Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [ACTION] A traitor with a loaded musket is within thirty paces of my sovereign! Protect the Queen!

"The Queen!" you shout as you vault over the benches, struggling past heavy oaken railings and the bodies of your own politickal allies as you scramble towards your sovereign. "Protect the Queen!"

You don't know if anyone heeds you, but at least one man has anticipated you. Colonel Lefebvre is already standing before the Gryphon Throne, his sword drawn, his body positioned precisely betwixt Brockenburg and sovereign. You take your place next to him. His eyes flick towards you, his features twitching with what might be approval, though you both know that there's very little you can do without a weapon, save perhaps shield the Queen with your own body.

But there will be no need for that.

Wulfram and his allies are already retreating, the last of them withdrawing through the main doors as the first orange-coated Grenadiers burst into the upper galleries. A moment later, more come through the side doors and the main entrance, muskets at the ready and bayonets fixed.

The pounding of blood in your ears begins to subside as the newly arriving troops shoulder their weapons and secure the chamber, but it's only when you turn to see the Queen entirely unharmed behind you that you allow yourself to breathe a sigh of relief.

You could have imagined the Queen to respond with any number of strong sentiments: fury at having been delivered so brazen a challenge in the seat of her own power, triumph in knowing how ignominiously that attempt has failed, even perhaps fear—caught betwixt the ebbing wave of mortal peril and the deeper oncoming swell of uncertainty.

But no, when the Queen speaks, it is with a prepossessed calm so perfect that even a professional soldier might have been envious of it.

"My lords," she begins, "we fear that recent developments have placed us all in some degree of peril, but rest assured that arrangements have been made to ensure your safety. We must oblige you to remain within the inner chambers of this building until the crisis is past."

There's an undertone of warmth there, perhaps even graciousness, as if she were a hostess apologising for the absence of a particular type of cake, rather than a sovereign suddenly facing armed rebellion from one of her most powerful subjects.

But that softness proves to be more for the benefit of your more jumpy peers than anyone else. When she turns to the commander of her bodyguard, any trace of it is gone.

"Lefebvre, you will form up your men and organise a defence of this building," she declares, every word backed with an ice-cold resolution. "If the traitors flee, occupy the gatehouse and secure it against attack. If they resist, seek defensible positions as you see fit."

Then she turns to you.

"Lord Reddingfield, I must hope you have not expended all of your courage yet," she says, her voice filled with a quiet respect. "There is a fast horse waiting for you at the postern gate. Return to your regiment and bring them here at all haste. We shall trap the traitors betwixt the Grenadiers and your Dragoons."

With a steady grace, she rises from her throne, her features like cold steel. "If Wulfram would have me hand over the powers of the Crown in the face of a veiled threat, as if this country were a bauble to be surrendered to a footpad, then he is much mistaken. If he wishes to make himself master of Tierra, then by all the Saints, he best be prepared to bleed for it!"

 

[Rogue Attican]

CHAPTER XI
In which the LORD OF THE CORTES is OBLIGED to TAKE UP ARMS in earnest against his OWN COUNTRYMEN.​

The breeze whips at your face and snatches at your hair as you gallop down the streets of Aetoria, the blood thundering in your ears all but drowning out the beat of iron-shod hooves against the cobbles. You jab your spurs once more into the flanks of your borrowed horse. He's almost blown now, but you're almost there, and your own mount is in the stables of the Southern Keep, hopefully still waiting for you.

So you ride on, as hard as you can, allowing yourself not the luxury to spare a thought for the animal you're currently running into the ground as you ride as if fire and thunder and the mother of all storms were behind you.

And perhaps it is.

You don't need to spare a glance over your shoulder to see and hear the city rousing behind you with such a scale and fury as to make the disturbances of the past year seem like nothing more than the furtive shifts of a sleeping man. Swarms of men and women and children blur past, heaping boxes and furniture into barricades. Ahead, shouts of alarm echo through the streets with a speed which no rider might match. Behind, the first sounds of musketry and battle rise through emerging plumes of smoke. Screams and battle-cries swell and tremble, and every once in a while give way to desperate, victorious cheers as this street militia or that gang celebrate momentary triumphs over their foes.

Most seem to be for the Queen, only a few for the Duke of Wulfram, but you don't know how long that will last.

The relief you feel when you see the gates of the Southern Keep open and the sentries still at their posts is almost shocking in its sharpness. As you ride through into the courtyard and slide off your saddle, you can feel the tension evaporate from betwixt your shoulderblades as you see the whole of the regiment stood up in kit, their horses tacked up next to them.

Or at least, almost all of it.

"Where is Third Squadron?" you ask as your officers approach to greet you.

"Gone."

"What happened?"

"They were assembled with the rest of us when Sir Caius came out of the stables with his own mount," Garret replies. "He nodded to Captain Hawkins, and the two of them led Third Squadron out of the gate without another word. We didn't even realise what they were doing until they had already left." She shakes her head. "It was the uncanniest thing, sir. Almost as if it was rehearsed."

Maybe it was. Perhaps Sir Caius has chosen his side after all. Or perhaps he's simply playing some other game, serving out orders from a different source. You can only hope for both your sakes that it means you're still on the same side.

But whatever his reasons, the consequence is clear. You've just lost a great number of your most veteran and perhaps best-trained men.

And they're not all you've lost. A quick roll call reveals that more than a dozen of First Squadron's men are missing. As for your own, Second Squadron is short more than half a dozen men, a worrying development.

But you have precious little time to dwell. You're in command of the regiment now, and your officers and men are still looking to you for direction.

What's left of them, in any case.

Captain Garret is the first to nod when you relay your orders from the Queen and summarise the situation outside the walls.

"If that is the case, sir, we shall have precious little time to lose," she replies. "If the Grenadiers are holding the Northern Keep alone, and the city mob is rising in the streets, then any delay we allow will only make matters worse. The men are loaded and the horses are saddled. I suggest we depart immediately."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Sandoral interjects worriedly. "It's one thing to move unmolested through the city as a single rider, but quite another to take two full squadrons of horse. Our passage will be noticed, and with gangs of Wulfram's supporters on the streets, it is not entirely unlikely that we shall have to fight our way through. There may be some…confusion amongst the men if they're not prepared for the possibility."

Garret shakes her head. "That shall require time which we do not have. The Queen is counting on us to ride to her aid as quickly as possible."

"Damn me," Blaylock remarks, almost slyly. "I didn't think you so ardent a Royalist, Garret. What else are you hiding from us?"

"Nothing to concern yourself over, Blaylock," Garret replies before turning to you, a surprising amount of urgency in her features. "If you judge some form of preparation to be necessary, then pray make them quickly. Every passing moment will only bring more of Wulfram's supporters to the streets. We cannot afford to lose any moment which we can spare."

[ ] [TURN] There's no time to waste! We need to go now!
[ ] [TURN] I'll spend one turn doing one of the following PREP actions.
[ ] [TURN] Time is of the essence - we can only afford two turns.
[ ] [TURN] Three turns ought to be enough time to prepare.
[ ] [TURN] We can't rush into things unprepared - check every PREP box!

[ ] [PREP] "I'll give the men one last inspection."
[ ] [PREP] "I must address the regiment, make sure the situation is clear to them."
[ ] [PREP] "If we must fight, I mean to be prepared; fetch me my sword and armour!"
[ ] [PREP] "We still have reserves, we should use them to replace our losses."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [TURN] I'll spend one turn doing one of the following PREP actions.
[X] [PREP] "If we must fight, I mean to be prepared; fetch me my sword and armour!"
Lord Reddingfield's going to need the extra protection provided by plate armor that's enchanted to be bulletproof.

Click to shrink...

It's been more than five years since you last wore your knightly harness, but it's been more than five years since you had to, as well. Indeed, part of you thought you would never wear it again. Now, however, circumstances have changed, and the peace which you hoped would last the rest of your life seems all but ended. The fact that your foes today are your own countrymen is something of little significance. A Tierran musket ball will kill just as readily as an Antari one, and up until the absolute closest of ranges, your Bane-hardened plate will stop both.

So, you call your bat-man from the parade ground and order him to fetch the portable cabinet in which your knightly longsword and armour have rested for so long, as you retire to your quarters see them once again strapped to your body.

Your armour doesn't fit quite as well as it used to. The shape of your stomach, your shoulders, your legs, they've all changed in the intervening years of peace. The changes aren't so great as to be incapable of being handled by the adjustment of a strap here and the shifting of a lace there, but it still proves something of an ordeal. Your old bat-man had gained some level of proficiency in fitting your armour through long repetition, but Marion is dead, killed at the Second Battle of Kharangia, and your new man doesn't have his experience. It still takes far too much time to fit you back into harness, time you can barely spare.

Still, when you step back onto the parade ground, encased in the enchanted steel of a Knight-Companion of Saint Joshua, with the weight of that massive Baneruned longsword on your hip, you cannot help but feel as if such a delay was a small price to pay for nigh invincibility. Let your enemies come, if they dare. You know that you, at least, will be armed and armoured to meet them.

Captain Garret glances out the open gates for a moment, peering into the city beyond. There's a flash of anxiety on her normally composed features, gone in just a moment but unmistakeably there. She turns to you and gives a pointed look.

Beyond the walls, the echo of pistol shots and the roar of furious voices draw ever louder, and ever closer.

[X] "We have delayed long enough. Squadrons to form column, and prepare to advance!"

It is the work of half a minute to form up your two squadrons into travelling columns, to have your horse brought out, to have the whole of your command mounted up and ready to go. This at least passes smoothly, its motions well-rehearsed and unencumbered by hesitation or confusion. You suppose it ought to be. This, at least, there is precedent for. This, at least, you have practised.

What comes next can carry no such familiarity.

Not so long ago, the idea of riding to war again seemed remote at best. Your time at war was over. It was time to think of matters of peace, of building your legacy in the years ahead. The possibility that you might be obliged to take up arms against your own countrymen was an absurdity, if not an impossibility.

Yet here you are, about to do that very thing, about to give the order to lead armed soldiery into the heart of your own country.

It is a terrible thing to even contemplate, yet what choice have you? Your oaths of honour and your duty as a Queen's Officer and Lord of the Cortes have led you to this point. There's no shying from it now. You can only do as you must. Yet when you take a breath to give the order, the air feels fit to drown you.

And when you bring it back up again, the words they carry cannot help but taste of vomit.

"Dragoons! At the walk! Advance!"

-​

The air fills with the clatter of iron-shod hooves against the cobbles as your regiment rides out the gate of the Southern Keep. You advance through clear, almost empty streets, with only the furtive shapes of human figures darting from dark corner to alleyway, more concerned with keeping out of sight than offering any manner of meaningful resistance. Even the most determined bravado cannot disguise the sheer folly of attacking a formed-up regiment of horse, even with its sabres sheathed and carbines slung.

For a while, you're left almost in peace, allowed to advance unmolested through the streets as the sounds of fighting and chaos rise around you in all directions. You make steady progress for a while, leaving the gates of the Southern Keep behind.

But it doesn't last. Soon, there are figures before you, hostile ones to be sure. But it quickly becomes clear that they have no intention of fighting, or even making a token show of defiance. No, they turn and run as soon as they catch sight of you, pelting down the dark alleyways not with the panick of flight but a resolution of purpose, almost as if they're off to deliver a message.

Or a warning.

But to whom?

You hear the answer to that question long before you see it: the roar of a great mob echoing through the city, washing through the streets and redoubling like a a rush of snowmelt through a sluice gate. It sounds as if half of creation is gathered somewhere ahead of you, shouting full-throated fury at…something, up ahead.

You don't need to see the mob to know what their objective is. You've lived long enough in the city to know its layout by heart, and you know that there's only one target they could possibly intend to attack in this neighbourhood.

Grenadier Square.

It makes perfect sense.

With most of the Grenadiers themselves at the Northern Keep defending the Queen, their headquarters and barracks would naturally be defended by only the lightest of guards. If a Wulframite mob were to overrun the complex, then they would not only gain access to the arms and ammunition supplied within, but also strike a telling symbolic blow against the Royalist cause.

It isn't long before you can see your fears being confirmed.

The buildings of the administrative headquarters of the Queen's Army stand out like islands surrounded by a vast sea of furious humanity, shimmering and trembling with blades and musket barrels. In their centre, a small knot of figures in the clothing of gentlemen under the blue-and-silver banner of Wulfram makes clear whose side they're on. Only the low, stone fence around the buildings themselves and the bayonets of the small group of orange-coated sentries at the gates keep the mob at bay—and it's clear they won't continue to do so for long.

Right before your eyes, the crowd begins to muster its courage, and its anger. One of their leaders shouts something unintelligible, and ten thousand voices answer him as the mob raises high their clubs, swords, muskets, and pistols, then begins to creep forward. One of the orange-coated figures—an officer—says something, his words drowned out by the great sea of angry voices betwixt you. The mob does not halt. Again, the officer speaks. This time, as he does, the Grenadiers at the gate bring their muskets to bear.

There's only one way this will end. The Grenadiers are the best infantry in the Queen's Army, but there are no more than two dozen of them at that gate. Their volley will kill the first score of the mob at best, and their bayonets perhaps two or three more. Then they'll be overrun, overwhelmed, butchered by those that follow, leaving the army's headquarters and the Grenadiers' barracks in the hands of the Duke of Wulfram's supporters.

Unless you do something about it, right now.

[ ] [MOB] We cannot afford to get entangled here. We must find a way around.
[ ] [MOB] We must charge the mob! Quickly, before Grenadier Square is overrun!
[ ] [MOB] We must try to drive the mob off, without bloodshed if possible.
[ ] [MOB] I must call a parley and see if I cannot convince the mob to withdraw.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [MOB] We must charge the mob! Quickly, before Grenadier Square is overrun!

There's no question of what must be done. You, for one, will not allow the very headquarters of the Queen's Army to be stormed by a traitorous mob, nor will you leave its handful of brave defenders to their grisly ends, not whilst you have a regiment of horse at your back and the blood of a Castleton of Reddingfield in your veins!

But the question remains: how is it to be done?

You must charge the mob, that much is clear, but the road ahead isn't wide enough to allow both your squadrons to charge in line. One will have to lead the way, and it is they who shall have to sustain the brunt of the fighting—and the brunt of the casualties.

Or perhaps there's another way. You could detach First Squadron down a side street and attack the mob from two directions at once. You would have a better chance of success then, but much would depend upon your coordination. If you led Second Squadron into the attack too early, or if First Squadron struck too late, then the two parts of your command could be in danger of being overwhelmed, one after the other.

The distant crash of musketry brings pulls you out of your thoughts. The Grenadiers have fired their volley. Already, the mob is surging towards them, and it will only be a matter of moments before they're overrun.

Whatever decision you make, it will have to be made now.

[ ] [PLAN] First Squadron will lead the attack.
[ ] [PLAN] Second Squadron will lead the charge.
[ ] [PLAN] We will attack with both squadrons in concert, along parallel streets.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [PLAN] We will attack with both squadrons in concert, along parallel streets.

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't have dared to try something like this without extensive planning, perhaps even a dress rehearsal on the parade ground.

These are not normal conditions.

"Captain Sandoral!" you shout as you ride back along the road to where First Squadron's commander is waiting. "Take your men down—" Your eyes fix upon an intersecting street, wide enough for you to see the parallel roadway beyond it. "Take your men down that street, then circle around. Hit that mob from the flank while we hit it from the rear."

"Are you quite certain, sir?" Sandoral asks, his anxieties written plain on his face. "It will be all but impossible to coordinate effectively in so short a span, and if our timing were to be off—"

"I am certain, Captain," you insist, knowing that every instant delayed is one which will only increase the chance of failure.

"Very well, sir," Sandoral nods before turning to his own command. "First Squadron! With me!"

You return to the head of Second Squadron just in time to see the mob making their final approach on Grenadier Square's outnumbered defenders. Silently, you count the seconds as you peer through your field telescope, the brave handful of Grenadiers holding back the human tide of their enemies with fixed bayonets and clubbed muskets, even as they're overwhelmed one by one. Even as they're pushed back step by step…

You can afford to wait no longer. First Squadron damned well better be in position now.

"Second Squadron!" you bellow as you snap your telescope closed. "At the gallop! Charge!"

-​

The problems begin from the very start.

Your order almost takes Second Squadron by surprise. They're certainly not ready to go forward when you give it. But you don't have time to dress their lines or ensure their formation is as well-ordered as it ought to be.

So, when you lead your men forward, it is in a haphazard, almost halting fashion, advancing pell-mell not as a single body but as an extended gaggle of horse and riders, barely better ordered than the enemy you're charging.

It works, after a fashion. You make contact with the mob before they can break through Grenadier Square's defenders. Better yet, you ride into the midst of the enemy just as Captain Sandoral does the same at the head of First Squadron just ahead.

Unfortunately, First Squadron is in no better order. They too hit the enemy as a disorganised mass, piling into them and immediately splintering against the bulk of the Wulframite throng. Rather than the concerted hammer blows you were hoping for, your Dragoons swirl and skirmish in disoriented splashes, like handfuls of sand thrown into a puddle of water. The effect is not the shattering force of two organised, concerted charges, but more the confusion of two drawn-out brawls, with any immediate effect completely wasted.

They come at you from all sides, brandishing clubbed muskets and knives and makeshift spears. You pull your horse away, step by step, trying to win free of the melee as all around, your men are driven back, lest they be overwhelmed by the endless tide of foes.

With wild sweeps of your blade, you try to keep them at bay, but you cannot be everywhere at once, and you cannot cover every direction. When you swing to your left, two new threats appear on your right. Thrust forward, and a blade darts out from your rear. Look over your shoulder to guard your back and—A hand shoots out from the throng, catching your sword arm just as you try to raise your blade again. A hard pull sends you tumbling forward from your saddle, your sword falling out of your hands. Suddenly, you feel a sharp tug from your leg. Your boot! Your boot is still caught in the stirrup!

You have just enough time to scream before the cobbles come rushing up to meet you.

-​

You return to your senses somewhere else, staring upwards at the smoke-filled sky, at the worried faces of your officers and Colour Sergeant, and to the sharp smell of salts.

"What happened?" you ask as you push yourself upright, just far enough for vertigo to register and half your body to come awake in screaming pain. "How long—"

"Ten, maybe fifteen minutes," Garret replies as she stoppers the small vial she had evidently been holding under your nose. "Your horse dragged you out of the fight. If it hadn't been for your armour, I daresay you would have been out for a lot longer."

You suppose that's a stroke of fortune in itself. Your head may feel like the inside of an overripe melon, but your armour doesn't even have a scratch on it. "What happened after?"

"Colour Campos heard you fall," Garret replies as she helps you to your feet. "I daresay half of Aetoria heard you fall, given that it sounded like an iron foundry collapsing. He rallied Second Squadron and cut you a path out. He even recovered your sword."

You turn to see Campos gingerly offering your Baneruned sword back to you, taking especial care not to touch the burning blade. "Sorry, sir. I know we're not supposed to touch a knight's weapon, but—"

"I'm sure you may be excused, given the circumstances," you reply as you pick it up out of his hands and return it to its scabbard. "What about Grenadier Square?"

At that, the other officer frowns. You need only look to see why: down the street, the buildings of the army's administrative headquarters are already burning as the Wulframite mob swarms around them. There's little you can do for Grenadier Square or its defenders now.

There's only one more course of action left to you now. "How fare the men?"

"Poorly, I fear," Captain Sandoral replies with a grimace. "Second Squadron lost a lot of men in the fighting. We lost half a dozen more covering its retreat."

A glance at the men around you reveals the truth in that. There are too many wounded among them, too many despondent eyes, too many despairing expressions. This first defeat has hit their spirits hard. Yet there is still some fight in them; enough fight, you must hope.

You step to your waiting horse, carefully shifting your weight at first, but then with greater confidence as your legs get used to moving once more. "Gentlemen, mount up," you order as you pull yourself back into the saddle. "This setback doesn't change our objective. We will lead the regiment around this obstacle and continue onwards. The Queen requires us at the Northern Keep, and I do not intend to disappoint her."

-​

It takes less than two minutes to get the regiment mounted up and moving again, yet even so, you cannot help but spare a moment to look to the distance, where the Wulframite mob is swarming over the burning carcass of Grenadier Square. You did your best to rush to its defence, and your best proved lacking. For that failure, far too many of the Queen's soldiers—of your soldiers—have paid the ultimate price.

Even if the day does resolve itself in the Queen's favour, the loss of the army's headquarters cannot help but be a major blow, one whose responsibility rests solely upon your shoulders.

It is a stinging realisation, one which you allow you sink into your flesh like spurs into the flank of a horse. You have failed here, that is not in question. By allowing Grenadier Square to fall, you have failed your sovereign, your army, and the reputation of your regiment. Yet in your mind, you transmute the knowledge of that failure into resolve, as you once again move your horse to the head of your regiment, and lead your command forward once more.

Yes, you have failed here.

But you do not intend to do so again.

The Dragoons simply weren't capable of pulling off a stunt like that. You'd have been better off trying to drive the mob off without bloodshed, or attempting a less complicated maneuver.

Click to shrink...

-​

The next half-hour proves a surreal experience.

Aetoria's streets are almost deserted as you lead your men towards the Northern Keep, empty save for the bodies of dead, broken carts and the occasional upturned coach. The few figures who do appear in the streets do not linger. Royalist or Wulframite or simple opportunist, it seems that none are willing to run themselves afoul of a column of drilled soldiery, regardless of faction.

Yet despite the strange bubble of near-tranquillity which seems to surround you and your men, you can tell that things are not so peaceful elsewhere. The sound of musketry and screams echo from every direction. The air is thick with the acrid stench of death and powder. The streets are lined with smashed shopfronts and splintered doors. There has been fighting here, and although the presence of your Dragoons seems to have driven the combatants away, you have little doubt that it will resume not long after you're gone.

It isn't until you reach Victory Square that you run into others who do not scurry away at the sight of your men. The area has always been a stronghold of Royalist sentiment, and it seems the Queen's supporters hold it still, judging by the profusion of makeshift orange-and-blue banners which hang from the open windows, along with the ragged cheers which rise from the men and women manning the barricades around the equestrian statue of King Miguel, rising like a lighthouse over its motley assembly of defenders.

There aren't many of them, certainly not anywhere near as great a mob as the one which assailed Grenadier Square, but they're there, and the looks in their eyes bely a resolution which cannot help but seem earnest—the same sort of resolution that you've seen before in the eyes of those determined to die fighting for a cause greater than they.

You try to return their sentiments by responding with a look of the same tenor, and making yourself the promise that you'll do all you can to ensure that such noble feelings are rewarded by a victory at the Northern Keep, secured by your hand.

Yet one question remains, even as you press on, leading your men further up the street towards the Northern Keep.

It's clear that the city is still in contention, that the Wulframite mobs you now know to be all throughout the city are opposed by similar forces of citizenry loyal to the Queen.

But where are they?

Save for the relative handful of the Queen's supporters at Victory Square, you've seen very little of the Royalist forces which ought to be on the streets. Surely they must be somewhere. Someone is making all that noise out there, and this close to the most Royalist part of the city, it would stand to reason that most of those people would be your allies. Yet it seems that, strangely enough, the only sizeable Royalist force on the streets is your own. Surely, others must be out there somewhere, and close by at that.

But where?

As it turns out, it isn't a question you have to ponder for much longer.

You hear it before you see it, the now-familiar roar of a great mob, rising out of the haze before you. Yet it soon becomes evident that there's something distinctly different this time. The cacophony of voices seems not a confusion of a hundred different groups or individuals, but something directed, almost coordinated. Here and there, a single voice cuts through the cacophony, its words unintelligible in the distance, but quite clearly laden with a very familiar tone of authority.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

A pair of figures appear out of the powder haze, muskets at the ready, shouting over the rising sound of the mob. The orange-and-blue sashes wrapped around their waists allow for no mystery as to whose side they're on.

"Lord Reddingfield, the Dragoons," you reply. "The Queen's Dragoons," you add, just to make sure you're understood correctly.

The men before you relax visibly. One of them nods to the other, who disappears back into the fog.

How curious. You've accumulated quite a store of experience with Aetoria's city mobs these past few months, and you have yet to see any so well-organised and well-directed as to post sentries. You can only imagine what circumstances led to such a development here.

It isn't something you have to wonder about long, however—for a few moments later, the second man returns, and with him, he brings a third. No city shopkeeper or labourer this, but a familiar face. Out of regimentals he may be, but the set of his jaw and the look in his eyes make it clear that he's present in his capacity as a soldier, and nothing less.

"My word, Reddingfield, it's good to see you!" Viscount Palliser exclaims as he steps forward, offering you his hand. "Do our lot still hold Victory Square?"

You nod. "We do, quite firmly, last I saw," you reply. "Though I cannot say how they will stand in the face of a determined attack."

"It will do, I suppose." The Lancer spares a look over his shoulder, back to where the sound of the mob still rises and falls. "Then I suppose we best get it over with now, before things get worse. I ain't suppose you and your fellows would be willing to watch our backs, would you? Whilst we do what needs to be done?"

[X] "I ride to the relief of the Queen. I cannot afford delays."

Palliser frowns. "Daresay you'd much think otherwise, once the situation is made clear to you." He points to the dark shape of an imposing building, rising over powder haze and the shame of the bubbling mob. "Y'see that?"

"The Takaran Embassy," you reply. "I see it, sir."

"I have it on good authority that the Takarans have stockpiled a great store of arms inside, with intent to distribute them to Wulfram's lot," Palliser explains. "Our aim had been to gather as many of Her Majesty's supporters as we could organise and have them blockade the exits, so that none of Wulfram's men got in, and none of the guns inside got out."

"Simple enough, I suppose."

"It was," the Lancer replies sourly. "That was before Wulfram started concentrating his forces before the Northern Keep. Now we are sat here, all but useless, with something like five thousand armed volunteers and th' better part of the Overseas Club to lead them, and none of it mean t' do a damn bit of good. We leave t' support the Queen, and Wulfram will be able t' get his hands on tens of thousands of the best Takaran muskets, and all the shot and powder he'd need to use them. We stay here, and it's only a matter of time before Wulfram overwhelms the Grenadiers and takes the Northern Keep." He shakes his head. "Ain't but one thing for it, to break this dilemma, and now that you're here, we may damn well see it done."

"And what do you propose, sir?"

Palliser fixes you with a grim look. "You watch our backs and keep th' flanks clear while we send the mob in to storm the Takaran Embassy."

You cannot deny the risks of such a course of action; only a fool would deny them. Inciting the mob to storm the embassy would mean violating the sovereign territory of one of the greatest powers of the Infinite Sea. It would mean subjecting Takaran citizens and their households to violence which may well lead to their injury or death. It's the sort of thing which cannot but bring the outrage of the Takaran populace, along with the wrath of its government, against which Tierra in its current state can do nothing.

And yet you cannot deny that there may not be a better option. Even if such a course of action makes an enemy of the Takarans, that may well prove a problem for the Queen and her government to address at another time. If Wulfram and his allies are able to continue their attack on the Northern Keep unimpeded, or are otherwise able to get their hands on the arms now stockpiled within the embassy, then she may well never have the chance. If causing a long-term and distant problem is the only way out of an immediate and existential crisis, then there can only be one option.

Yet Palliser doesn't seem quite so sure that it's the right thing to do.

"It will be a hard fight, of that we might be certain," he observes as he leads you and your men further towards the main body of the assembled mob, close enough to the embassy for you to make out the hard-faced line of Takaran naval infantry standing guard behind the locked gates. "We may have the numbers, but those Takaran infantry will kill five times their number before we're through them, and only the Saints could know what they've got waiting inside." Palliser's voice is stern, almost sombre, his eyes not moving from the gates. "I daresay our fellows will manage the thing, of course, but it's far from certain. They're still civilians, that lot, and their first taste of death will make them brittle. Any attack from the flanks or the rear might well shatter them. I'll need to rely upon you and your Dragoons to ensure that ain't a possibility."

You eye those thin-featured Takaran faces as closely as you can, looking for any sign of apprehension, any sign of fear. Any kind of acknowledgement that they're outnumbered five hundred-to-one, and that you're even now discussing what may very well be the circumstances of their certain demise.

You find none.

"I don't suppose negotiation is out of the question?"

Only the seriousness of the situation seems to stop Palliser from snorting in derision. "We would have to convince them that their position is hopeless first, and we ain't got the means for that. Those are Takaran Naval Infantry, they style themselves the best of the Richshyr. Even their own line infantry ain't thought much better than swine t' them. I ain't any doubt they think they could take the whole lot of us, if needed."

"What about the diplomatic staff?" you suggest. "Surely we can prevail upon them to evacuate, for their own sakes?"

This time, Palliser does snort in derision. "Damn me, Reddingfield, the way you talk, one might think you'd never met a Takaran in your life. They's not like us, that lot. For centuries, they've been isolated by their own power. Each and every one of them think that misfortune's the sort of thing that happens to other people, lesser people, not them. You'd as likely convince a Takaran he's in danger as y'might convince a stone t'swim."

For a moment, you look for some example to present evidence to the contrary, but your memory allows you none. Palliser is right. Negotiation will go nowhere.

Which means his plan must carry on as is, with a mob of untrained civilian volunteers attempting to storm a building held by some of the best infantry in the Infinite Sea. There's no other way.

Is there?

[X] "Damn me. If it'll be so much trouble, I'll storm the embassy myself."

Palliser stares at you as if you'd just admitted to incest. "Are you run mad? You can't do that!"

"And why not?" you ask. "That corporal's guard out front may serve as some trouble for a disorganised mob of untrained civilians, but against two squadrons of regular cavalry? We shall make short work of them."

"Then what?" The Lancer shakes his head incredulously. "Saints above, man! Think! What do you think happens when the Takaran Senate hears that their embassy has been stormed by soldiers of the Queen's Army? That would be an act of war, if you haven't quite noticed, sir; we ain't in a good position t'be fighting a Great Power at the moment."

You nod. You suppose Palliser must have a point. If it weren't for the wealth and power of their country, the Takarans would never have been able to involve themselves so brazenly in the first place. You suppose if you're to offer any check to the Altrichs' intervention on the Wulframite side, it must be through an oblique method, which Her Majesty's Government cannot be held responsible for.

Such as the one Palliser proposes.

[ ] [EMBASSY] "We must all go to the Queen's aid, without delay—even if it means abandoning this enterprise."
[ ] [EMBASSY] "Very well, my lord. Send your volunteers in. We have your backs."
[ ] [EMBASSY] "I fear I cannot help you, my lord. The Queen's need is immediate."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [EMBASSY] "Very well, my lord. Send your volunteers in. We have your backs."
You may notice a slight increase in our barony's attributes. That's because I accidentally selected the wrong choice and had to restart the game, which led to fewer bad random events for our estate. Aside from that, all our major attributes should more-or-less be the same.

Click to shrink...

Palliser doesn't so much as nod as twitch his head just enough to convey his approval, a movement of perfect efficiency. "Good. There are four approaches to cover, two towards the Northern Keep, and two away. You know your men better than I do, so I don't intend to dictate specifics, but I would strongly advise you to deploy your stronger squadron on the northern end, and your weaker on the southern one."

There's none of the dandy's languid drawl in his voice now. His words are crisp, careful, a precision like clockwork and a heat like red iron. "Have two dismounted troops to each approach, one in line abreast the road, one along it and in front in cover. That should give you cross-fire on any attack without risk of hitting each other. That leaves one troop each as reserve, they can guard your horses until they're needed."

You nod. Palliser is still technically a senior officer, and even if he weren't, it's clear that he's thought this problem out quite thoroughly. "See it done, I shall tend to the rest."

Your fingers are halfway to the brim of your helmet in salute before you catch yourself.

It takes only a few minutes to get your men into position. By the time you're ready, so is the mob.

Palliser is nowhere to be seen now, and neither are any of the other men he brought with him to organise the great assembly before the Takaran Embassy. You suspect that's intentional—a means to avoid being marked with the responsibility for what's about to happen.

You're not sure what those in the mob had been told to prepare them for this, but it's clear that it has made them very angry, indeed. They're all but straining now, held in order only by some invisible leash.

And as the last of your men finally takes position, you hear the leash slip behind you.

The gate guarding the entry to the Takaran Embassy is a substantial thing, wrought iron set in stone. Yet it cannot stop the fury of the mob. There's a great, discordant ring, like a smith's hammer. You see one of the bars bend, then another, and another, and the whole gate gives way with a roaring, squealing crash.

A volley thunders out, so perfectly timed that it sounds like a single gunshot. For an instant, the mob collapses in on itself, as if the whole mass had been punched in the gut. The blue-coated Naval Infantry don't take the time to savour their handiwork. Already, they're reloading with all the choreographed precision of a dancing troupe, their muskets twirling in their hands like maces in the hands of drum majors. You know that Takaran infantry are expected to fire one volley every ten seconds.

The Embassy guards get off their second in eight.

But then the mob is upon them.

Yet the Takarans do not break. They don't even seem to flinch. They simply charge their bayonets and thrust into the crowd, their arms weaving and jabbing like the fingers of a seamstress, with each movement being answered by a spray of blood, a gurgling scream, and the sight of a body tumbling away from the onrushing mass.

It's a horrible spectacle, to see your countrymen so easily butchered by that line of terrible killing apparati. Mercifully, it's also a short one. For all of their skill and their iron discipline, there are less than a dozen of them and thousands of you. One by one, they're brought down: a pistol shot to the neck, where their body armour doesn't cover them; the thrust of a bayonet to an unguarded knee; the simple weight of numbers. At last, the thin Takaran line collapses in on itself and is driven under by the flood of humanity.

A figure rises from the head of the advancing tide. Made bereft of their Baneblooded leaders, one of the mob has elected to appoint himself their replacement. He's a great, broad-shouldered fellow, clad in the leather apron of a butcher. With one hand, he raises a Takaran musket, his orange-and-blue sash tied around its barrel like a makeshift banner, waving wildly in the powder-thick air as its bearer urges his fellows on in a wordless bellow.

Then he crumples.

You don't hear the crack of musketry, nor do you see the smoke of a gunshot, but the man falls all the same, as if he'd been shot through the head. But the mob doesn't notice, nor does it care. An instant later, another man bears up the same banner to fall just as quickly, then another, and another, as if the improvised flag itself were a talisman of death.

But then the mob is through, breaking down the front doors and surging into the building's cavernous insides.

The next few minutes are like trying to sleep in a coaching inn whilst a brawl is being fought the next room over. The Takarans haven't given up simply because their embassy has been breached. The interior of the building echoes with gunshots and screams, breaking glass and splintering wood. The pull of Banecasting tugs at your mind, stronger than you've felt in a long time. More than once, there's a great roar of an explosion as windows blow out and the mighty stonework trembles.

Then, a window on the top floor opens, and a figure climbs out onto the flagpole standing above the embassy's imposing façade. With two strokes of a knife, he cuts free the banner which hangs from it. Down flutters the falcon and rising sun of the Altrichs vam Takara…

And up comes the makeshift, blood-stained, orange-and-blue banner of the House of Rendower.

-​

It's another ten minutes before you're able to receive some reliable report of the outcome.

"There's no sign of the Takaran Ambassador, which means he must have been elsewhere or has got safely away, thank the Saints for that," Palliser tells you, his expression stern but weary. "The dead guards and junior diplomatic staff will be difficult enough to apologise for, but a dead Ambassador would have put us on dangerous ground."

Not that you aren't on dangerous ground already—or at least, what you can see of it. The embassy's main entrance isn't so much littered as it is carpeted with bodies, most of them Tierran. Only the occasional scrap of blue coat or trampled piece of Takaran body armour or broken dragonlock musket offers any hint as to the agent which had worked such dire execution amongst your countrymen.

Speaking of which…

"What of the weapons?" you ask. "Have we found them?"

Palliser nods. "Dragonlock muskets and pistols, at least ten thousand, perhaps more. All sitting in crates in the basement, cleaned and ready to pass out, alongside what must be a quarter of a million cartridges—enough for an army."

A victory then, if a costly one. The Takaran arms have been kept out of Wulfram's hands—and now sit in yours. "How long will it take to pass out those arms to the volunteers? We may not have a great deal of time, but if we work quickly, we may be able to arm a few hundred at least, enough to make some difference when we march on the Northern Keep."

The Lancer frowns. "I fear there's damned little likelihood of that." He looks towards the gaping ruin of the Embassy's main entrance, where those who survived the assault trickle out in a steady stream, their eyes wide, their hands trembling, their expressions as pale as the faces of the dead they stumble over as they make their way back out into the smoke-choked street. They have sipped from the cup of martial glory today, and found the taste as bitter as gall. They're not likely to drink from it again.

"No," Palliser concludes, his voice almost hollow. "This lot ain't fit to fight another battle, not today."

[ ] [MOB] "Give me a few minutes, I'll convince them otherwise."
[ ] [MOB] "You've got them this far. Surely you might try to rally them again?"
[ ] [MOB] "Perhaps you're right. I'll get my regiment moving immediately."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [MOB] "Perhaps you're right. I'll get my regiment moving immediately."

As much as you hate to admit it, Palliser has a point. Even if they'd been wholly made up of professional soldiers, the force which stormed the Takaran Embassy would be in ragged shape after facing such a slaughter. A force made up mostly of those still at close remove from their civilian lives couldn't help but be unfit for further action after such a bloody engagement.

No, there's no fight left in them. Your best option is to press on before you waste too much more time.

Palliser seems to be of similar mind. "I'll not delay you further, then. I must ensure the weapons we've secured ain't fit to fall into Wulfram's hands."

"Of course." It's a sensible precaution. After all the blood which has been shed to seize such arms, it would certainly be the most shameful infamy to allow them to fall into the enemy's hands.

You're about to turn back to your own men when Palliser stops you with a careful clearing of his throat. "One last thing," he says as he offers you his hand. "Good luck, Reddingfield."

"And to you, my lord," you reply, shaking it.

A minute later, you're back at the head of your men and riding on to the Northern Keep.

-​

You didn't quite know what to expect in regards to the situation at the Northern Keep. While it was obvious that the Duke of Wulfram would have surely committed the greater part of his resources to taking the fortress, you had little solid indication as to how great his forces would be, or how effective their efforts would prove. You've seen some indications that Wulfram had the upper hand, but you also saw other indications implying the precise opposite in others—and all of them had been elsewhere in the city, not here, where the day is all too likely to be decided.

So when you advanced the final length to the Northern Keep, you had prepared yourself for any eventuality.

Yet you hadn't expected to find a near-complete stalemate.

Wulfram has assembled a formidable force, not only of civilian partisans but of professional troops, as well. Brockenburg and his Cuirassiers are there, assembled by squadron in blue and silver. Beside them stands a battalion in ordered ranks of burnt orange, the blue facings of the Royal Marines just visible through the powder fog. Beyond, you see a second battalion, marching from the docks to join them.

Yet for all the power at his command, it's just as clear that the Duke's forces have made little inroads. The gatehouse of the Northern Keep is still wreathed in great gouts of powder smoke, and its darkened interior echoes with the screams of fighting men and the hollow crack of musketry. Outnumbered though they may be, Lefebvre's Grenadiers are still holding.

But for how long?

Even as you eye the situation through your field glass, you can see the great throng of Wulfram's force lurch into motion: Cuirassiers, Marines, and volunteers all, pressing forward towards the gatehouse: the sort of attack which sweeps away all before it through force alone. The sort of attack which wins battles.

Or loses them.

Wulfram may think such an attack the key to his victory, but it has also given you the key to his defeat—if you're willing to take advantage of it.

Under normal circumstances, any sizeable force would have left picquets to its flanks and rear, the sort to detect and warn of threats from unexpected directions. Even if Wulfram hadn't known that, he has more than enough experienced fighting officers with him who would. Yet with the whole of his power being directed towards the Northern Keep, he has brought even those precautionary screens in, perhaps thinking that the extra handful of men such a measure would provide him might give him the decisive push needed to secure victory.

Perhaps he's right to think so—but it has also secured you a chance to approach Wulfram's force, unseen and unimpeded.

Sandoral sees it too, when he rides up to see for himself.

"I must say, it seems like quite the opportunity to have one's approach seem so unguarded," he says as he eyes the enemy position. "Yet once we expend the element of surprise, I daresay we shall be at substantial risk."

"Risk?" Captain Blaylock demands incredulously as he rides up to the two of you. "Saints above! Wulfram is bent over and showing us his arse. All we need to do is step up and kick it!"

"And once we do?" Garret asks, nudging her own mount forward to join you. "The mob may well run, but I suspect the Marines will stand, and once they have us pinned, those Cuirassiers would be in more than suitable a position to deliver a counter-charge."

Unfortunately, you have little choice in the matter. Given what's at stake and your current position, simply giving up and going away isn't really an option.

You take one last look at the situation before you, then behind you, to where the men of your regiment still sit, their numbers somewhat diminished by the trip through the city. You turn to your officers and meet their looks one by one, sharing what you hope to be your confidence and resolution with them, and receiving what silent assurances they can offer in turn.

[ ] [SAY] "Very well. To your places. Let's get this over with."
[ ] [SAY] "To your places. Let's not keep Her Majesty waiting."
[ ] [SAY] "To your places, and to battle. At long last, to battle!"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [SAY] "To your places. Let's not keep Her Majesty waiting."

You try to put a smile on the words, enough of one to put to mind a certain ease, if not entirely a confident nonchalance, but no words can hide how significant the battle to come must necessarily be. For all that your officers might smile at your words, they know just what's at stake as well as you do.

Some of them are still smiling as they ride to their commands, but their movements are those of deadly earnest.

It takes half a minute for your two squadrons to form up abreast along the edge of the great, wide approach to the gates of the Northern Keep. By the time you do, the Wulframite attack is in full fury, with all of its energy directed before it. You still haven't been detected.

Now there's only one thing left to say, one order left to give. You turn to the Cornet sitting next to you, his horn poised at the ready.

"Signaller. Sound general advance."

-​

There are a great many who could say with complete and total honesty that they couldn't possibly know what it's like to be charged in the flank by enemy cavalry. It is, quite frankly, an experience of extraordinary rarity, the sort of thing which most men live their lives without ever having even come close to witnessing, let alone living.

Yet you are perhaps one of the select few who can say otherwise, and the thought isn't far from your mind as your regiment begins its approach, first at the walk, and then growing ever faster…

It's hard to pay attention to anything save what's in front of you when one is participating in an infantry attack. Part of it is simple human nature: when one is told that the danger is ahead, then one focuses upon where one thinks the danger ought to be. Another part of it is by design. A soldier cannot concentrate on every part of a battle at once and still have the presence of mind to fight. Thus it's no surprise that so much of the science of leading men into battle emphasizes the practise of keeping them focused, of keeping their bayonets pointed the right way, of having the drums and colours draw their attention forward, of sharp words to discipline any who might for a moment look elsewhere, other than towards the direction of the foe one has been directed to fight.

You can imagine no other explanation for why the enemy before you continues marching towards the gatehouse of the Northern Keep, their backs turned to you, almost as an intentional snub, even as the hooves of your regiment thunder louder and louder, even as the ground trembles and the air screeches with the sound of hundreds of sabres being drawn.

One learns to shut out every single distraction whilst in the midst of an assault. In most cases, it's the only way to survive. To be distracted is to lose cohesion, and to lose cohesion is to lose momentum—and an assault which has lost its momentum is one that has all but failed, with the power only to mill in hesitation and confusion as it's shot to pieces and put to flight by a determined defender. In nine cases out of ten, it becomes almost a necessity to focus directly forward and not brook any interruption from the world beyond that narrow vision. For a veteran soldier, it's the hardest sort of habit to break, one which he must literally rest his life upon, and in such a case, there are very few things that can break it: not light, not sound…

Not even the approach of two squadrons of cavalry, charging home at a gallop.

There's a brief instant of terror before contact, not the familiar cold of mortal peril, but a sudden white-hot needle of false lucidity, as if you just realised the men you're charging are on your own side, wearing the uniform of your own army, that you're about to spill the blood of your own comrades.

But no. Reality re-asserts itself. Reason re-asserts itself. Orange coat or no, these men are your enemy—and more importantly, they're in disarray, reeling back in shock as the tidal wave of your charge rides through and over them, trampling them under the hooves of your horses and tossing them aside like bottles hit with a sledgehammer. You force yourself to focus upon the task ahead of you. There's no use for such second thoughts now. Your sword arm rises, then falls again.

There's no hesitation after that.

The Marines recover quickly, far more quickly than you might have expected. One instant, they're a disorganised mass; the next, they're clustering together into shoals of hard eyes and fixed bayonets, answering your sudden attack with sharp thrusts of their own. With an unsettling speed, the reeling companies you had thought shattered reassemble themselves into lines of razor-tipped steel. Your Dragoons find themselves suddenly on the defensive, far sooner than they expected.

In an instant, you've gone from riding at the head of an all-vanquishing charge to fighting for your life, as bayonets thrust and jab from every direction, as your men begin to fall all around you, your enemy's shock and confusion dispelled by a dogged, tenacious aggression.

But they are still too few, and too disordered—and your Dragoons are still too many. For all of their courage and all of their discipline, your foes are neither fearless nor without end. To your left, a handful of your men let off a ragged volley from their pistols, disordering part of the enemy line enough for others to rush in, laying about the tangled enemy with great, vicious cuts from their sabres. To your right, one of your Dragoons tumbles screaming from his saddle, grappling with a Marine as both men disappear into the battle's bloody, tangled undergrowth. An instant later, another of your men has taken the place of your fallen Dragoon, but the Marine's place remains vacant.

Everywhere you can see, your men are dying—but so are theirs, and what's more, they're losing their will to fight as well. The Marines edge backwards as more of their fellows rush to join them, their courage waning even as their numbers swell. One more sharp blow would be enough to break them.

Saints above! If you had just one more squadron in reserve…

It is then that you hear it.

It's almost nothing at first, a burbling undertone to the din of battle, subtle enough to be dismissed as nothing more than a fluke of your much-abused eardrums.

But no, others around you are looking up too, towards the source of the sound as it grows louder, clearer, the burble rising to the outlines of intelligible words.

"—e irs-or!" you hear, snatched from the chaos around you, coming from beyond the fight, beyond Wulfram's force, garbled by distance and confusion and the heavy layers of steel and padding that enclose your head.

"—ar-we? As-a ed!" You can hear it clearer now, a call and response. You strain your neck to catch a glimpse of the source: bobbing splashes of white and red, and a great scatter of grey-green behind orderly rows of drawn sabres.

Third Squadron, not just approaching but formed up in close order, already at the trot as your mind puts together the sounds of their voices, even as the beat of their horses' hooves rise to a rolling thunder.

"Who're we?"

"Royal Dragoons!"

"Who're we?"

"Royal Dragoons!"

"Who're we?"

"Dragoons! Dragoons! The Queen's Dragoons! Dragoons! Dragoons! The Queen's Dragoons!"

 

[Rogue Attican]

CHAPTER XII
In which the LORD OF THE CORTES is OBLIGED to face a RECKONING for the DECISIONS he has made.​

It seems to happen almost all at once.

One moment, Wulfram's Cuirassiers are thundering forward, ready to throw their weight into the fray and rescue the faltering Marines from your regiment's attack. The next, they're falling back, their charge melting like sea foam, washed away to the brassy notes of heavy cavalry bugles, frantically playing the recall.

For an instant, you cannot credit it. This is some sort of trick, surely.

Then, through the gaps where the Cuirassiers had ridden, you see it: Third Squadron is driving not for the gates of the Northern Keep, but for the square where the Duke of Wulfram has made his headquarters. If you had forgotten that the Cuirassiers were the Duke of Wulfram's personal bodyguard before all else, they had not. Perhaps it is that duty alone which drives them to wheel about before the faces of a yet unbeaten enemy, or perhaps it's the simple spectre of another Duke of Wulfram, lost on another battlefield, little more than a decade ago—and a silent promise not to see the loss repeated.

Whatever the reason, the effect is clear enough. Disorganised by the sudden loss of their cavalry support, to the frantic shouts of officers and sergeants, Crittenden's Marines withdraw, trading time to reorder their suddenly scattered ranks with as much space as they can spare—leaving only the Wulframite militias behind to face your Dragoons, and to face—

"Saints guard the Queen! Tierra and Victory!"

You're not the only ones who have noticed the enemy's sudden disarray. From the far side of the square rolls the thunder a battalion volley—and the shouts of four hundred voices as the Grenadiers surge forth from the positions which they had but moments ago been defending. The Wulframite militias panic. Caught on one side by the sabres of your Dragoons and on the other by the bayonets of the Grenadiers, they break as a mass, flowing past and over the Marines behind them, bursting through the ordered ranks like a flooded creek over a broken levee. The militias flee, carrying the Marines with them, a great tide of humanity taking discipline and order with it.

A rout.

Only the Cuirassiers seem to stand firm. For a moment, it seems as if they're about to steady the fleeing mass around them, perhaps even to make one last desperate charge to reverse the initiative.

But no, they too are riding away, the Duke of Wulfram in their midst, surrounded by the fleeing forms of their allies. Behind them, the Grenadiers pursue, their bayonets fixed, their uniforms bloodied and powder-stained, but their faces shining with the lustre of victory. Within moments, the square is almost empty of all but the cries of the wounded and the bodies of the dead.

Well, almost.

A shout brings your attention to your left: a body of horse appearing out of the smoke. For an instant, you think it's the Cuirassiers, looking to deliver a counter-stroke. But no, they're too few for that, their approach too slow, the forms of their mounts too slight and too small to be the great beasts of the heavy cavalry.

No, it is the plumes on their helmets which give them away. Dragoons: your missing squadron, disappeared from the Southern Keep in the morning, only to engineer the ruin of Wulfram's entire desperate stratagem now.

And at its head, a most familiar face, scarred and powder-stained and flint-eyed.

[ ] [CAZAROSTA] "Saints above, am I glad to see you."
[ ] [CAZAROSTA] "That was well done, Sir Caius. Quite well done."
[ ] [CAZAROSTA] "Saints be damned! You have stolen my thunder!"
[ ] [CAZAROSTA] "Damn your elusiveness, and where have you been this whole time?"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [CAZAROSTA] "That was well done, Sir Caius. Quite well done."

It was meant as a genuine compliment, but Cazarosta seems to be incapable of eyeing it without some suspicion. "Is that so? The immediate threat to the Northern Keep may be dispersed, but the strongest part of Wulfram's force is still intact enough to regroup, and I suspect they will, quickly enough."

You cannot deny that. "Perhaps if we'd been able to coordinate our movements more closely, we might have done so." You shake your head. "We're plainly on the same side, why did you not see fit to at least inform me of your intentions?"

"I could not," the deathborn officer replies. "I was under orders to keep the strictest secrecy."

"Under orders?" If someone has been giving orders to men under your command without so much as a by-your-leave, surely that is something that ought to be addressed. In normal circumstances, that's a matter of military discipline if nothing else; at a time like this, when no loyalty is certain and no motive clear…

"Under orders by whom? And for what purpose?"

Cazarosta makes a motion with his chin, towards the gates of the Northern Keep. "You may ask her yourself."

You hardly need the warning. Already, you can see the shapes of four Grenadiers approaching out of the powder-fog, their muskets held at the ready. They've clearly seen heavy fighting, their faces and coats smeared with black stains, their fixed bayonets still wet with blood. But the enamelled badges of the first battalion still glitter on their breasts, and they still move with all the careful precision of a parade ground as they pick their way over the bodies of the dead and the wounded.

Colonel Lefebvre follows them. He too has clearly seen no small amount of action. The left side of his face is all over with blood. A great gash travels down nearly the whole length of his right forearm. Pain wracks his battered features with every new step, but he steps forward regardless, one hand resting limply upon the hilt of his sword, the other wrapped around the shoulders of a slim figure in a Grenadier officer's dress uniform, no less smeared with powder stains and no less covered in blood.

It takes you half a moment to recognise your Queen.

"My lord Reddingfield," she begins, composed despite the butchery around her, straight-backed despite the weight of a man twice her size on her shoulders. "You have moved quickly, indeed."

"Your orders were for speed, Majesty," you reply, bowing your head. "I complied as best as I was able. I only hope it is enough."

Lefebvre gives an approving nod. "You got here before Crittenden could commit those Marines of his in earnest, that is more than good enough. Street rabble we could see off easily enough, but it's quite another thing to face down trained line infantry, even from good positions. I daresay a good many of my men owe you their lives—" His eyes flick to Cazarosta. "All of you."

It's a strange thing, to be complimented by a man of Lefebvre's sort, especially for a reason which you cannot deny to be as laudable as he evidently thinks it is. For a moment, you can only look back awkwardly, not knowing if it would be too compromising a thing to do to accept the man's gratitude.

In the end, the matter is taken out of your hands altogether.

"Let us not resort to self-congratulation too quickly," the Queen interjects. "Our position is not quite so secure as to allow ourselves anything but the briefest respite. Wulfram is still in possession of the shore batteries—and sizeable forces with which to hold them. We may now hold the initiative, but it would take no great feat of arms for he and his allies to wrest it back from us."

Lefebvre frowns. "If we are to maintain the initiative, then we must see to augmenting our strength. We may have routed Wulfram for the moment, but he still has much of his cavalry and a brigade of Marines at his disposal. We won't be able to press him with any serious vigour with only two depleted regiments at our disposal."

"Arrangements have already been made to remedy the lack," the Queen says. She turns to Cazarosta. "Sir Caius, is it done?"

"The Reform Club and the forces they rallied are perhaps only a few minutes behind me, Majesty," the deathborn officer replies, evidently speaking of a matter which you—and Lefebvre, judging by his expression—have been hitherto ignorant of. "There were about eight thousand of them when we departed. No doubt, there are fewer now, but I do not think their numbers greatly diminished."

You look to the Queen, then to your erstwhile subordinate. It isn't difficult to fit the pieces together. "Royal orders. That was why you took Third Squadron without my permission, without even a word of warning?"

"Secrecy had to be maintained," the Queen says, as if she had merely borrowed a hair-brush rather than a full third of your command. "It was necessary to ensure that those engaged in one contingency did not know the movements of the others, as a safeguard against betrayal. It has kept my agents safe, from Wulfram and from each other. Now it has given us the upper hand. I trust you understand the necessity of such measures?"

[ ] [ISOBEL] "Of course, Majesty. I understand completely."
[ ] [ISOBEL] "If it has gained us the advantage, then I suppose I cannot speak against it."
[ ] [ISOBEL] "With all respect, Majesty, I find such measures intolerable."