lost?"

[ ] "On the contrary, I would rate our victory almost certain."
[ ] "I cannot say; the battle has yet to be decided."
[ ] "We are quite possibly on the verge of it, yes."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "On the contrary, I would rate our victory almost certain."
We have more than enough Intellect to convince Cassius.

Click to shrink...

Lord Cassius does not seem too impressed by your assurances. "I find your answer surprisingly optimistic, considering the fact that your centre is on the verge of giving way and that you are about to be flanked from the right," the Takaran replies, his voice laden with scepticism. "Some less kind observers might even call it overconfidence, delusion even."

You resist the urge to smile, for you have put together in your head your own, rather more well-informed interpretation of the current crisis. "They might," you answer, "but they would be wrong; our centre still holds, our left is strong, and we've enough forces left to hold up the flanking attack on our right."

The Takaran nods. "That is true, yet your army can only hold on for so much longer without some sort of substantial reinforcement, and shuffling forces to this flank will only weaken the rest. It seems to me as if your King's Army no longer has the capability to achieve victory, only to postpone defeat."

This time, you cannot help but smile, if only because you are privy to something the poised blond-haired diplomat is not. "Delay is exactly our purpose, Lord Cassius." Your smile grows wider. There is no point in keeping the day's battle plan a secret now. "I don't suppose you know where our cavalry is, do you?"

The ambassador shakes his head, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "I have not seen any Tierran horse today save your dragoons. I do not know where the rest have been placed."

Your reply comes up almost giddily like a fishmonger's wife sharing gossip. "Neither does Prince Khorobirit, something which I suppose I must ascribe to the fact that an Antari sees open water only as a barrier, while a Tierran sees it as a highway."

Lord Cassius's eyes widen in realisation. His grim expression resolves into a smile. "I must stop underestimating just how clever you people can be," he says, half to himself. "Of course, all that cleverness is for naught if you cannot hold your right flank," he adds.

You nod in agreement as you turn back to the right, where the leading edge of the Antari light cavalry closes the last few paces of water to the near bank of the Kharan.

Through your field glass, you watch the first of the Antari horsemen splash out of the water and onto the muddy riverbank. Even from the distance of a kilometre and a half away, you can see him raise his sabre in triumph as he spurs his mount forward, his comrades close behind, towards the low ridge that is the only thing separating him from Cunaris's brigade headquarters.

It is not until he tumbles from the saddle and strikes the ground that you hear the first sharp crack of rifle fire.

Suddenly, the brush-covered slopes of the ridge erupt in smoke as the dark shapes of the Experimental Corps, almost invisible in their green jackets, let loose in a precisely aimed fusillade. The leading parties of the Antari horse tumble to the ground in rapid succession, leaving their panicking mounts fleeing in all directions.

You find yourself smiling despite yourself as you watch the two hundred Experimentals pour fire into the enemy horse from their concealed positions. Their alacrity may have just saved the army.

Harried and cut down by the dozens by accurate fire from men they cannot see, the Antari flanking force falter, turn, and begin to fall back across the river.

From behind, you see the rise of a bright red streak into the mottled grey sky, its passage marked by a high whistle, a sharp addition to the rattle of muskets and the beat of field guns. Then, it is all drowned out, rocket, musketry, and field artillery alike, by a thunder that seems to shake the very essence of creation.

Your ears begin ringing as the rolling thunder grows only stronger. The very air seems to tremble and waver before your eyes as you turn your field telescope towards the source.

You find it anchored in long rows along the sheltered waters of Kharangia's harbour: the massed floating fortresses of the Northern Fleet's line of battle, their broadsides wreathed in billowing rows of smoke as their heavy naval guns spit fire and fury and heavy shot at the Antari flank.

The spectacle cannot help but leave you slack-jawed. You have seen and heard cannon fire before in your decade as a soldier, but even the grandest batteries of land-based artillery are nothing compared to the terrific volleys of shot which now roar across the battlefield. The HMS Rendower alone carries more guns than the Duke of Wulfram had even brought to Blogia, each heavier than any field piece in the King's Army.

Now, no less than half of them are firing in unison, not as a lone battery but in concert with no less than a dozen other heavy warships of the battle-line, with each ship down the line unleashing the full might of their broadsides upon the far flank of the Antari, one after the other.

Even from nearly ten kilometres away, you can see quite well that the effect upon the enemy is terrible. Firing from unsteady floating gundecks, the Northern Fleet's broadsides land without precision or accuracy, but against a target as large as Prince Khorobirit's army, neither is hardly needed. No matter where they fly, every shot seems to find its mark, ploughing into the distant masses of Antari peasantry and sending up showers of dirt, stone, and broken bodies as they strike home.

By the time the last ship in the line fires, the ringing in your ears is so loud that the report of its guns comes to you only as a dull pain. The Antari flank is in shreds, those of its number not dead or dying already milling about in confusion and terror or rushing away from the coast, fleeing from the pitiless mouths of the killing guns.

Then, from the brush-obscured shadow of the coast, they ride out of the smoke and onto the field. Even from so far away, you can pick them out as they form up in their triangular formations, squadron after squadron of white-coated lancers, cuirassiers resplendent in breastplate and helmet, line cavalry with their straight-bladed broadswords on their shoulders. All of them press forward, lances couched and blades held high as they push their mounts first into a trot, then into a full gallop as they charge home into Prince Khorobirit's disorganised flank.

Your heart lifts at the sight. At Blogia, it had been the defeat of the Tierran cavalry that had signalled the loss of the battle. Here at Kharangia, it shall be the charge of that same Tierran cavalry that is to bring victory.

When the leading squadrons of the cavalry brigade reach the Antari flank, they do not so much make contact with it as they simply overrun it. The forward formations of onrushing men and horses plough into the mass of enemy foot with ease. Surprised and disordered, the mob of peasant infantrymen offers little more resistance than a field of wheat, more concerned with escaping the path of the charging regiments of horse than offering any resistance.

Far in the distance, you see the Antari cannon fire at the new threat, a desperate attempt to stem the tide. It does little good; more of Khorobirit's hastily aimed shot plunges into the retreating streams of his own men than the fast-advancing formations of your fellow Tierran cavalrymen.

Within moments, the far flank of the Antari army is in the process of disintegration. Masses of poorly drilled peasant soldiers fling their weapons away and flee in all directions, animated by a panick that even seems to infect Khorobirit's better-ordered line infantry. Only the Church Hussars and the enemy foot still engaged at the river crossings do not begin to flee, concerned more by the enemy before them than the enemy that now drives hard from their rear.

"Hah! Excellently done!" Lord Cassius exclaims as his field glasses track the progress of the sudden flanking attack. "You have played Khorobirit like he played your Wulfram at Blogia! Well done!"

Not how you would have put it, perhaps, but you cannot dispute the elation in his voice.

The enemy's centre is little better ordered, for even here do the homespun-clad levies begin to follow the cues of their fellows on the far flank, falling back. Only the handful of Khorobirit's line infantry hold the centre now, but unlike their already-fleeing counterparts, they seem to be wheeling about to make a fight of it, interposing themselves between the quickly advancing regiments of Palliser's brigade and the men still engaged at the central river crossings.

It is only on the near flank, directly in front of your own position and furthest away from the cavalry brigade, that the Antari seem to react with any kind of real vigour, for instead of falling back, the nearest portion of Khorobirit's army presses forward, perhaps animated by one last fool's hope of victory. The peasant levies press into the Highlanders with renewed vigour, but a far greater threat comes from further to the right. There, the three remaining line infantry battalions have formed into a gigantic column, two companies wide and nine deep. They march across the Kharan with muskets shouldered and colours fluttering in the blustering wind, their boots splashing into shallow water to the beat of rattling kettle drums, every step bringing them closer to the shore where the exhausted Second Battalion of the 5th of Foot awaits them.

Yet that is not the worst of it.

For even further to the right, at the crossing where the Experimentals had first repulsed the enemy's flanking attack, the Antari have returned. This time it is not light cavalry that bears down upon the scattered contingent of green-jacketed skirmishers but hundreds of Church Hussars, their armour glittering in the morning sun.

Behind you, you hear the rising sound of hooves drumming rapidly against the packed turf. You turn in time to almost find yourself bowled over by the rearing horse of a Dragoon subaltern: Lord Renard's younger brother Laurent, his face as pale as a Takaran's in stark terror.

"Sir!" he exclaims, his hand shaking as he forms a hasty salute. No time for 'His Grace's compliments' now. Now, he points frantically to the front, where two thousand expertly drilled Antari infantry are about to collide with the Second Battalion of the 5th. "Sir! Do you—"

"I see it, sir!" you reply.

The adolescent Cornet nods shakily before shifting his hand to where a solid column of Church Hussars now splashes across the Kharan towards Reyes's Experimentals. "And the oth—"

"I see it, sir," you reply, trying your best to keep your impatience down. "What is to be done?"

"It is His Grace's will that you commit all forces under your command to reinforce the threatened crossings," replies Cunaris's younger son, voice quavering. "He gives you full discretion over the deployment of your forces."

[ ] "Excellent! I have sat here uselessly long enough!"
[ ] "Am I to deploy all of my forces? Are things so dire?"
[ ] "I had hoped it would not come to this."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I had hoped it would not come to this."

When the cannonade had started, and Palliser's cavalry came out of the smoke, hope had bloomed within you, hope that you would be able to end the day without having to place yourself in mortal peril. Hope that just this once, your high position and the circumstances would permit you to go through a battle without having to fight for your life.

So much for that. Your duty takes precedence over any pursuit of such wishful thinking.

As much as you might wish to remain behind, Cunaris's orders and your sacred honour demand you advance to the aid of your fellow Tierrans.

Only one question remains: how shall you deploy your men?

A green battalion facing a force of line infantry three times its size and a small force of riflemen about to be attacked by what you reckon to be at least three hundred Church Hussars. Both are crises of the utmost magnitude, and both all but demand the intervention of your two remaining squadrons.

There is no time to ask Cunaris for orders or your subordinates for advice. There is no time to do anything but act.

[ ] I commit my entire force to the aid of Second Battalion, 5th of Foot.
[ ] I'll ride to reinforce the Experimentals with every man I have.
[ ] I'll split my forces; that way, I can see to both crises.
[ ] Why not use our heavy guns to aid the Experimentals while we go to the aid of the 5th of Foot?
[ ] Our heavy guns could support the 5th of Foot instead, leaving us free to aid the Experimentals.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Our heavy guns could support the 5th of Foot instead, leaving us free to aid the Experimentals.

You turn to the young officer. "Cornet, I must oblige you to inform His Grace that I shall be committing the whole of my force to the relief of the Experimental Corps."

"Surely you cannot mean to leave the 5th without aid, sir!" the adolescent subaltern exclaims with shocked incredulity, allowing his indignation to over-match his sense of propriety for just a moment.

"By no means, Cornet, by no means at all," you reply, with what you hope is a smile of reassurance. With a wave of your hand, you gesture to the immense shapes rising from the entrenchments in front of you. "I would suggest to His Grace that we use the heavy guns, focussing their fire upon those Antari infantrymen about to engage the Second Battalion of the 5th. I daresay that shall give the enemy pause."

"I beg pardon, sir, but wouldn't we also risk hitting our own men?" the Cornet asks nervously, "It would be hard to pick targets once the Antari close, and even before then, some of our infantry may stray into the line of fire."

You shake your head. "With normal field guns, absolutely. I would not have dared suggest such a measure then. However, these are not normal field guns."

The younger Dragoon officer's eyes go wide with curiosity. "Sir?"

"Note how the barrels of each gun slope upwards at a sharp angle," you reply, relishing the chance to show off the hard-won lessons of a decade of soldiering. "Those guns are howitzers; they fire shells in a high trajectory. If our gunners aim at the rear of the enemy's force and pitch their shells well up, and our infantry does not give enough ground for the Antari to form a line themselves, then there should be little chance of hitting our own men."

The young aristocrat's face brightens. "Yes! I think I understand now! I shall see that my fa—His Grace is advised of your decision."

You nod in acknowledgement. "Very good. Shall there be anything else?"

"Well, there is one more thing," he replies with the greatest of trepidation. "Might I have a few seconds before you advance, sir?" He steals a glance at your lieutenants assembled before you. "I would like a moment to tell Renard goodb—to wish him good luck."

"Yes, of course," you reply. "Quickly, mind you. We've not much time to spare."

The young officer is barely able to snap off a quick salute before pressing his mount towards where the elder of Cunaris's sons sits with excited haste.

Their exchange is short: a few whispered words between them, too quiet for you to hear. Suddenly, the younger officer throws his hands around the shoulders of the elder, almost pulling him out of the saddle as he envelops your Lieutenant in a tight embrace.

Only when the two brothers pull away, at last, do you turn forward again. "Dragoons!" you shout, loud enough to get the attention of your entire command. "Prepare to advance!"

"Squadron! Prepare to advance!" comes the echo from your right as Cazarosta conveys your orders to his squadron. The powder-stained air fills with the sounds of reins being seized and bodies settling more comfortably into saddles. All around, your dragoons shift themselves forward in anticipation.

"Lanzerel," you command with as much solemnity as you can muster. "Uncase the colour."

With a few movements of his hand, your Staff-sergeant unfurls the long banner that is the embodiment of your regiment's honour. He raises the fluttering silken shape high as he moves his mount to his place alongside your own. You may command, but it is the colour that your dragoons will follow into battle.

There is no more preparation left, no more delay, and no more time to be lost.

"Dragoons! At the trot! Advance!"

With a rough jab of your spurs, you push Faith forward. Behind you, the men of the Royal Dragoons lurch into action, following you at long last into the fray.

You are not halfway to your destination when the roar of the heavy guns starts up behind you once again.

A spare glance over your shoulder shows the black iron barrels of the howitzer battery wreathed in a heavy cloud of smoke. To your left, you see a cluster of immense shells as they arc through the grey sky, their passage illuminated by the orange trails of their lit fuzes as they begin their descent.

You see the shells explode beyond the bulk of the ridge, vomiting their lethal payloads onto the heads of the infantry advancing upon the Second Battalion, 5th of Foot. The distant thunder of the bursting charges reaches your ears a moment later, mingled with the muffled screams of the Antari infantry as the shells tear apart their tightly packed columns.

With considerable effort, you force yourself to face forward and focus on the battle ahead of you. You have made your choice. The Second of the 5th will have to make do without your help, with only the distant and imprecise power of the guns to aid them.

You can only hope it will be enough.

-​

The situation that greets you when you arrive at the ridge overlooking the positions of the Experimental Corps can only be described as 'dire.'

The Church Hussars advance slowly; with the water still up to their horses' chests and the footing of the crossing likely unsure, they have no other choice. Yet they advance, nonetheless, arrayed in a solid mass, bootheel to bootheel, making steady progress towards the near bank. Already, they are two-thirds of the way across, not even the constant fire of the Experimentals' accurate rifles being enough to give them pause.

Not that your green-jacketed countrymen are not trying their damnedest. Still hidden behind bushes and tree trunks, the Experimentals fill the air with powder smoke and the crack of their rifled muskets. They load and fire their rifles with furious energy, bodies animated by the desperate knowledge that the Antari need only get their horses' hooves onto dry earth for them to able to annihilate Reyes's defiant band of skirmishers with a single charge.

Yet desperation does not seem enough; the Experimentals strike home with nearly every shot, but nine out of ten seem to spark off the burnished steel of the Hussars' armour. Only rarely do you see one of the enemy tumble into the water, thrown from a mortally wounded horse or perhaps stricken by a rifle ball through a gap in his armour or helm. A cheer goes up each time a Hussar falls, but it does nothing to deter the enemy. It will only be a matter of time now—the destruction of the Experimental Corps at the lance points and sabres of those terrible men on those gigantic horses seems inevitable.

Unless you save them.

"Dragoons!" you shout. "Dismount and form two ranks in extended order along the ridge!"

To your trained eye, the ridge is clearly the best piece of ground nearby; its elevation will let you cover the Experimentals as they withdraw, and its steep face will be more than enough to slow up a cavalry charge.

You turn to your side, where Staff-sergeant Lanzerel is climbing out of his saddle. "Staff, I need you to go forward. Leave the colour with Campos and find Major Reyes," you command. "Please convey to him my compliments and inform him that we have taken up position behind him and that he is free to retire at any time."

With a quick salute, Lanzerel is scrambling down the steep forward slope of the ridge, down to where Major Reyes kneels, loading and firing a rifle as if he were a common soldier, distinguished only by his officer's bicorne.

Lord Cassius, however, is not looking at the Experimental Corps but at the men who ride to face them.

"So those are Church Hussars," he remarks as he peers through his opera-glass. "Not the best-ordered of cavalry, but they do look rather frightful at this distance. I cannot say that I am not looking forward to seeing them fight up close."

"Pray that you do not," you reply sourly. "Up close is where they are the most deadly."

"I have heard all sorts of stories about them," the Takaran goes on as if he had not heard you at all. "Gigantic men in bane-hardened armour with lances twice their height. I hear that they are almost unstoppable in a charge, that they go through regular cavalry like a hound through suet - that they almost destroyed your army entirely at Blogia."

[ ] "All of it's true, and frankly, they terrify me."
[ ] "There's a grain of truth to those stories, but this time we will stop them."
[ ] "They die as easily as any other man if you know how to kill them."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "There's a grain of truth to those stories, but this time we will stop them."

Lord Cassius's eyebrow rises. "Oh? And what makes you so sure that this time will be different from the last time?" he asks suspiciously. "I seem to recall that the last time a Tierran army faced a massed charge of Church Hussars, things went rather poorly."

You shake your head. "No, this time, things are different. This time, they do not have the element of surprise. This time, the terrain is also on our side; the ridge will prevent the enemy from charging home at a gallop. It will also slow down just a few paces before our line. If we get off a volley at such a close range, not even their armour will protect them." You shake your head again. "No, this time will not be like Blogia, I shall make sure of it."

The Takaran barks out a sharp laugh. "You impress me, Castleton; you have thought this out quite comprehensively, yes?"

"I have been a soldier long enough to gain some apprehension of the importance of knowing one's field of battle," you reply modestly.

Lord Cassius nods exuberantly, his grin widening. "Yes, then I suppose I have no choice but to hope that your reading of the field is correct."

All you can do is nod back; you can only hope the same.

By the time Lanzerel returns, your men are formed up in a staggered chain along the crest of the rise, each man just within arm's reach of those to his left and right. Already, the first into position are unslinging their carbines as others lead the horses back down the reverse of the ridge.

He does not return alone.

"Saints be damned!" exclaims Major Reyes, his eyes red and his face flushed and powder-stained as he hoists himself up the crest of the ridge. "You are a welcome sight, sir! A welcome sight, indeed!"

Alas, you have little time for pleasantries, the Antari are nearing the riverbank; the water only comes up to their horses' thighs now.

"Are your men ready to withdraw, Major?" you ask.

Reyes shakes his head. "I do not intend to withdraw, not yet. The longer we stay, the more of the enemy we can kill, especially as the range closes. We can bleed them hard, but only if we hold our ground until the last instant."

The green-jacketed officer is right; if his Experimentals hold fast, then they would be able to fire off one last volley at close range, where even bane-hardened plate offers little protection against musketry. Such a measure might thin out the enemy greatly.

It would also almost certainly lead to the deaths of much of the Experimental Corps.

"Will your men be able to get away?"

Major Reyes opens his mouth to speak, but before he can utter a sound, he stops. His lip trembling, he breathes in.

"They won't," he forces the words out as if they were the orders to his own firing squad. "They'll be cut down, most of 'em."

"Then why—"

"Because it has to be done!" Reyes hisses through grit teeth. "If the Hussars break through here, they may very well break our army. If it takes the lives of my men to win this battle, well…". He flashes you a wan smile. "At least it will mean this Experimental Corps of ours was a success, wot?"

[ ] "Very well, I trust your judgement, Major."
[ ] "You will withdraw your men at once; that is an order."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "You will withdraw your men at once; that is an order."

"Sir, I must protest!" Reyes exclaims heatedly. "If we cannot stop the Antari here—"

"We will stop them here, sir!" you reply, your voice filled with every last measure of conviction you can muster. "We will stop them here and do it without sacrificing nearly two hundred good officers and men to the enemy!"

The anger falls from the Major's eyes. "You swear, sir?"

You nod solemnly. "Upon the Saints and my Sacred Honour."

Reyes breathes deep in what you must assume is relief. "Very well, sir. I shall see that my men fall back immediately." He touches the brim of his bicorne in salute. "With your permission."

You return his salute quickly. "Go! Quickly!"

Then Reyes is already working his way down the slope towards his own command. Within seconds, Reyes is back amongst his men, and the first of the Experimental Corps begin pulling back.

Some of the green-jacketed skirmishers fire parting shots at the enemy as they withdraw, their rifle balls striking notes of defiance as they bounce off the armour of their targets, to little effect. The enemy, warded by enchanted steel and the confidence of seeing their enemies flee before them, pick up their pace as they ride out of the water, their chargers' hooves climbing up the riverbank at the trot, but the Experimentals are already far out of their reach.

"You should have let them stay," Lord Cassius remarks as you watch the Antari rise from the river water.

"You mean I should have let them die?" you reply incredulously.

The Takaran nods. "You should have let them sacrifice themselves if that is what they were resolved to do," he answers. "One should not rob another man of his chance at glory."

You shake your head but do not have time to discuss the topic now. More pressing matters are at hand. As the enemy begins to form up in preparation for their advance, you make your first move, for the enemy is finally within range.

"Dragoons! Make ready! Present!"

The air fills with the rattle of carbines being brought to bear on the distant and much-vaunted foe.

"Dragoons! Fire!"

The volley comes loud and impressive, its thunder echoing across the field, but the damage it inflicts is almost disappointing. Only one falls out of his saddle, shot through the neck where the breastplate meets the helm. As for the others, your fire fails to even mark their armour. At two hundred paces, a carbine ball does not even have the force to punch through the mundane steel of an armoured horse's barding, let alone the bane-hardened plate of the man riding it.

The enemy waste no more time with formations. They turn towards the ridge where your dragoons await them and begin their advance, not as a tight mass but a swarm of individual men, spurring their mounts towards you, even as your own men reload and ready for the next volley.

The Antari are little more than a hundred paces away by the time your dragoons reload. Again you order them to make ready, and again you order them to fire.

The volley comes crisp and thunderous, but it does little damage. You see two or three horses stumble and collapse, but the rest of the Antari charge onwards, undeterred.

A faint sense of unease rises from your men. They have seen the enemy take two full volleys to little apparent effect, a sight fit to chill any reasoning man's blood. Even so, duty and Lanzerel's hard glare keep them in position, reloading their pieces for the next volley.

The enemy is barely sixty paces away now, close enough for the ground to tremble at their approach, the pounding of their horses' hooves loud enough to drown out the rasp of ramrods against carbine barrels as the last of your men finally finish reloading.

"Make ready!"

Thirty paces. Your Staff-sergeant holds his breath, shooting hard looks at any man who seems on the verge of firing early. Too soon, and your volley will simply bounce off the enemy's armour; too late, and the enemy will already be upon you. The sharp face of the ridge may protect your men from simply being ridden down, but it will only take the enemy a moment to drive their horses over it. It is at that moment that you must strike.

"Present!"

Fifteen paces. They are at the base of the ridge now. The first of the Antari horses rear up as they paw at the loose earth, but their riders spur them onwards, forcing them up the steep face that separates your men from their lances and sabres.

Now!

"Fire!"

Creation shakes apart to the mighty drum rattle of two squadrons' worth of carbines breathing thunder and smoke into the faces of the enemy. The whole world seems to disappear behind the stabbing muzzle flashes of your dragoons' weapons and the sudden blast of powder smoke.

Only when your ears stop ringing and the black fog is ripped away by the wind do you see the results of your terrible handiwork.

The leading edge of the Antari formation lies shattered before you, piled up against the forward slope of the ridge, a ruin of fallen men, stricken horseflesh, and broken steel. Those that remain alive and in their saddles have halted in their tracks. Chaos reigns among them as they fight to regain control of their screaming and panicking mounts.

The Hussars are stopped, but not for long. The moment they are able to get their horses back in order, they are sure to continue their advance. It will only be a matter of time before they mount the ridge and close to within reach of their deadly sabres and lances.

[ ] "Staff-sergeant! I need another volley, now!"
[ ] "Dragoons! Sabres out! Prepare to receive cavalry!"
[ ] "Dragoons! Draw sabres, follow me! Charge!"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Staff-sergeant! I need another volley, now!"

Lanzerel stares at you in disbelief. "Sir?"

"We have stopped the enemy for a few moments, Staff. I mean to take advantage of that," you reply. "Will the men reload in time?"

"Saints above, I hope so," Lanzerel replies with a grim sparkle of amusement. "We're knacker's meat if they can't."

He turns to your men. "Dragoons!" he commands without a hint of hesitation or fear. "Load!"

Quickly, your men begin to reload. Whatever misgivings may have been held at bay by their own discipline, it is now dispelled entirely by their Staff-sergeant's confident air. Yet as the moments pass, it becomes clear that your men will not reload in time. Their movements are too slow, too unpractised. The first of the Antari horses are already finding purchase upon the crest of the hill, and your men are nowhere near ready.

It seems you shall have to fall back upon a more desperate contingency.

"Dragoons! Sabres out!" you command. "Prepare to receive cavalry!" In the space of a moment, carbines are set down, and blades are brought out. Your men step forward to the crest of the ridge to face the attack. When the first of the Antari finally spur their horses to the top of the ridge, they are greeted by a line of bared steel.

The first clash is sharp but short. Without the space to manoeuvre, the Hussars' huge lances are worse than useless against Dragoon sabres. Within moments, the few that manage to reach the top are driven back down, some with grievous wounds where Tierran steel was able to find the gaps in their armour. Your men give a ragged cheer at the sight of the vaunted Church Hussars on the retreat, but the Antari are not finished yet.

When the enemy charges up the slope again, they come not carrying their cumbersome lances but bane-runed sabres and battle axes. Again, you prepare yourself to meet them.

Your men seem to rally around you as you step forward, the glittering steel of your bane-hardened plate catching their eye. Unfortunately, it seems no less attractive to the eyes of the enemy. One of them shouts as his charger crests the ridge, pointing directly at you. Two more join him. Soon, you find yourself attacked on three sides.

The first Hussar swings for your head. Hastily, you duck under the blow before leaping forward in a desperate lunge, burying your burning longsword up to the hilt in the flank of your assailant's horse. Your head explodes in pain as a wildly flailing hoof from the Hussar's dying horse slams into your helm, sending you staggering back, your ears ringing.

Before you can even regain your balance, you find yourself beset on two sides. No sooner do you parry the blow of another sabre on your right does the frost-clad head of a war hatchet descend from your left.

Yet an instant before your enemy's weapon can strike home, your mind tugs hard as something wet sprays through the vision slit of your helm, running warm and coppery down your nose and into your mouth.

The hatchet-wielding Hussar is on the ground in two pieces, his legs pinned under the cleft-open ruin of his mount, his upper body a full pace away, connected only by a single strand of shredded gut. Lord Cassius stands over you, his sword dripping with blood as he heaves you back to your feet with his free hand.

Together, you turn to the last of your assailants, but he is already retreating along with the rest of his fellows, pushed back down the slope by your dragoons' valiant defence.

Yet the Hussars quickly rally and ride up the slope again. Once again, your men rise to meet them, now freshly reinforced by Reyes's reformed Experimental Corps. The addition of the green-jacketed skirmishers to your line gives your men heart, and your well-chosen ground means that only a few of the foe storm the ridge at a time, but not even numbers and the high ground can negate the advantage of bane-hardened plate and bane-runed weapons.

By the time you batter down the fifth attack, you are surrounded by the bodies of Tierran dead. Marion lies not three paces away from you, black blood still oozing from his mouth and the immense, grotesque sabre cut that defiles his stomach. Blaylock sits beside him in a pool of his own blood, pale and weak-eyed. Lanzerel is nowhere to be found.

Yet this time, the Antari do not rally to attack again. This time, the wail of the retreat, low and mournful, rises from the rear of their force. They wheel about, for good this time, retreating to the river crossing at last, leaving the field only to the victorious and the dead.

"Well, I cannot say I am sad to see their backsides," Major Reyes remarks as he limps his way towards you, blood dripping from the cut along his thigh and the slim blade of his infantry officer's sword. "I must thank you, sir, for coming when you did; you may have saved a great many of our lives. If there's anything I can do to repay you, just ask."

"There is one thing," you reply. "Your men are in better shape than mine. Would you mind covering the crossing while I put my dragoons to rights in case Khorobirit's forces launch another attack?"

To your surprise, the green-jacketed officer answers with a wide smile. "Turn around, sir," he replies, white teeth sparkling against his powder-stained face as he points over your shoulder to the Antari side of the river. "I do not think we shall have to worry about our dear Prince Khorobirit anymore."

You turn about just in time to behold a sight fit to make your heart leap, for the far side of the river is occupied not just by the fleeing remnants of Prince Khorobirit's army but the triumphant squadrons of Palliser's cavalry, sabres, and lances raised high as they drive the last of the Antari from the field or into capture.

In the distance, you see a small band of horsemen, Church Hussars all, as they ride hard from the field, hotly pursued by a troop of line cavalry. Even from so far away, you can see that the fleeing cavalrymen are in bad shape: the wings on their backs broken, their helms knocked askew, their cloaks ripped and tattered.

Yet above all else, you notice the great silken banner carried in the lead Hussar's hands, a brown bear rampant upon a cloth-of-silver field, a two-handed sword clasped in its hands: the personal flag of Prince Mikhail of Khorobirit, being carried off the field in ignominious flight.

Everywhere, The field is strewn not just with the bodies of the dead but vast mobs of prisoners, held in place by picquets of lancers and cuirassiers. To your left, entire battalions of orange-coated infantry storm across the Kharan, their minds occupied not with pursuit but with the loot that awaits them at the vast and abandoned Antari camp.

At long last: victory. Victory?

No, it is more than that; as the bodies are counted and the reports come through over the next two days, it becomes abundantly clear that the clash is already being called the Second Battle of Kharangia and was the greatest victory of the war.

The number of enemy losses alone justifies that claim: eight thousand Antari dead, an equal number left maimed, and nearly twenty-five thousand taken prisoner.

Yet those numbers alone do not begin to encompass the whole of the Tierran victory, for not only has Prince Khorobirit been deprived of his army and aura of invincibility, but most of his allies have as well. His brother-by-marriage, Prince Ivan of Jugashavil, is now a Tierran prisoner, as is his cousin, Andrei of Noribirit. Joining them are dozens of other, more minor Lords of the Congress and hundreds upon hundreds of Church Hussars. Most of Khorobirit's power base within the League Congress had followed him to war; now, they lie dead upon the banks of the Kharan or await ransom under the guard of the King's Army.

At a glance, only the narrow escape of Khorobirit himself could serve to tarnish the surface of what might seem like a near-perfect victory: Blogia avenged, Tierra's greatest enemy destroyed as a power both military and politically, the King's plans vindicated, and every officer in his army, from the lowliest ensign to the Duke of Havenport himself, hailed as joint-architects of the greatest feat of arms in the Unified Kingdom's one hundred and twenty-year history.

Yet even this near-perfect triumph has come at a terrible price. The King's Army has not escaped unscathed; it has lost nearly a tenth of its strength.

Corporal Marion died on the field, choking to death on his own blood. Staff-sergeant Lanzerel joined him upon the pyre before midnight, succumbing to the terrible wounds he had taken in the last moments of the battle.

Rest in peace, Sergeant Sideburns. We'll miss you.

Click to shrink...

Even Havenport has not come out unscathed. Lord Marcus is dead: swarmed, trampled, and bludgeoned to death by a mob of Antari peasants as he rallied his Highlanders into throwing back one last enemy attack. Already, there are plans to take him back to Tierra for a hero's cremation, to be done in a sealed casket; what remains of the young Kentauri aristocrat's body is not fit to be seen by eyes unaccustomed to horror.

Such was the price of victory.

 

[Rogue Attican]

EPILOGUE
Wherein the CAVALRY OFFICER receives an EXPLANATION.​

My Lord Alaric d'al Castleton,

I fear that I must once again bring to your attention the issue of your family's financial situation.

House Castleton's obligations to the diverse lending houses to which it is indebted include the maintenance of interest payments on these debts at a rate of four percent per year. While your lord father was nothing if not punctual and regular in the meeting of such demands, his death has left your house without an official head capable of legally delivering payment these last three years. As a result, your family's accounts are now dangerously in arrears.

I have, of course, explained to the men involved that your duty to the King's Army must supersede any matters of finance. However, given recent events, I am almost certain that such explanations shall not delay them much longer.

As of this writing, your family's creditors have demanded the prompt payment of the monies currently owed as interest on your family's current ordinary debt of 14,875 crown: a sum amounting to 1806 crown, 2 towers, and 9 pence.

I must urge you in the strongest terms to return to Tierra without delay and make arrangements for the payment of the amounts owed. I have been advised that failure to do so within the year may result in your house's bankruptcy and the repossession of your family's estates by the aggrieved banking establishments.

I remain as always, your obedient servant,
Master Efraim Saundersley, Solicitor-on-Retainer to the Noble House of Castleton

-​

You feel yourself tense as you read the letter again, as the numbers written onto the page by your family's lawyer in far-off Tannersburg swirl about in your thoughts like leaves in the gusting autumn wind.

You have always known your family to be deep in debt, but you had not known the whole extent of it until you received this letter, not a week before. Then you learned of the immense financial burden that your father, and his father before him, had laboured under: generations upon generations of accumulated debt, condensed into a single great sum. It is a debt almost as old as your family - a debt older than the Unified Kingdom itself.

Now, it is your responsibility to see to it, to prune and maintain the colossal obligation that is your legacy; a duty like any other, one which is likely to lay its burdens upon you until your dying day.

Yet it is the smaller number that grasps your attention the hardest, the sum you must pay at the soonest opportunity, lest your family's honour be cheapened by an inability to meet the obligations it had sworn to meet.

That amount, at least, is not beyond your means. The sum is far from meagre, but you are not without the funds to see the more pressing debt paid.

The King's great victory over Prince Khorobirit at Kharangia had won its victors shining glory and golden coin in equal measure. Your victorious countrymen had plundered a fortune from the remnants of the shattered Antari armies, only to win several fortunes more in ransom as the hundreds of captured baneblooded lords were sold back to their families. Grenadier Square had even been kind enough to allot you your part of the bounty before knocking you down to your permanent rank. Your lieutenant-colonel's share amounted to almost two thousand crown. You have more than enough money to avert the immediate crisis.

Alas, there shall be no more such windfalls in the future. The war is over.

After the victory at what the Aetorian broadsheets are already calling The Second Battle of Kharangia, Antari resistance had effectively collapsed. Much of the war party of the League Congress had been killed or taken prisoner along the banks of the River Kharan. Prince Khorobirit, deprived of his army, most of his political allies, and much of his spirit, had quickly found himself beset not by Tierran bayonets but by his rivals within the League Congress itself; carrion crows circling the newly enfeebled body of a once-mighty hunter.

With the League Congress fighting amongst themselves, the whole of the central plains of Antar was laid open before the King and the Duke of Havenport. One by one, the wheat-growing villages and market towns of the Antari heartland fell. The few settlements which tried to contest the issue were quickly broken, their walls battered down by Tierran cannon, their garrisons swept aside by Tierran bayonets, and their populace made victim to the horror of Kharangia, repeated in miniature.

You remember the time as an endless procession of scouting missions, advanced patrols, and raids, each time driving further north into the belly of the League of Antar. You and your squadron were worked hard in those great and terrible days, but you were exposed to little risk, save for the occasional skirmish with a hastily mustered peasant levy or brief clash with a partisan band. At times, only the battle honour which Grenadier Square finally saw fit to award your squadron serves as the only reminder at all of the war's bloodier days: a slim red ribbon tied around your right sleeve to represent the blood your men had spilled in the storming of Kharangia—and the discipline they had shown during the sack that followed.

Those were your last months with your familiar lieutenants. One by one, they bought their promotions to captain, leaving to take command of squadrons of their own, their places taken by new, unfamiliar faces as unsuited to command as their predecessors had been when you first met them in Noringia all those years ago.

Your new Staff-sergeant, at least, was a familiar face: Campos, the most senior enlisted man left in your command and the sole survivor of the six men you had commanded as a cornet so long ago.

That winter found you back in Noringia for the long-awaited judgement of Lieutenant-colonel Keane.

In the cold, dying weeks of 611, you were called to take part in a tribunal alongside the Duke of Cunaris and a staff officer from Grenadier Square as you met to decide your one-time superior's fate. Though you had not seen the direct consequences of Keane's breakdown, your proximity to him in the weeks prior had apparently made you the one that the other members of the tribunal would turn to for immediate accounts.

Keane himself presented a pathetic sight, a shadow of the melancholy but stern officer who had served Tierra well at Blogia and the two years that followed. Pale and dead-eyed, he refused to defend himself against the accusations brought against him, accepting every charge of cowardice and weakness with an acquiescence that was more resignation than grace.

Perhaps he knew the match was weighted against him, as you did. The delegate from high command had made it clear that the tribunal was to make examples before your very first session. Though Cunaris had remained undecided in those days, your third fellow, unrestrained by bonds of personal and regimental loyalty, had not spared any measure in accusing your fellow dragoon of the worst possible failings.

As winter came to a close, the three of you finally convened to determine a verdict.

[ ] I tried to convince the others to show as much mercy as possible.
[ ] Keane deserved sanction but not the destruction of his life; I argued for clemency.
[ ] I had no sympathy for cowards; I demanded that we make an example of him.