[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.
-
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."
...
