Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I think you should do it, sir."

The Captain nods as he unconsciously straightens the cuffs of his tunic. "I shall do my utmost. Of course, as you likely know, I've some experience in this sort of thing. My 'utmost' is quite a considerable amount."

Elson smooths down the front of his tunic as he speaks as if preparing to walk into a ball rather than confront the enemy. "I suppose you will want to see to setting the falsified banecasting pattern yourself?"

When you nod your assent, Elson leans in and puts a hand on your shoulder as if he were a beloved brother and not your squadron commander. "Very good, then. Let us be about our duties then. Best of luck, Castleton."

-​

By the time the first tendrils of morning light begin creeping over the misty horizon, the first elements of your scheme are in place.

A few minutes past dawn, the sharp crack of carbine fire rips through the slumbering calm of Antari camp, courtesy of Cazarosta's men. Stationed atop trees and in hidden points within the foliage, your fellow officer's two-score Dragoons sow chaos with their fire. No sooner does an Antari soldier stick his head over the palisade to pinpoint his tormentors than a carefully aimed volley of fire comes his way. The lucky ones manage to duck back, terrified but otherwise intact. The unlucky ones tend to lose their heads on the way down.

With the enemy trapped within their own encampment, you and your men set about placing the hundreds of seals needed to make a convincing fake bane-casting pattern. Never one to willingly enter a situation unprepared, you already know which patterns to imitate. Although you have never cast a banespell yourself, you are certainly aware enough of the fundamentals to create an elaborate and convincing fake. In fact, you nurse the suspicion that the spell would actually work if activated by a caster of sufficient calibre were the seals real.

Three hours after noon, with the sun falling from the apex of its trajectory, you place the last seal on the trunk of a tree in plain view of the Antari encampment.

With the rest of the pieces in place, you order Cazarosta's men to cease fire. As the Antari begin nervously peering over their palisade, muskets clutched in nervous hands, you send Captain Elson towards them with a white cloth tied to the stock of a carbine as a makeshift flag of truce.

"My name is Lord Captain Davis d'al Elson, of His Tierran Majesty's Army," Elson bellows, in a melodramatic tone that is no less overwrought in Antari. "I have a few things to say to the commander of this camp: I had the honour of facing your men in battle a week ago. They fought with great bravery and skill; however, my orders now are to destroy the threat you represent to His Majesty's forces by any means necessary. This duty fills me with great sorrow, as I am a man of honour, and I would have worthy opponents treated no worse than I would expect to be treated myself, were I ever taken prisoner. Thus, I offer you a chance to surrender now that you have resisted us long enough to fulfill the requirements of courage and fortitude."

Elson looks over his shoulder, theatrically pointing at the fake baneseals flying stamped on the trees behind him.

"As you can see, we have taken precautions should you refuse our offer, which would kill every last man within your encampment. To order such a thing done brings me no pleasure, but I am bound to my duty. Thus, as one leader of fighting men to another, I beg of you: order your men to lay down your arms and accept capitulation with honour."

For a moment, the Captain's speech seems to bring the world to silence. Despite its melodrama and its cheap pathos, you cannot help but concede that it was a very fine speech.

After a few minutes of tense waiting, Captain Elson moves up beside you, staring intently at the delicate hands of his new-fangled pocket watch. He looks up with worry etched on his face. "Ten minutes, Castleton. No response yet?"

When you answer in the negative, Elson gives out a frustrated, and perhaps even sad, sigh. "Very well. Tell your men to—"

Suddenly, shouts ring out from inside the Antari camp: two voices trying their best to drown each other out. Both voices start getting louder and higher until both are brought silent by the low boom of a musket shot.

Reacting quickly, your men see to their carbines, bringing their weapons to their shoulders more by force of habit and discipline than anything else.

Thankfully, the reaction proves superfluous: A moment later, the gate opens. The man who steps out is wearing the furs and bright jacket of an Antari nobleman. Clutched in his upraised hand is a white cloth that flutters in the afternoon breeze: the Antari have surrendered.

The leader of the Antari is a broad-chested fellow of about thirty-five whose sharp eyes shine sullenly between an unruly mop of brown hair and a truly impressive set of mustachios. As the senior officer present, Captain Elson steps forward to meet him.

When the Antari commander stops a few paces ahead of him, the Captain snaps him a salute that would have not been out of place on a parade ground. Clearly, Elson wishes to demonstrate that despite four years of war and suffering, he retains his courtly graces if nothing else.

The Antari nobleman's expression relaxes as he realizes the Captain's clear intent to treat the surrendering Antari with honour. Without delay, the enemy officer reaches for his belt with his free hand and unhooks his sword: an exquisite-looking sabre sheathed in a silvered scabbard. With great dignity, he presents it to Captain Elson.

"I have the honour to be Josef of Torranobirit, sworn to the service of Prince Ivan of Jugashavil," he says in heavily accented Tierran. "I offer you my surrender."

Elson lowers his salute and takes the sword with a dignity trained into him since childhood. "Lord Captain Davis d'al Elson, of His Tierran Majesty's Army, at your service: I accept your surrender."

"It's over!" Your surrendered enemy shouts in his own language. "Form up and surrender your arms!"

Behind him, dozens of fighting men gather, their defiant looks the only protest they can offer as they discard their weapons before your squadron in neat piles. Through the open gates behind the surrendered soldiers, you see a multitude of other human forms: women and children, likely camp followers and servants, the ever-present retinue of a fighting force.

When the Antari have surrendered their weapons, their commander makes clear that he has some words yet to say.

"I have wounded and some dead. I would have the dead burned and the wounded cared for. My lord would pay ransom for me, but my men are commoners, and he will pay nothing for them," he says, with a tone of some bitterness.

Captain Elson nods and takes you aside. "Well, then. It was your plan that gave us this victory. It should be your decision on how we should receive it."

You nod as you take the time to appreciate the decision.

"Oh, and Castleton?"

"Sir?"

"We've neither the men nor the supplies to take many prisoners, so don't think about rounding up the soldiers and camp followers to follow us." Elson gives you a grim slash of a grin. "What can we do? Sell them as slaves?"

Elson is making a rather grim joke, of course. Slaving is illegal and punishable by death by hanging under Tierran law.

In the end, you decide that it would be best to:

[] Let them all go, so long as they swear an oath not to fight against the King's Army again.
[] Take the Antari commander captive for ransom. Allow the rest to leave.
[] Take the Antari commander captive for ransom. Have the other prisoners killed, so they cannot take up arms against Tierra again.
[] Make an example of them: Kill them all. Alaric's a little too Merciful to go the "Kill 'Em All" route.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Take the Antari commander captive for ransom. Allow the rest to leave.

"Their commander is worth good ransom. We can allow the rest to go home with an oath to never do battle with the King's Army again."

Captain Elson nods. His expression is most agreeable.

"Quite so. I was thinking the same thing myself. Then let us acquire for ourselves some crowns for ransom as well as this bloodless glory. I'll see to the lowborn Antari at once and have Cazarosta see to taking the enemy officer under guard. See to the Antari dead and wounded. We'll camp here tonight and head back in the morning."

The Captain turns away to inform Cazarosta of his new orders. As you walk past on the way to your men, you see the more junior officer responding in cold, harsh tones.

"—the common soldiers may not be worth more in gold, but in blood and steel? We are giving back the Antari hundreds of good fighting men, whom you know as well as I shall take up arms again the second their liege lord orders them to. No ransom, no delusion of mercy, no patina of honour can make good that forfeit."

Cazarosta does not look at you as you walk past, even though you have no doubt he knows who is responsible for his new orders. Hopefully, the other lieutenant will not bear a grudge.

Thankfully, the Antari had more in the way of supplies than you, though far too much of it is unsuitable for transport and must be left behind on the way back. Either from a desire to reduce waste or more selfish purposes, the men of Third Squadron, Royal Dragoons eat well that night, gorging themselves on plundered food and drink as you all take turns looking out for Antari reinforcements.

As your troop eats and drinks their fill, one Dragoon, a new fellow whose name escapes you, raises a plundered cup of dark beer in your honour.

"Three cheers for Lieutenant Castleton! The man who brought us victory!" He shouts. Your men quickly take up the cheer. You fall asleep that night with their hurrahs still ringing in your ears.

Morning comes with no sign of the enemy, and by nine o'clock, your squadron is on its way back south. You ride high in the saddle, knowing full well that it was your plan that brought victory.

It is a long day's ride back to the camp in the ruins of the old monastery. Awaiting you, a courier bearing a message from the Duke of Cunaris himself. Your squadron is to be recalled to Noringia….

To join the Duke of Wulfram's army.

 

[Rogue Attican]

CHAPTER X
Wherein the cavalry officer is given some knowledge of the momentous EVENTS soon to pass.​

The summer sun shines bright through the windows of the Duke of Cunaris's office, wreathing your regimental commander's burly form in an outline of flaxen light as he considers the three of you standing at attention before him.

"I have read your reports, gentlemen, and I saw fit to send them forward to my superiors. A close but hard-fought victory, I believe, was how you put it, Captain Elson?"

The Captain nods in agreement. "Yes, sir. A victory won by Lieutenant Castleton's brilliant deception, sir."

The Duke nods, a beatific smile on his face, looking very much like a proud father. "Quite so, Captain. In fact, the Duke of Wulfram seems to agree with you. Though there have been a few minor points of contention between my office and theirs, they have seen fit to award all three of you with the Meritorious Service Order. Congratulations."

​

You try thoroughly to hide your disappointment. The Meritorious Service Order is not a particularly exalted honour and barely ranked above the campaign ribbon that every single soldier of the King's Army in Antar will receive at the end of the war. You had expected higher honours for your victory, especially considering the coveted and prestigious decorations you had won at the war's beginning.

Regardless of how hard you tried to suppress your expression of unpleasant surprise, it was not hard enough. The Duke seems to pick up on it immediately.

"We have been at war for nearly six years now, gentlemen. You may no longer expect high command to hand out decorations freely. Suffice it to say, this stalemate has grown tiresome to our superiors: if you want a prestigious medal pinned to your chest, then we must have a prestigious victory.

"That Antari lord you captured shall fetch a sizeable sum. I shall make the necessary arrangements with young Khorobirit's army. If you thirst for something shiny and metal to pin to your breast, you may make a sash from the ransom gold if you wish."

You nod. There is very little else you can do. Lieutenants do not usually win arguments with their regimental colonels. Cunaris looks at each of the three of you in turn, making sure that he has your undivided attention.

"Gentlemen, as you are likely well aware, the Duke of Wulfram is gathering his army here because he believes there is a chance for us to swing the war decisively in our favour. I must admit that nothing would quite be more welcome. This whole Antari adventure is not popular amongst the commons back home, never mind that we were the ones attacked. The King has appealed to the Cortes to raise a tax on wages, a dreadfully unpopular measure, obviously. Even so, if the war continues, by this time next year, Tierra will be in debt for the first time in its history. The King, the Cortes, and the Commons all want a swift end to this war, and Wulfram plans to give it to them."

The Duke leans forward, his voice lower, almost conspiratorial as if he were sharing a secret with the three of you. "But to do that, he shall need a great victory. He needs officers of skill and intellect in command. That is what I shall expect you to be; I shall trust all three of you not to disappoint me."

There is silence for a moment, broken only by the quiet scratching of quill on parchment coming from the desks of the Duke's aides behind you. Cunaris leans back, satisfied that he has gotten his message across. "Now, gentlemen. I assume I shall see you at the reception tonight?"

Captain Elson replies for you. "Of course, sir."

"Then you are dismissed. Good day."

-​

The streets of Noringia have become almost unrecognizable since your return from the North less than a week ago. Over the space of five days, a dozen regiments recruited from all over the Unified Kingdom and formerly stationed all over Southern Antar have converged upon the town. The formerly half-empty streets are now awash with uniforms of every colour, from the green-grey of your own regiment to the silver of the Wolf's Head Cuirassiers to the burnt orange of the Line Infantry.

In addition, having apparently sensed the likelihood of a climactic campaigning season, observers from half a dozen nations share the streets with Antari stragglers and Tierran soldiers. The harbour is filled with ships from all over the Northern Kingdoms and a sleek black-hulled schooner from Takara.

Elson's eyes seem to dart everywhere as you walk down the crowded main thoroughfare with your fellow officers of the Third Squadron. Occasionally, he will point out a particularly distinctive uniform or emblem of some regiment, Houseguard, or other. Cazarosta remains silent, though his eyes seem to follow your captain's. Eventually, the other lieutenant disappears into the crowd, leaving only the two of you.

"Saints above!" Elson exclaims as the two of you step into the cool shade of your lodgings. "Tonight's reception shall be like a moving shrine window, save with dress uniforms instead of coloured glass. Our green-grey shall seem as dull as stone, compared to some of those lot."

[X] I reassure Elson that our recent victory will make our uniforms recognizable enough.

Elson smiles but shakes his head.

"I see what you're trying to do, Castleton, and I thank you for it, but we shall not be the only officers in the room fresh from a victory. There has been skirmishing all along the front over the past few months, and I have no doubt there shall be toasts made to some victorious young officers tonight, but they shall be men of richer families and more prestigious regiments, not us."

You nod. Perhaps he is right.

[X] Ask Elson about the reception.

The Captain seems shocked that you had forgotten when you ask him about the evening's reception. "Pray tell me that you have not forgotten already! Damn me if we were not given the invitations to them just yesterday at low tea."

When it becomes evident to the other officer that you have indeed misremembered, he gives a rather melodramatic sigh before reminding you.

"If you'd care to recall, the Duke of Wulfram has organized a reception for this evening. He's invited every single officer in Noringia, the foreign observers too, though one wonders how he plans to fit them all into one building, let alone one hall. In short, it is the most important formal event either of us shall ever likely be invited to, not to mention the first one I've seen in six years."

Elson smirks boyishly. "Do you remember now, dear fellow?"

[X] Ask Elson about the Duke of Wulfram.

Elson seems surprised that you would even ask. "After all, is your family estate not within the boundaries of his duchy? I would have thought you would have met him at least once."

You hasten to explain to Elson the unlikelihood that the young son of a minor noble family would ever become acquainted with one of the most powerful men in the Unified Kingdom, regardless of political ties. You even manage to do so without a single trace of sarcasm. Elson takes the hint.

The Captain explains for you: "The Duke of Wulfram is the commanding officer of the King's forces here in Antar, of course. He's also the most senior member of the King's army and privy council."

Elson pauses to recall further as if being tested by a schoolmaster. "He's a career soldier, made his name in the Royal Marines during King Alaric's War if I recall correctly. He's of the old school of officers, but he's a pretty powerful 'caster and has been a general longer than either of us have even been alive. I'd like to think that puts us in good hands, regardless of any conservatism on his part."

[X] I excuse myself and retire to my room to prepare for the reception.

You make your excuses and return to your room to make yourself presentable enough for the evening's reception.

The long and painstaking process of preparing yourself for a formal event has become an unfamiliar one after so many years of soldiering on the frontier and shuffling down the ramshackle streets of formerly empty Noringia. However, you are still the son of a noble house and remember your lessons on the subject well enough.

You change into your finest underclothes and daub dashes of scent in the places where you are most likely to sweat. This done, you begin the ordeal of putting on your uniform.

For an occasion of this magnitude, not even your dress uniform will be ornate enough. Instead, you must attend the Duke of Wulfram's reception in what is known as "court dress," which adds more belts, ornamentation, and gold braid to your dress tunic. A half-jacket, half-cape confection called a dolman is tied over your left shoulder; its even more uselessly ornamental cousin, the pelisse, a bastard child of fur cloak and jacket, is draped over it.

As you begin the final process of looking over your sword and the grooming of your hair, you sense a bane signature of immense power approaching you from far away. It is certainly even more overwhelming than the presence of a knight of the Orders-Militant, a rather unsettling thought.

A moment later, you hear the sound of hobnailed boots beating against the cobbles in perfect order. It is only then that you realize that the bubbling noise of the streets below seems to have faded away. The crunching beat grows louder, and with it, the source of the banesign draws nearer.

The sound of marching grows louder and louder until suddenly it stops: as does the banesign right below your window.

[X] Take a look.
[] Ignore it.

You peer out the window…

And you behold a sight which will remain with you until the end of your days.

Standing before you are two perfect ranks of the most spectacularly outfitted and drilled soldiers you have ever seen. Even from a distance, you can see that not a single hobnailed jackboot is out of line, and not a single fold of their black and silver uniforms looks any less than perfectly placed. The steel of their breastplates and helmets shine mirror-like in the afternoon sun. The barrels of their muskets and the scabbards of their long, curved swords blaze with the chained power of banerunes.

You recognize them immediately from stories, legends, and low whispers in the officer's club. They are soldiers of the Richslybgarte: the Takaran Imperial Guard, the finest line infantry in the world.

At their head stands a muscular figure with straight, chin-length platinum-blond hair and the bearing of an officer. The leader of the Takaran soldiers shouts a command in a rich, throaty voice. It is only then that you realize that the Takaran officer is a woman.

It is common knowledge that their racial ability to use the bane without restriction allows Takaran society to draw no distinctions of sex; however, seeing the principle in action is an entirely different matter. Now that you look closer, you realize that it is likely that a good number of the other soldiers in the formation might be of the fairer sex.

Heady stuff, isn't it?

[] A frightening notion, actually: if the Takarans are unprincipled enough to expose their women to battle, who knows what they might be capable of?
[] I'm sure it's all fine and good for the Takarans, but elven women have so many advantages which their human counterparts simply do not possess.
[] The Takarans have allowed their women to fight in their wars, and they are one of the most powerful nations in the world. Should we not follow their example?
[] If only we allowed our women to fight alongside us! Not only would it allow us to replace lost soldiers faster, but it would allow Tierra to field a larger army.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] If only we allowed our women to fight alongside us! Not only would it allow us to replace lost soldiers faster, but it would allow Tierra to field a larger army.

Of course. If the King only allowed women to join the Army or the freedom to take up the essential trades like ship-making and gunsmithing, which keep otherwise healthy men from overseas service, they could double the number of fighting soldiers on the field in Antar overnight. It is a pity most cannot bring themselves to think as you do.

On the street below, the Takaran soldiers continue.

"Grauden dan Naberi kagerim Dane!" the officer bellows. Immediately, the Takaran formation tightens around its flag, their boots echoing off the cobbles in perfect unison, the result of what could only be long decades of drilling.

A second figure appears alongside the officer, another woman: taller and longer of hair but slimmer. You hear the two converse for a moment, too quietly for you to hear. Then, the officer shouts again: "En Banfeil vakomim!"

The words mean nothing to you, but the Takaran soldiers respond to them instantly. They "ground" their muskets: slamming the end of the brass-plated wooden butts into the ground in a perfect, steady beat.

"Takara aun Tau'zenkai!" They chant. "Takara aun Tau'zenkai! Takara aun Tau'zenkai!"

At the third repetition, the Takarans once again shoulder their arms. The officer takes her position in the centre of the first rank. The other Takaran, obviously not a soldier, takes her place in front of her. You see her give another order to the officer, obviously her subordinate.

"Irucim lindxre kete'wen Dane!" the officer shouts. At that, the soldiers begin marching once again, with all the ominous precision of a stalking wolverine.

Before long, the Takaran soldiers are gone, and you find yourself looking out your window, seeing nothing but the empty space where they had once stood.

-​

The sun is low in the sky as you finish your preparations. As you make your way across the darkening town, you notice that while officers head for the reception in a steady stream, the common soldiers pull double duty as sentries and torchbearers. After all, it would not do for a foreign delegate or staff officer to be lost or worse on such an important evening.

The reception is being housed in the cavernous town hall, turned into Wulfram's staff headquarters in recent days. As you reach the courtyard, you find the windows ablaze with light and the sound of soft string music wafting towards you. A dozen orange-jacketed infantrymen keep guard over the entrance with fixed bayonets; the honour guards of a dozen foreign delegations loiter outside, awaiting their masters' return.

The guards allow you to pass without pause or comment. Perhaps the uniform of the Royal Dragoons has become more familiar in recent days, or maybe the sentries simply took you for a foreign attache and let you in based on your current state of overdress. Regardless, you soon find your way to the main hall's entrance. A line has formed before the doors, with each new arrival waiting patiently to be announced by the herald. Quickly enough, you queue up behind an ensign of one of the foot regiments and a major of the Kentauri Highlanders.

"Castleton? By the Saints, sir! So it is!"

The familiar voice turns you around on your heel, and you find yourself face to face with a tall, handsome Wulframite in his early thirties, wearing the burnt-orange dress coat of a Grenadier officer. Sir Enrique d'al Hunter - Lieutenant Colonel Hunter now, by the insignia on his shoulders and collar - greets you with a warm handshake. Your former commanding officer does not seem to have changed at all, save for a few fresh creases along his face and the very light line of a scar across his temples.

"Castleton, or rather, Lieutenant Castleton, I've been following your new command with great interest. Your gallant heroics have quite the following. I hear Wulfram himself wants you on his staff."

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of a throat politely clearing behind your back. It is the herald, trying to remind you as decorously as possible that you are now at the head of the queue and must be announced.

There is, of course, the question of how it should be done: Heroes of the moment often try to make as big a splash as possible so that it becomes difficult to forget them. More questionable figures of society would likely prefer to keep their profile low should they wish to avoid accusations of presumption.

[] Rank, last name, and regiment will be fine, thank you.
[] Have them give my full name as well as my regiment and rank. Let them remember me.
[] Name, rank, regiment, titles, decorations: everything. I want to make as big an impression as possible.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Name, rank, regiment, titles, decorations: everything. I want to make as big an impression as possible.

"Lord Alaric of House Castleton: Cross of Saint Jerome, Gryphon of Rendower, Meritorious Service Order, and lieutenant of the Royal Dragoon Regiment!"

You step onwards into the main hall, hoping you have not made an ass of yourself with such a presumptuous entrance. To your pleasant surprise, you find rather the opposite, in fact. The murmurs that follow you are admiring in tone, half the room turns to cast their approval upon your entrance, and there is even a light smattering of polite applause. From this company, you could expect no higher compliment.

The main hall is a garden of bright uniforms glittering under the bright candlelight. Decorations shine and sparkle on the tunics of soldiers from what seems like every regiment in the King's Army and a few from kingdoms overseas, too. Even at a glance, you recognize the colours of the Holy Guard of Mersdon, the tunic of one of the Twelve Companies of Callindria, and an overdecorated piece of frippery that could only belong to an officer of the Sea Watch of Azulae.

However, before you and Hunter even take a dozen steps, you are accosted by two familiar faces. "Castleton! Come to the festivities at last then, dear fellow?"

Captain Elson is his usual friendly self. Beside him is Lord Captain Hartigan, now Lord Major Hartigan, judging by the insignia on his coat.

[X] Introduce Hunter to Elson.
[] Wait for Elson to introduce himself.

"Sirs, may I introduce Lord Lieutenant Colonel Enrique d'al Hunter of the Grenadier Guards. Colonel, Lord Captain Davis d'al Elson, my commanding officer and—"

Hunter steps forward to greet Major Hartigan with a broad smile. "Well, it has been an age, has it not, Lord Hartigan?"

"Indeed so, Lord Wolfswood," the infantryman replies, using your former commander's court title. "Sir Enrique and his brother squired for my father before the war — and how is Felipe doing?"

Hunter shakes his head softly. "Dead, I'm afraid. Two years ago, whilst attempting to take an Antari position. A field piece caught him in the chest. I was told it was very quick."

Very quick indeed, but far from clean. A bane-hardened breastplate might turn a bayonet or shake off a musket ball, but a two-kilogram ball of iron would make a mess of an armoured Knight of the Red as easily as it would an unprotected infantryman.

Hartigan's expression is a sad one. "I'm quite sorry," he says, the decorum required of him in the formal setting preventing him from saying or doing more.

"Don't be," Hunter replies. "He died in the saddle with his sword in his hand and his front toward the enemy. Very few men are lucky enough to be picked by the Saints in such a manner."

The genteel commiseration of your two seniors fades out as you take another look at the room around you.

The biggest knot of conversation is, of course, centered around the Duke of Wulfram himself: a tall, gaunt figure in a powdered wig thirty years out-of-date and the richly braided uniform of his Houseguard regiment, the Wolf's Head Cuirassiers. With him stand his senior staff and subordinates: the Earl of Castermaine, the Duke of Havenport, the Baron of Tourbridge - powerful men of old and distinguished families all.

Not far away, there is another focus of attention: the two stern-looking women in black and silver Takaran uniforms, long curved broadswords belted to their hips. Though many seem keen to talk to the emissaries from the finest land army in the world at first, their interaction seems to be no more than short, sharp exchanges that end as abruptly as a burst of musket fire.

Hunter and Hartigan are, of course, still chatting away, though seemingly about more happy matters. Elson stands rather out of place beside them.

Lastly, you spy a slim figure in green-grey standing in the shadowed corner of the great hall: Cazarosta. The others in the room seem to avoid him on purpose though his unwelcoming stance and expression certainly do not help matters.

You decide to:

[] Listen to the Duke of Wulfram's conversation with his senior staff.
[] Speak with the Takaran envoys.
[] Join Hunter and Hartigan in their conversation.
[] Speak with Cazarosta.

Vote for as many options as you like, and I'll select the top two.

Click to shrink...

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Speak with the Takaran envoys.
[X] Speak with Cazarosta.

Click to shrink...

"I think I shall speak with the Takarans," you say.

Elson nods. "Very well, I'll go with you."

The Takarans seem neither happy nor annoyed to see you approach them, Elson in tow. You begin to introduce yourself.

"I am—"

One of the envoys, a tall strawberry blonde in the very first days of middle age, cuts you off.

"Lieutenant Castleton and Captain Elson of the Royal Dragoons. Yes, we know who you are; we know all about you," she says tersely in a hard voice made sharper by her guttural accent. "I have the pleasure to be Intendant Ulrike Eckharts."

She gestures to the broader, lighter-haired woman beside her. "Captain Helena Viztelas, my military attache."

There is an awkward pause for a moment as you and Elson try to respond. After all, to speak so bluntly and out of turn in such a setting is beyond rude. Perhaps the Takarans are more blunt people. Then again, it is more likely that they simply do not give much thought to the customs of those they see as their inferiors.

The older woman, Intendant Eckharts, picks a glass of wine from a passing tray without turning to look at it. She looks at it with an annoyed expression for a moment before you feel the lightest whisper of a touch brush the inside of your mind. A second later, you see the delicate wineglass in the Takaran's hand fog up as if suddenly chilled. It is the most subtle and casual use of the Bane you have ever witnessed.

"You had questions, did you not?" she says, her tone impatient. "Ask them!"

[X] I ask the Intendant how she knows who I am.

The Intendant shakes her head.

"Your government gave us files on the list of Tierran officers in your army and their standing orders before departing Varsovia. Standard procedure," she replies as if nothing could have been simpler.

You hide your puzzlement as best you can. As far as you know, your government would never reveal such information to the representatives of a foreign power, especially one possessing relatively cordial relations with Antar. Perhaps Eckharts is hiding something.

"Did you have any more substantive questions to ask?"

[X] Ask the Intendant about what she is doing in Antar.

The Intendant chews her lip in annoyance. Clearly, she has been asked the question half a hundred times before.

"I am here on the orders of his Imperial Majesty, Reskin vam Paulus, Aldkizern vam diir Takara. My sole instructions were to observe your army and report my recommendations to the Imperial government. My words and the words of my counterpart embedded in Prince Khorobirit's army, will determine our policy in this conflict: or rather, if we are to intervene."

"Will you?" Elson asks nervously. "Intervene, I mean?"

Your captain has very good reason to be anxious. The Takaran Empire fields one of the finest land armies in the world and the largest navy besides. Takaran intervention in favour of one side or another would less tip the balance of power than upend it entirely.

Eckharts gives a harsh bark of a laugh, answering anxiety with dismissal. "This long stalemate suits us perfectly. If Tierra and the League are at each other's throats, they are not encroaching on our monopolies or spheres of interest. Regardless of who wins, both sides will be exhausted. The Antari will be humbled, and Tierra, well, I doubt there will be enough of Tierra left to give us much trouble for at least a century."

There is a shocked silence for a moment as you process the sheer insignificance that the Takarans attribute to the war around you. The thought is sobering, frightening, and more than a little bit infuriating. The Takaran sips her wine as you do so, watching you and Elson's shocked expressions with something quite akin to pleasure.

"Anything else you wished to ask of me?"

[X] Ask the Intendant about Takara.

The Intendant narrows her eyes at your question. "What is Takara like? The same as it has always been. Varsovia is a pit of enraged vultures, the Richsgraav vam Holt's slut of a son is stirring up trouble in the Senate again, and the Minister of the Fleet will be committing public ritual suicide within the month if the allegations of graft and corruption are true."

Eckharts's tone is disdainful to the extreme. Captain Viztelas opens her mouth as if to object, but the Intendant cuts her off with a sharp motion of her fingers. "Yet, I would still give a leg and both my ears to be there…"

She looks at those around her, you included, with an expression of pure contempt. "…and not here."

[X] Ask the Intendant for her opinion on the state of the Tierran Army.

A vicious ghost of a smile flashes across the Intendant's lips as you ask her opinion on the Royal Army. "Where do I start? From what I have seen of your army, your musketry is sloppy, and your tactics are primitive. I can say without a trace of irony that I have seen schoolchildren with better drill. It is the sheer ineptitude of the Antari forces which keeps you alive and fighting. Nothing more, nothing less."

Elson replies before you do. "Surely, the talents of our senior officers and statesmen must have something to do with our successes in the field."

Eckharts sneers at your squadron commander's words.

"I was a mynschen of sixteen when your Edwin d'al Rendower proclaimed your petty little kingdom from the heap of stones that you call the Northern Keep. Since then, I have met many of your countrymen. Out of those, I have met one worthy of my respect, a diplomat and a man of a far greater family than you."

You feel your curiosity getting the better of you. "Who might that be?"

The Intendant dismisses your question with a flick of her fingers. "It doesn't matter. He is long dead, and his line extinct."

The Takaran's eyes seem to focus elsewhere for a moment, towards one of the far, darkened corners of the hall. "Or rather, it will be soon enough."

Echkarts takes another sip of wine, effectively declaring the topic closed. "Was there anything else?"

[X] I take my leave.

You make your excuses. Perhaps you will find a less abrasive group of people to speak with. Eckharts doesn't seem to care either way. "Very well. Come Viztelas, let us see if we cannot find a few less ignorant individuals."

The more junior of the two Takarans leans in as the Intendant turns to leave.

"She's really not that bad of a sort once you get to know her," she says, quietly and apologetically.

"Now, Viztelas." The Intendant's tone is clearly impatient.

"Not that bad?" Elson sneers quietly to you as the two Takarans make their retreat. "No, dear fellow, I reckon she's worse."

-​

As you begin to make your way toward Cazarosta, Elson takes you aside by the elbow.

"Are you quite sure that's wise, dear fellow?" he asks quietly, his smile obviously forced.

"Why would it not be? He is my friend," you reply.

The Captain frowns. "Of course, but he is still deathborn. Your superiors will think you a man of low principles if they see you favouring the company of a… fellow of his sort over your own kind."

[] "Perhaps you are right. I will seek company elsewhere."
[] "No, I shall insist on speaking with him: Cazarosta is my friend, and it would be rude not to."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "No, I shall insist on speaking with him: Cazarosta is my friend, and it would be rude not to."

Elson purses his lips and looks at you with concern. "Just don't speak with him for too long. I'll be here if you need me," he says before retreating to a comfortable distance from Cazarosta's dark corner.

Cazarosta is far less sullen than you have expected. In fact, his expression as he observes the proceedings, a glass of dark red wine in his hand, seems almost serene.

"Hmm? Castleton?" He purses his lips as you approach. "Should you rather not be out there—" he gestures with his wine glass at the mass of officers surrounding Wulfram and his staff "—than in this dark corner with me?"

You shrug as nonchalantly as you can manage. "I'd rather speak with you awhile."

A pale ghost of a smile passes over Cazarosta's lips. "Is that so?" It is an invitation to proceed further. A tacit one, but there nonetheless.

[X] Ask why Cazarosta is not taking part in the proceedings.

Cazarosta's eyebrow raises as you pose the question. "Proceedings? You mean, rather, to ask why I am not playing the same game as the other officers: currying favour with their superiors so that they might call on them in some time of need?"

When you confirm this, the deathborn officer shrugs nonchalantly. You find it likely that he could have responded to an accusation of high treason in the same cold manner.

"Simple, Castleton: it is because, as your brother banebloods do not hesitate to remind me, I am not one of them. I was never one of them. They have their parts to play, as do I. The Saints did not make me to play the parts of those men, nor they, mine. That is how the world works: we are born into our roles, we are given our blessings and our curses, and made to serve a purpose. There is no escape from that."

Cazarosta locks gazes with you, his tone and expression serene. "I am not a Baneblood, but I was born to a great fortune, a good father, and skills few other men possess. I believe the Saints have set me upon my path. Attempting to change its course or take the purpose of some other man would be as unnatural as a fish deciding one day to fly."

The other officer pauses for a moment, taking a sip of wine as he does. "Is that not so?"

[X] Ask why Cazarosta joined the army in the first place.

Cazarosta leans back against the wall, twirling his wine languidly in one hand.

"A straightforward question," he finally says. "One with a straightforward answer."

The deathborn officer tilts his head towards you as if casually discussing the weather.

"I may not have been born with your blood, or your lineage, but the Saints did make me with certain gifts with which to fulfill their purpose. You are well aware that I am rated an excellent swordsman, a marksman of some skill, and a rider of more than average proficiency. I was given the finest of educations and a stigma of birth which does not burden me with the same… restrictions enforced upon gentlemen of the blood."

Cazarosta grins, a cold slash of a smile. "In simplest terms, it was the will of the Saints that the army be my life. Would you not think that so?

Before you can reply, Cazarosta shakes his head.

"You ask why I 'chose' to do this or 'chose' to do that, when in fact, choice does not enter into the matter at all. The Saints create us for a purpose. Each of us is a part of their great machine, and we have no choice but to do what we were made to do. This is what drives us to our actions, our functions within workings that we have no concept of, to a purpose that we shall never know in this life or the next. Our purpose for existence is to fulfill our parts and await whatever is planned as our fate after."

The Deathborn speaks slowly, in an almost poetic measure at a constant stream of words. You find no way to interrupt him.

"We are sabres in the hands of infinity, Castleton, to move and act as we are bid. The fact that we sometimes have second thoughts in obeying gives us the delusion that we have some ability to determine our fates, that we are born with the freedom to choose our actions: to be kind or cruel, good or evil. That is mankind's most glorious and beautiful dream, but it is a delusion nonetheless."

Cazarosta drains the remainder of his wine in a single swallow.

"Now I suggest you take your leave," he says matter-of-factly. "People are beginning to take notice."

Indeed, when you look back over your shoulder, you see more than one of your fellow attendees watching you. One fellow, a rather proper-looking older gentleman in some foreign uniform or other, stares slack-jawed as if you had just set his child on fire.

When you look back to make your goodbyes, your fellow Dragoon is gone, off to seek another glass of wine and, more likely than not, a lonelier corner.

Thankfully, Elson is still waiting for you as you walk away, assuring you that your exchange with Cazarosta was brief enough not to put any enduring stain upon your reputation.

Before you can take another look around, you hear the tapping of a spoon against a glass; faint at first, but as the bubbling sound of a dozen conversations recedes, the ringing sound becomes louder and louder.

Within moments, the entire hall is silent save for the sound of a single spoon clattering against a single glass. Those in the centre of the chamber move aside to reveal the source of the noise: the Earl of Castermaine and beside him, the commander of all Tierran forces in Antar, the Duke of Wulfram.

"Thank you, Castermaine. That will do." His imperious voice brings the table to silence. The old general sweeps his eyes over the room as a hush falls over the assembled delegates and officers.

"Guests, delegates of foreign governments, brother officers," he finally begins. "We have certainly come a long way, have we not? Not six years ago, we were barely an army: a few thousand ragged, unseasoned volunteers in a strange land, without fortification, without shelter, and with only the mad hope of a young king to drive us to victory. Now we are firmly entrenched in a land which once thought it could crush us effortlessly, and our King's hopes, well, they do seem a bit more sensible now, do they not?"

A smattering of laughter, most of it nervous, comes from the crowd. Many did think the King mad when he put into train his Antari adventure. By the look of vindicated pride on the old general's face, you can tell that Wulfram was not one of them.

"'Tis a long, difficult road that we have marched down all these years, but Saints be willing, we have seen the end not so far ahead of us! Soon now, we shall meet the Antari in battle and break their army in the open field. We shall bring them to the negotiating table, and there shall be no more complaints of dishonourable tactics or insubstantial setbacks on their end. We will have them beaten before the eyes of the Saints and all men; we shall, in the eyes of the world, have claimed victory!"

Thankfully, nobody is uncouth enough to cheer at Wulfram's words, though the expected wave of polite applause is, perhaps, a bit louder than usual.

"To bring that victory, we must have each man do his utmost to secure it. Let there be no talk of retreats, withdrawals, stalemates, or cutting our losses. His Majesty has always expected his servants to do their duty. In the past few years, I have been ever prideful of the fact that we have not disappointed him. Let us not falter now: let our duty be victory, and let us see it through! Saints guard the King!"

The whole room seems to reply, every glass raised in salute, including yours. "Saints guard the King!"

-​

Wulfram's words ring in your ears for the entire evening, throughout the banquet and the toasts that follow. They continue to resonate even as you return to your quarters, your mind intoxicated with the spectre of a final victory and a good deal of very fine wine.

You sleep that night, dreaming of the end of the war: a vision with a tint of a nightmare, returning home merely to fight another struggle against some other foreign land.

In the end, it is a knock on your door that shakes you free of your thoughts on the war's impending end. You dress quickly in the dim early morning light and open the door to find Staff Sergeant Lanzerel with a new set of orders: to investigate a forward listening post to the north that had failed to report in.

You ready yourself and call out your men in a sort of fugue state. As soon as your men are in formation and riding up the old imperial highway, your thoughts return to that of an end to the conflict which has shaped so much of your life. It is as if you were only half-awake, drugged, or in love. Whenever your mind is not pressed by some urgent matter of patrol, you think only of the peace which is soon to come.

You are still thinking about it when you feel the ground tremble, and your mind begins pulling and straining upon itself in a way you have never felt since your last visit to Aetoria so long ago.

There is almost no need to confirm your suspicion but you do it anyways. You ride forward, field telescope in hand, and see with your own eyes the advancing vanguard of Prince Khorobirit's Antari army.

 

[Rogue Attican]

CHAPTER XI
Wherein the cavalry officer fights a great BATTLE as part of the army of the DUKE OF WULFRAM.​

When attempting to estimate the approximate strength of an enemy force, the King's regulations recommend that a scout first reason out the average size of a force marching behind a single banner, then count the number of banners in the entire force. From long experience, you already know that Antari battalions usually number three or four hundred men: Lords of the Congress do not usually spare more in their effort to support the war. You also know that it is not uncommon for the Antari to assemble armies of twenty or even thirty banners in their mighty attempts to throw the Tierran army into the sea. Over the last six years, you have even heard news of an army of forty-five banners broken up and defeated only at great cost and effort.

You have almost counted your eightieth when one of your Dragoons taps you on the shoulder.

"Sir? Staff Sergeant Lanzerel's compliments, sir. He's asking what's ahead of us."

It is supremely difficult to put into words: the sight of hundreds, if not thousands of Church Hussars in their massive banded armour atop great white horses, the sheer solid mass of Antari infantry in their tens of thousands, the fierce-faced hellions of the central plains; looking more like the mother of all barbarian hordes. The sight of each by themselves would be enough to drive a poet to tears of frustration. Altogether, coupled with the overpowering miasma of raw steel, gunpowder, manure, and the savage tug of bane-might, you could not even begin to encapsulate the still-distant but gargantuan presence of Khorobirit's army now advancing upon you like an incoming tide of soldiery, horseflesh, and steel.

There are no words to describe it. You can only hand your spyglass over. The common-born Dragoon puts the field telescope to his eye and sees for himself.

"Saint Octavia's bouncing tits," he whispers, slackjawed. "How could there be so many?"

You shake your head. Never have you seen a force of such gargantuan size. Without hesitation, you quickly scribble as much as you can onto a scrap of paper and swing yourself up to your saddle. Within minutes, your troop is riding hard back toward Noringia.

Thankfully, an army of forty thousand moves at the pace of a tortoise. Even with a screen of light cavalry and scouts moving through the forest on foot, Khorobirit's forces never had a chance of catching up to your men as you all but ride your horses into the ground on the hasty journey southwards.

You reach Noringia after two days at the rickety pace of a near-constant trot. Sweaty, ragged, and dusty, you burst into the Duke of Cunaris's office just before sundown.

"Castleton? By the Saints! What is the meaning of this?" Cunaris demands as you stagger up to his desk. Throat parched and raw from dust and the exertions of travel, you can only reply by setting your sweat-stained, soiled, and hastily written report on the table.

Your colonel's face turns ashen as he reads your missive.

"Saints have mercy," you hear him whisper, his voice full of terrible awe. Cunaris shoves the message into the fold of his tunic as he springs up from his seat.

"Come with me, Lieutenant," he commands, heading for the door. You have little choice but to obey.

You do not find it easy to keep up with the Duke of Cunaris's long, hurried strides, with your legs and hindquarters as weary as they are from your mad ride south. Thankfully, you do not have to maintain pace for long. Your colonel's destination is no more than a few hundred paces away from your regimental office: the headquarters of the Duke of Wulfram.

-​

If anything, the Duke of Wulfram's reaction to your news is the exact opposite of Cunaris's: it is the first time you have ever seen the old general truly smile.

"What fine news, gentlemen!" Wulfram exclaims as he pours himself a celebratory glass of a Kentauri whisky likely older and worth more than you are. "So young Khorobirit has proven himself the fool after all! I had feared that the Antari would split their forces in an attempt to take advantage of their numbers. Now we might face all of them on ground of our own choosing. Better yet, once we break them, we shall have the entire summer and autumn to advance into Central Antar, and the Congress shall have no armies to stop us!"

Cunaris does not seem particularly convinced. "Sir, the Antari still outnumber us two to one. Does that not worry you in the slightest?"

The Duke of Wulfram shakes his head as he fills two more glasses, offering one to Cunaris and another to you. "Damnation, Cunaris! Do you trust me so little as to think that I've not a plan for this eventuality? We may discuss it later. For now, let us toast this welcome news and the bravery of the young man who has brought it to us!"

The glass shimmers red in the dying sunlight as you raise it. The whisky is smoky and rich as it burns its way down your throat.

"Now then, Lieutenant," Wulfram says as he places his empty glass on the table. "What are your opinions on this? Surely, you can see the great opportunity for victory we have before us?"

You swallow nervously: it is not every day that a mere lieutenant is asked a question by his army's commander. You think carefully and reply:

[] "Absolutely, sir. I am confident in our chances of victory."
-[] I actually am confident in our victory.
-[] I'm not as confident as I sound, but it's not all dissembling.
-[] I'm lying, of course.

[] "I've my doubts, but I believe that if anyone could deliver us victory, it is you, sir."

[] "I cannot say I have confidence that we shall come out of this victorious."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Absolutely, sir. I am confident in our chances of victory."
-[X] I'm not as confident as I sound, but it's not all dissembling.

Wulfram smiles triumphantly. "There! You see, Cunaris? Your lad is in my corner!"

Cunaris does not respond: even he sees the lack of wisdom in pressing against Wulfram's optimistic prediction. "What is your plan for this victory then, sir?" He asks, deftly changing the subject.

The old general smiles as he pours himself another glass.

"Call a meeting, Cunaris: brigade commanders, their staff, regimental commanders, and their lieutenant colonels, if you would so please. I will outline our course of action tonight so that we might begin the march northwards tomorrow."

Your colonel nods. "Anything else, sir?"

"Yes. This young officer and his troop should be rewarded: set them at liberty for the remainder of the evening." Cunaris nods. Wulfram turns to you. "Do not think me ungrateful, lad. I will have you made captain next time I speak with His Majesty, in a better regiment of your choosing. You have my word."

If Cunaris takes any umbrage at Wulfram's implication of the low character of your regiment, he does not show it. Even a man as powerful as he must tread carefully around the Duke of Wulfram. The old general sits back, glass in hand. "Enjoy your evening, Lieutenant. Dismissed."

-​

Your first priorities for the evening are a bath and a proper meal, in that order. By the time you have eaten and made yourself presentable, the darkness of night has fallen upon Noringia in full force. As you look up at the bright stars, a thought occurs to you that this may be the last night you will ever spend in town. After all, you are to depart for what is likely to be the greatest battle in Tierran history come the morning, and even triumphant armies do not win battles without losses.

You resolve that you must make what could be your last night in Noringia count for something. A number of possibilities come to mind: you have not spent the past six years without making acquaintances, after all. You decide to find Cazarosta.

Caius d'al Cazarosta does not prove to be a hard man to find. You know enough of his piety to seek him out at Noringia's shrine first, a hunch that proves correct.

The deathborn Dragoon is not the only Tierran soldier in the cold stone edifice. There are dozens of soldiers, banebloods and common-born alike, kneeling in prayer before their patron or preferred Saints. Cazarosta is among them, lips flickering in silent prayer as he kneels before an icon of Saint Talbot. You wait for him to finish: there are hours enough left in the evening, and you know Cazarosta too well to begrudge him his faith.

"Castleton," he finally says as he looks up to face you, his prayer finished. "I saw you following Cunaris into Wulfram's office earlier today. Might I assume that you have found Khorobirit's army and that we are to march to meet the Antari tomorrow?"

You nod, wondering how Cazarosta could have determined such a thing.

"Good," he says quietly, in the cold voice you have grown used to hearing from him. "Then my purpose may be soon at an end."

To be honest, Cazarosta's fatalism puzzles you: out of all of your acquaintances, he seems most able to handle himself on the field of battle. "Why? Do you think you might die in the battle?"

The other Dragoon shakes his head. "I rise every day knowing that I might die. However, if the Saints wish me to give my life for their plan, this would seem a perfect time: No captain would sell their commission to a Deathborn so I may advance no further in rank. Our war, and my last chance to make a reputation for myself, seems almost at an end. If the Saints had some grand purpose, this would be the best time, is that not so?"

You nod again. Cazarosta's reasoning does make sense from his rather warped point of view, except for one thing: "If you think you're going to die, why bother praying at all?"

The Deathborn smiles, a cold and empty thing. His eyes slide toward the icon propped up against the stone wall.

"Saint Talbot died at the Battle of Montjoy, leading a hopeless cavalry charge against Edwin the Strong's infantry squares. Some remember his bravery; all I can recall is the pointlessness of his martyrdom. My only wish is for my death to have a purpose: for it to leave something behind other than the admiration of idiots whom I will never meet."

"Why are you telling me this?" you hear yourself say.

Cazarosta meets your gaze, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Because nobody else would listen."

The other Dragoon stands up. "Saints go with you, Castleton."

It is only when he walks away that you realize he is saying goodbye.

-​

You find Elson in the officer's club, a glass of potato wine in his hand. Judging from how he sways upon his seat, you doubt it is his first or even fifth.

"Castleton! Come! Sit with me, dear fellow," he commands, his voice still clear and unslurred for now. As you sit down at your Squadron commander's table, he pours you a glass of your own and pushes it towards you. "Drink, dear fellow! Quickly too, before this place runs dry."

You pick up the short glass and look around. The familiar hall does seem to be more crowded than usual. Upon closer inspection, you realize that, like Elson, most of the officers present are in some stage of inebriation.

"They think that they shall be dead soon," Elson drawls in form of an explanation. "The Takarans are leaving."

The implication is obvious: Should the Tierran army lose its great battle, Khorobirit would no doubt proceed to take Noringia by storm. In such a scenario, even diplomatic immunity would not serve much protection for a foreign envoy of any sort.

Elson upends the contents of his glass into his open mouth and swallows roughly. "They think we are bound to lose, Castleton. I see nothing to dispute their prediction."

"What are we to do then?" You ask, more out of curiosity regarding Elson's thoughts than anything else. Your captain's only response is to shrug and pour himself another drink.

"We shall drink, and we shall forget, I would hope. We shall spend two or three days marching north, too busy to think on it. Wulfram shall give a fine speech. We shall fight a great battle. We shall win, and nobody will ever speak of this night again."

Elson's tone is flat and dead; even his words of optimism seem nothing more than a shabby mask.

"Is that what you really think will happen?" You hear yourself say.

The Captain shakes his head. "No, it is what I hope will happen. The Saints have spent the last six years educating me on the difference."

You find that you have nothing more to say. The two of you spend the next few minutes drinking in silence before the tension grows too intolerable, and you make your goodbyes.

-​

[] Seek out Colonel Hunter and Major Hartigan.
[] I spend the evening with my men.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I spend the evening with my men.

Over the past six years, the constant influx of Tierran soldiers has led to a commensurate increase in dives, ginshops, and other taverns for men of low breeding along the Noringia waterfront. It isn't difficult to find the one where your men are congregating.

You find your men huddled around a long table, mugs of dark beer in hand. They see you as you approach. Some of them shift over to give you room on the bench — a good sign. One of your men, a sergeant who had entered service under your command as a regular Dragoon half a decade ago, raises his mug and leans in towards you. "So, the old wolf going to scrap with the Antari?"

You nod.

"Then we're like to get killed soon, some of us, eh?"

You nod again.

"And you, sir? You like to get killed maybe too?"

"I would hope not, but it is a distinct possibility." Had it been any other time, in any other tone of voice, from any other group of men, your subordinate's words would have been a naked threat. This night, however, the circumstances are different.

The common-born Dragoon clears his throat. "Then I best say this now, in case one of us don't make it back."

He turns to the end of the table, where Lanzerel sits listening. "Staff-Sarge, your permission?"

Lanzerel nods carefully as if even he were not sure what would be said next.

"Sir, it's been five years since I first served under your command. In those years, I've seen you on your good days and your bad. I can't say you've turned us into the best-drilled lads in the King's army 'cause we ain't. I can't say that we're the fiercest lot o' knaves in the world because we've seen fiercer. What I can say is that there are men who'd bend their own sisters over and bugger them blind if you asked 'em too, and I'm proud enough to name meself one of them. So here's to you, sir!" He shouts as he raises his mug. "Here's to the only baneblooded git in an army of baneblooded gits daft enough and good enough to drink with his own men! To Lieutenant Castleton!"

"Castleton!" Your men cheer as they too hoist their mugs high and drain them.

You turn away as they cheer your name again. After all, it would not do for soldiers of the King's Army to see the tears in their commanding officer's eyes.

-​

The march north drags on for an eternity and a half. For those used to the rapid pace of cavalry operations, the kilometres-long, mostly orange-coated ribbon that is the Duke of Wulfram's army seems to travel at a crawl.

Thankfully, Cunaris has managed to place your regiment near the head of the whole army. Judging by the amount of mud and manure and other debris that the three or four thousand men in front of you leave, you cannot particularly feel much envy for the line infantry regiments that make up the rearguard.

Due to the turning of the road, you cannot ever see more than a small portion of the army ahead of or behind you, even from your saddle. All you know of the fifteen thousand men beyond your sight are the stench of an army on the move and the sound of thousands of male voices. As with any large number of men in movement, the men sing to keep their spirits up and their feet in step. For three days, the forests of Southern Antar ring with the words of "The March of the King's Chosen," "The Last Grenadier," "Bloody Straight Silver," and "The Maid as Sweet as Sorrow" as the men of the King's Army march on under the summer sun.

On the evening of the third day, when the songs have all been sung and you have begun to grow accustomed even to the overpowering smell of raw steel, powder, and horseshit, the army makes camp at the opening of a great clearing in the ruins of an old town and the shadow of the two great towers of a crumbling stone castle. Even from perhaps ten kilometres away, you can see the vast billows of smoke that issue from the sentinel lights and cookfires of the enemy.

You bed down that night, knowing that the next morning will see the greatest battle of your life.

-​

Early the next morning, when the sun is no more than a wistful sigh of light on the horizon, you are called, along with every other troop and squadron commander in the regiment, to the Duke of Cunaris's headquarters for a briefing.

"Gentlemen, it seems the Saints have given us a fine day for sabre work," he says, resplendent in his bane-hardened plate, as you and your fellow officers settle in around the large map in the centre of the appropriated farmhouse. "Better yet now that we know that the Antari have not shown sufficient alacrity to seize the high ground."

You understand what your colonel means as soon as you look at the map: A ridge runs across the open expanse of the clearing, perhaps the height of a two-story house. Instead of taking it quickly, as expected, the Antari had apparently ceded the advantageous terrain to your own army.

"Since we have the ridge," Cunaris continues, "the Duke of Wulfram has decided to position the main line of our infantry atop this high ground. Our artillery will be placed in two batteries. The first one here, in between Castermaine and Tourbridge's brigades." Cunaris points at a salient in the ridge that juts out northwards in a gentle curve. "The second, here: at the left flank of Havenport's brigade."

The Duke looks up at each of you. "You may have noticed that such a deployment would leave the second battery exposed from the left: that is where we shall come in. Wulfram expects that the Antari will attempt to charge those guns. However, we shall be covering them from here." Cunaris taps at a point on the map at a fanciful sketch of a ruined castle. "We shall take up hidden positions before the morning sheds too much light upon us. That will allow us to deploy in secret: the Antari will not know of our presence until we open fire upon them."

Cunaris is interrupted by a raised hand. "Have you a question, Captain Elson?"

Your squadron commander nods. "Does this mean we shall not be fighting mounted, sir?"

The Duke nods in return. "My orders from Wulfram are to dismount and fight from cover."

His tone leaves no room for dissension. Elson's disappointment is palpable, but Cunaris pays it no mind. "I will require every one of you to be as alert as possible. We've no sign of the Antari Church Hussars. The peacocks haven't shown their faces quite yet."

A wave of murmurs washes over the room. Some of your fellow officers actually cheer. If the deadly Antari Church Hussars are missing from the field, the battle would likely be much easier.

One of the regiment's more senior officers, a Major, does not share this optimism. He leans forward and points to a spot on the map six or seven hundred paces in front of the extreme right flank of your line. "What about here, sir? The foliage is green enough to hide their bane signature, and from what I saw of it last night, it is certainly tall enough to hide things a great deal bigger than a few thousand men on horses."

Cunaris shakes his head. "Wulfram is of the opinion that the underbrush and floor are too rough to be passable by cavalry. This means that the Hussars are most likely to try to strike from the opposite flank, our flank. The ground is more open there. Therefore, we must assume that shall be so, am I made clear? We must assume the Hussars will hit our flank and be prepared for that eventuality."

Your brow furrows as you look at the area marked as the forest in question. For a moment, you consider asking Cunaris if scouts had at least been sent to ensure the area had been free of the enemy; but it is too late. Your errant thoughts are quickly drowned out by the "Yes, sir!" of the men around you. The moment to discuss such matters is already past.

With the issue settled, the Colonel continues along the course of his briefing. "Major Keane, you will liaise with the Duke of Wulfram's staff. Lieutenant Colonel Marras, you will take your Sixth Squadron and set up fighting positions in the Eastern tower. I will take Third and Fourth Squadrons and do the same in the Western Tower. Am I made clear?"

You nod with the other officers. It would take a drooling idiot to misread his orders.

The Colonel nods. "Very good then, gentlemen." He pauses for a moment as if thinking of something substantial to mark the occasion. "My fellow Dragoons, this town that we are standing in is called Blogia. The castle which we are to hold is the castle of Blogia. Remember that name well, gentlemen, for although it may seem strange to us now, it will be the word on everyone's lips soon enough. To your tasks, and may the Saints watch over you. Dismissed."

-​

The regiment rides to its assigned position in darkness. The only thing you can see of the towers you are to defend are their black shadows jutting into the slowly brightening sky.

However, even in the pre-dawn gloom, you can see that your squadron commander is not in the best of spirits, sitting slouched in the saddle.

"Is this to be the only riding we are to do all day?" You hear Elson mutter to himself. "I've the finest squadron of horse in the King's Army under my command, and they will not even suffer us to ride into battle."

Now would be a good time to speak up if you wished:

[] Remind Elson how vital our regiment's task is likely to be.
[] Try to cheer him up.
[] Say nothing and keep riding.