[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.
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."
