quote:

"I command the whole of the army's horse, sir," Cunaris replies. "As much as I would wish to lead the Dragoons in person, I cannot devote myself to a single regiment when there are half a dozen more which shall require my attention."

You nod. Of course, the Duke could hardly fulfil both roles at once.

"In such a situation, the more senior post must take precedence," Cunaris concludes, "which is why I must entrust my regiment to you."

quote:

"There is no need to thank me, Sancroix," Cunaris replies. "I have read the reports of your conduct at Kharangia and with the King's division," he continues. "Do you know what they tell me?"

You shake your head. "I do not, sir."

"They tell me that time and time again, you have proven yourself to be a solid fighting officer and a steady leader of men," the Duke replies, "that you are a first-class soldier with experience, seniority, and no small amount of competence."

He looks to you, eyebrow raised as if challenging you to disagree. "What confidence I have in you has been well-earned, Sancroix, and I have no doubt that you will continue to prove yourself worthy of it."

You can offer little, save a nod in reply.

Cunaris nods back. "See to my regiment, Colonel. Dismissed."

quote:

Havenport's division is encamped in a vast fortified cantonment outside of Kharangia, an immense scar of canvas, bare earth, and fortification cut into the open plains north of the city. Close enough to the River Kharan to control its crossings yet far more difficult to encircle or surprise than the walled city itself, it is here that the two divisions of the Tierran army finally combine their forces for the first time in two years.

The Dragoon encampment is in the northeastern corner of the camp, abutted on two sides by the fortified ditch and immense earthen rampart which surrounds the cantonment on all sides. It is into the shadow of this great barrier that you lead the men of your squadron to set up camp and prepare for the battle that Cunaris seems so sure is coming.

It is not just Cunaris, either. The rumour has already spread throughout the forces of Havenport's division, and it soon spreads to the camps of the King's men, as well: Khorobirit is coming, with the whole of his power, to throw the Tierran army into the sea or destroy himself in the attempt. They are no ordinary rumours, for even the most senior of officers seem to believe them; you can only assume that they came from some reputable source, some forward scouting party or perhaps even Royal Intelligence.

So, it is no wonder that you spend the next few days in feverish preparation; horses are reshod, sabres honed, worn flints replaced with fresh-cut ones, all in advance of the moment which the over twenty thousand men of the combined army awaits, the moment in which some official announcement is made and rumour is given substance.

On your fourth day in camp, that moment comes.

quote:

That morning, Marion tells you the news as he serves you breakfast.

"A runner from Havenport's staff came by while you were sleeping, sir," he informs you as he sets down your tea. "He told me to tell you that there is to be a meeting at His Grace's tent at eleven o'clock, and that you are required to attend."

"Did he mention specifically what this meeting is meant to address?" you ask as you begin to spoon sugar into your Kian-style congee.

Marion shakes his head. "He did not, sir, though he did say that the meeting was of utmost importance, and that the commander of every regiment was required to attend, which can really only mean one thing."

You nod. There is no other reason why Havenport would see the need to bring together every single senior officer in the army.

"Prince Khorobirit is coming," you conclude aloud.

Your bat-man nods. "Prince Khorobirit is coming," he echoes, "and soon."

quote:

It is a quarter to eleven by the time you finish dealing with the morning's crises. Only then are you able to throw on your good jacket, buckle your dress sabre, and make your way down to the Duke of Havenport's massive command tent in the centre of the cantonment.

You are almost to the entrance when you find yourself met by a small group of officers, their forest-green trousers and jackets splattered with spots of wet and splashes of river mud from the waist down. They stand with the relaxed posture of country gentlemen rather than the straight-legged rigour of line infantry or the bowlegged swagger of your fellow cavalrymen.

The man at their head, a tall, rangy major with a face which seems more angle than surface, salutes you with a languid cheerfulness as you approach them, only for his eyes to throw themselves wide with recognition as you come closer.

"Good morning, sir! Lieutenant-colonel Sancroix of the Dragoons, are you not?" he asks with a genteel enthusiasm which might almost excuse his borderline-uncivil forwardness.

You nod. "I am, sir," you reply, somewhat warily.

The other officer's face breaks out into a wide grin as he extends a hand towards you. "Wonderful! Might I have the honour of shaking your hand, sir?"

Your mind cannot help but reel. You have never met this man, yet he wants to shake your hand? "I would be happy to," you manage to reply, "though I do not think we have ever been introduced, Major…"

"Major Victor d'al Reyes, commanding officer of the Experimental Corps of Riflemen, at your service," he proclaims. "Your squadron rescued one of my officers last year; Lieutenant Lewes, I do not suppose you have forgotten him? He has told me all about you."

You smile back as you regain your footing. "All of it good, I would hope?" you reply smoothly.

"Nothing but compliments, glowing ones at that," the Experimental officer replies brightly. He leans in as if to tell you a secret. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think that he was wanting to go to bed with you."

"Not while there's a war on, sir," replies a deeper, rougher, more familiar voice from the rear of the group. "That's against the King's Articles; I'm only for women while we're still in Antar," Lieutenant Lewes intones as he shifts his way forward, dark blond hair glittering in the morning sun.

"Behave yourself, Cedric," Reyes answers chidingly, his words laden with an exaggerated pretension. "You're an officer and a gentleman for the duration, and that means you must act scandalised whenever a brother officer speaks of anything save poetry and killing."

"Apologies, sir," Lewes replies, feigning contrition. "I'm not much good at acting scandalised."

"Then you must practise, sir!" Reyes answers with jocular ease. "You must practise!"

quote:

"I thought the Experimentals were still at Fort Kharan?"

"Oh, we were," Reyes answers. "We were just ordered down here little more than four weeks ago."

"I was under the impression that Fort Kharan is being besieged by a large Antari force," you reply. "How did you make it out?"

"Fort Kharan was being besieged by a large Antari force," Reyes replies. "They made the mistake of stockpiling all of their winter rations in a single place, so about a month before the first snows, Lewes and I led a dozen men through their camp and set the whole thing ablaze; we smelled like burnt turnips and charred buckwheat for six whole days."

"They couldn't bring more supplies down, not with the roads as bad as they were during the autumn rains and winter not a few weeks away," Lewes explains, "so they had to either lift the siege or starve to death. They chose to run. We routed eight thousand Antari without losing a man."

"There's no doubt the enemy are planning to make another attempt this year," Reyes adds, "though if we are fortunate here, we shall not give them the chance."

quote:

"What have the Experimentals been doing since you left Fort Kharan?"

"What we are best at, sir: reconnaissance," Reyes replies cheerfully. "I trust you are familiar with the rumours, the ones about Prince Khorobirit leaving his winter camp and marching down to attack us as soon as the spring melt ends and the river is crossable?"

Of course you are. By this point, you would be surprised if knowledge of those rumours had not yet reached Aetoria itself. "Are they true? The rumours, I mean?" you ask.

Lewes nods, his face grim. "Every single word of it; Khorobirit hasn't just left his winter camp, he's burned it to the ground. He's throwing everything at us, every gun, every horse, every bloody urchin with two legs and a pointed stick."

You feel a shiver work its way down your spine, though you do not know if it is one of excitement or fear. So, the rumours are true. "It is to be a fight, then?" you ask, giving voice to the question to which all three of you already know the answer.

"It is, sir," Reyes replies gravely. "I do believe it is."

quote:

"I'm happy to see Lieutenant Lewes is well."

For once, Lewes does not have a bitter reply held in reserve. "Thank you for your concern, sir," he replies with a stiltedness that borders on the rehearsed, "and I apologise if I gave any offence during our last encounter. My men owe you their lives, a service which warrants gratitude, not abuse."

For all of its awkwardness, the green-jacketed Lieutenant's show of gratitude seems to you an entirely earnest one.

"We weren't going to turn down a scrap with the Antari, Lieutenant," you reply with a vicious grin. "Besides, it got us an escort to Fort Kharan, didn't it?"

For a moment, there is an awkward silence between the three of you as the ruffianish Lieutenant seems to struggle to say something further.

"Listen, sir," he finally manages with a considerable amount of effort. "I know that sounded like something I read off a scrap of paper, but I'm serious; my men and I owe you our lives. Our camp's by the south end of the cantonment, in between the 7th of Foot and the engineers. If you should ever have the opportunity to visit, we'd be happy to have you."

Reyes nods. "Agreed. You saved my men, sir. We'd be happy to save you a drink in return."

quote:

"Are you always this familiar with your subordinates, Major?"

"You mean to ask if I always endeavour to cultivate an atmosphere of ease betwixt myself and the men under my command?" Reyes asks rhetorically. "I do."

"What you call an atmosphere of ease, some might think a lack of discipline," you reply.

The other officer nods. "They might," he concedes, "but the sort of reflexive obedience that keeps the infantrymen of a line battalion alive will kill a rifleman of the Experimental Corps; a man cannot win a forest skirmish by drillbook. He must think on his feet, respond to changing circumstances, and take the initiative quickly. He cannot do that if he feels the need to ask permission each time he wishes to take cover or fire his rifle."

Reyes's explanation makes some amount of sense, though you understand somewhat better why some of your fellow officers might view the Experimentals with suspicion or disgust.

"In short," Reyes concludes, "if I seem overly familiar with my men, it is not merely due to personal preference but to military necessity, as well."

quote:

"Excuse me, sirs, I have pressing business; good day, gentlemen."

Reyes nods. "Of course, sir, I apologise for having detained you. Good day, sir."

Lewes nods to you as well. "Good day, sir, and thank you again for helping my men," he says as he passes you by.

You continue on to the command tent under a distinct cloud of unease.

To have heard the rumours and to intellectually know that there was some grain of truth to them is one thing. To hear them confirmed by a man who had seen the truth of it with his own eyes is quite another.

Now that truth is unavoidable, inescapable: Khorobirit is marching for you this very moment, his forces perhaps only two or three days away, an endless horde of peasant infantry, invincible tides of Church Hussars, and who knows what else.

You walk into the Duke of Havenport's pavilion with a sense of dread, knowing that the meeting to come will only confirm twice over what you already know is coming.

quote:

By the time you arrive at the Duke's pavilion, the immense structure is almost full to bursting. The entire space is a kaleidoscope of uniform jackets and gold braid.

Even above the normal smells of a military encampment, the air reeks of worry. The officers around you speak in hushed, anxious voices as you push your way past them towards the immense map-covered oaken table at the centre of the floor. Every man here knows or at least thinks he knows what is about to come, though few of them voice their thoughts aloud.

A few familiar faces greet you as you pass them by: Viscount Hugh of the 5th of Foot, Milton of the 11th, Lord Marcus Havenport commanding the Highlanders, Wiltshire of the 3rd of Horse, Palliser of the Lancers, all blooded and experienced officers, all of them looking as nervous as schoolboys.

You are not sure you can blame them. The last time a Tierran army staked this much upon a single decisive engagement had been Blogia, something which you are sure every man in the room, from the enlisted sentries at the door to the Duke of Havenport himself, must be uncomfortably aware of.

After a full minute and a half of 'beg-pardon's and 'excuse-me's, you finally get yourself situated near the centre of the tent, standing just behind the row of generals-of-brigade sitting at the edge of the table itself.

Your timing proves to be nearly perfect, for not a moment later, a shouted voice brings the room to a standstill. "Officers to attention!"

The pavilion falls silent to the crisp sound of three dozen pairs of bootheels snapping against each other. The crowd opposite you parts to let through a tall, powerfully built man, his shoulders swathed in a Kentauri parti-coloured cloak and his short-cropped auburn hair flecked with grey.

"At ease," the Duke of Havenport replies, matching gesture to words with a wave of his fingers. You feel your body relax by instinct as the Duke makes his way towards the centre of the tent.

"You all know why you are here, gentlemen," he declares as he takes his place at the head of the table, "so let us not waste our time; to business."

quote:

Havenport looks over the table, his expression grave but confident. "First, allow me to confirm what many of you have already suspected: early this morning, our forward scouts reported that Prince Khorobirit has left his winter camp and is now advancing towards us with all of his power. At his current rate of movement, he shall be upon us in three days."

Worried murmurs rise from the officers around you, whispers of anxiety to mark the passage of dreaded conjecture from abstract truth to hard fact; that once again, a Tierran army shall have to face the White Bear of Khorobirit upon the open field of battle.

Yet Havenport remains serene. "Though some might consider such weighty news a harbinger of our destruction, I would beg to differ." The corner of the Lieutenant-general's mouth curls upward into something almost like a smile. "In fact, the current situation is our best opportunity not only to defeat Prince Khorobirit but to annihilate his army and break his power entirely."

More murmurs, this time of excitement. As afraid as your brother officers are, the Kentauri General's assured calm gives many of them hope.

The Duke pulls out a thin rod of willow as one of his aides pushes their way to the table and unfolds upon it a huge map displaying the last thirty kilometres or so of the River Kharan's course, right up until the point where it reaches Kharangia's harbour and empties into the Calligian Sea.

"The Antari have many advantages," Havenport begins, his willow rod flicking to the far end of the map, where Khorobirit's army is likely to approach. "Their infantry outnumbers ours by far, their light cavalry is more seasoned, and of course, they have their Church Hussars, heavy cavalry to which we have little answer."

You find yourself nodding along unconsciously. It was the Church Hussars which had nearly broken the Duke of Wulfram's army at Blogia, and given the chance, they could easily break Havenport here. Judging by the anxious looks on the faces of some of your fellows, you are not the only person thinking upon such matters.

Still, Havenport does not bat an eye, "Take heart, gentlemen, for every single one of the enemy's advantages is worthless. We hold the only advantage that matters." With the slightest hint of a smirk on his face, he moves the tip of his rod until the green end of the willow rests plainly on the blue ribbon coursing through the centre of the map.

"We have the river."

quote:

"We could ask for no greater defensive fortification than the River Kharan," Havenport explains. "With the bridges destroyed, the Antari shall be forced to ford the river at one of two dozen points. The water at the shallowest of these crossings comes up to a man's waist."

The Kentauri General leans back, slapping the end of his willow switch into the open palm of his hand with evident satisfaction. "I am sure the implications are clear to you, gentlemen; infantry cannot bring their numbers to bear when constricted by a narrow crossing, light horse cannot manoeuvre when they are flanked on both sides by deep water, and not even a Hussar's charger can manage a gallop whilst up to its belly in running water."

"So long as we hold the river," Havenport continues, punctuating each word with a tap of his willow against the edge of the table, "we can keep Khorobirit at bay."

"With all due respect, sir," calls out the Earl of Castermaine from his position at the far end of the table. "Holding Khorobirit at bay will only give us a stalemate, not a victory, and certainly not the crushing blow you have promised. At best, it will only fix the Antari in position."

"That is all I need it to do," Havenport replies, "for while the bulk of the army holds the crossings, we shall be ferrying our cavalry across Kharangia harbour. When Khorobirit piles his last reserves into our line of defence, our horse will sweep up from the coast and strike him in the rear."

"So long as the crossings hold against the full might of the enemy," Castermaine replies acidly. "If the Antari are able to make a breakthrough, they could swarm across the Kharan, overwhelm the defenders, then destroy our cavalry in detail. If this plan works, it will be the most brilliant victory of the war. If it fails, there will not be enough left of the army to burn the dead."

Havenport nods, gravely. "Which is why we cannot fail."

quote:

For a moment, there is quiet in the pavilion, a fresh pall of uncertainty, but only for a moment.

"If you are quite done speculating," Havenport begins, the commanding tenor of his voice ending the silence before it could sour once again into new mutterings of fear, "I would very much like to return to the task of ensuring that your dire predictions do not come to pass; I would rather dislike being dead."

The tent responds to the jest with only a furtive ripple of laughter. Kentauri are not, after all, known for their sense of humour. However, it does break the tension.

"Now, if I might continue," Havenport says, snatching up his willow switch yet again. "The order of battle for the river positions shall be as follows: Castermaine, you will anchor the left flank, from the walls of Kharangia to the first two fords. Your brigade will consist of both battalions of the 9th of Foot, the 1st of the 11th, and 2nd Battalion, Grenadiers. Matheson, your position…"

So it continues. Havenport moves his willow down the length of the riverbank, assigning his generals-of-brigade the battalions and squadrons they are to command, along with the crossings which they will be responsible for defending. In rapid succession, he assembles and assigns brigade after brigade, barely taking a breath in between.

Finally, he comes to the crossings on the far right flank, nearly seven kilometres from Kharangia's walls. "Cunaris. Your brigade shall hold the last three crossings—"

"My brigade, sir?" your immediate superior interrupts, confusion plain in his words and features. "I beg pardon, sir, but I was under the impression that I was to retain my command of the cavalry."

Havenport shakes his head. "Palliser will have the cavalry," he replies matter-of-factly. "You shall have the right flank."

"With all due respect to Colonel Palliser, he has commanded the Lancers for less than a year," Cunaris says in return, outrage building in his voice. "I would very much like to know why I am to be given an unfamiliar command instead of the one I am best suited for."

"You will have your dragoons, and I am giving you both battalions of my Highlanders as well," the more senior General replies. "You'll also have the Experimentals and both battalions of the 5th. It is a very solid brigade, sir." Havenport speaks in soothing tones, taking care not to offend the other man; though Cunaris is inferior in rank, he is the Kentauri's political equal.

Yet Havenport's attempt at appeasement seems to only have drawn more of Cunaris's ire. "Saints be damned!" he exclaims in frustration. "I can command the cavalry better than anyone else in this room!"

"Can you lead a charge of horse, sir? Can you gallop as first sabre into the enemy? That is what I would require of you," the General rails back, his voice rising with each sentence until the last comes out as a full-throated roar. "What good is a commander of horse who cannot ride?"

quote:

This time, the silence lasts longer and is yet more terrible, for the eyes of the entire room are fixed upon the face of your commanding officer, his bearded features made slack with shock.

For what seems like half a day, Cunaris sits, his eyes wide.

Only after a long moment does Cunaris finally gain some self-possession. "I beg your pardon, sir," he mutters, his voice most wretched. "Might I be excused?"

Havenport seems no less in shock by the effect of his words and his temper. He can manage little, save a nod and a brittle "of course, sir."

What follows is no less painful, for Cunaris cannot simply get up and walk away. Only the creaking of the shattered Duke's wicker chair can be heard over the roaring silence as he slowly brings his ungainly apparatus about and wheels himself dejectedly from the table.

When the Duke of Havenport speaks again, his voice is quiet, small even. "Will—ah, will there be any further questions?"

Some of your fellow officers are already putting questions forward, no doubt eager to put the previous awkwardness behind them. You find no objection to joining their number.

quote:

"Do we have exact knowledge as to the numbers and composition of the enemy force, sir?"

Havenport shakes his head. "We do not, Colonel. Reyes and his men were unable to make a thorough count before being forced back by the threat of detection. However, his report mentions at least one hundred and twenty banners."

Fresh mutters of uncertainty fill the room now as the implications of the Lieutenant-general's statement sink in; though lacking the uniformity of the King's regiments, the Antari do march in rough columns under the banners of their baneblooded commanders. From experience, you know that such a warband could number anywhere from two to eight hundred troops…

…which means the army now advancing upon you and not half a week away might well number over sixty thousand men.

From the other end of the room, an unfamiliar tongue gives voice to the thoughts filling the air. "Saints be damned! Does that not mean that the Antari army we are to face is considerably larger than the one at Blogia?"

Havenport nods. "It does, but at Blogia, we did not have the river, or fixed defences, or the support of the Navy." His lips pull taut in a grim smile. "Khorobirit's army might be bigger, but our position is also better."

Yet the Duke's words fill you with little confidence; Wulfram had thought his position would give him the advantage at Blogia too, and you do not need to remind yourself how that turned out.

Hopefully, this time will prove different.

quote:

"How can we be sure that Khorobirit means to attack us?"

Some of the other officers nod in agreement; perhaps you were not the only one thinking it. While it would be easy enough to assume that Khorobirit was advancing to attack, that does not make matters certain. A man who once hid five thousand Church Hussars in an 'impenetrable forest' would certainly have the cunning and the audacity to be planning something more subtle than a frontal assault across a defended river.

Havenport, however, does not share your doubts. "He means to attack us, I am sure of it. Not only is he advancing towards us, he has also burned his camp, destroyed his stockpiles of provisions, discarded his excess equipment, and dispersed his camp followers. Does that make things clearer?"

"Yes sir, of course, sir," you reply as you nod in understanding. If Khorobirit has destroyed his camp and his supplies, then he must be intending to attack; while an army unburdened by extra supplies and camp followers would be able to move much faster, it would also be entirely reliant upon forage and carried provisions for food and ammunition. An army the size of Khorobirit's could not survive long in such a state.

Clearly, Khorobirit means to overwhelm the King's Army and take Kharangia before his own much-diminished stock of supplies run out; nothing else would make sense.

quote:

I have no questions.

There are a few more questions, nothing worth remembering; queries about ammunition storage, acceptable positions for brigade headquarters, the minutiae of an army preparing to fight for its life.

It takes another quarter of an hour for every question to be answered. Only then, when the whole pavilion falls silent, does Havenport look up to address all of you at once again.

"Gentlemen, know that the success of this plan relies upon every single one of you," he begins, his voice weary. "Victory depends on the steadiness of every battalion, every squadron, every man. If even one crossing is lost, our army is like to be destroyed. If our army is destroyed here, Tierra cannot afford to raise another."

His voice turns grave now, the Kentauri burr in his words growing increasingly prominent. "This is a plan which allows for no half-measures, no contested victories, no salvageable defeats; by the time this battle is over, we must either stand in triumph, or not at all."

The Kentauri General's eyes narrow, his features settling into the fierce expression of a man resolved to fight to the last. His voice rises to a full bellow. "There is naught before us but victory or death!"

"Victory or death!" comes the shouted refrain, though not from every throat.

"Saints guard the King!" Havenport roars in reply.

This time, every man answers.

"Saints guard the King!"

quote:

The next two days are spent digging in.

If Cunaris retains any lingering bitterness over his confrontation with the Duke of Havenport, he shows no sign of it. Instead, he throws himself whole-heartedly into the task of preparing the three crossings assigned to your brigade. At all hours, Cunaris and the brigade's other banecasters go back and forth across the muddy riverbanks, staking out and setting up immense patterns of baneseals in the path of any probable Antari attack.

Only at the rarest intervals is Cunaris at a pause, usually to brief you and the other regimental commanders in detail upon some matter of importance pertaining to the battle that is to come; matters which you, in turn, must impart to your junior officers and sergeants when you brief them almost immediately afterwards.

They are not the only preparations being made. While your dragoons help the infantry in clearing brush and staking out fields of fire near each crossing, the hill behind you swarms with engineers. Some prepare the site chosen for brigade headquarters, but most work the crest of the heights with pick and shovel, gouging an immense crescent scar into the dark earth and piling the displaced dirt into a mighty breastwork along its outer edge.



Yet it is only on the morning of the second day that you find the crowning glory of your brigade's defences.

For that morning, you wake to find the hilltop redoubt swarming with men as they assemble the biggest guns you have ever seen.

quote:

There is no comparing these new artillery pieces to the sleek field guns which customarily accompany the King's Army or even the great naval cannon which populate the lower decks of the Royal Tierran Navy's larger ships of the line. Even the immense siege pieces that had reduced Kharangia's walls seem so small to you now compared to the monstrous black engines of war being assembled atop that nameless Antari hill.

They are no ordinary cannon, either. Instead of sitting level upon their trunnions, they slope upwards, their barrels rising until their muzzles tower at thrice the height of a man; these guns are howitzers, designed not to destroy walls but to throw explosive shells over them, into the fortress or city beyond.

Upon closer inspection, you realise that this is not the first time you have encountered these new guns. The barrels are still stamped with the marks of Prince Khorobirit's foundries; this was the cargo held by the barges which your squadron had fought so hard to capture at Mhillanovil last year. The guns which Prince Khorobirit had commissioned to shatter Kharangia would now be used to defend it.

Yet despite the Antari origins of the guns themselves, the shells they are to fire are undoubtedly Tierran; they arrive by the cart, driven by men of the Royal Tierran Navy, spherical iron cases the size of a horse's head, each loaded with ten kilograms of gunpowder and thousands of lead musket balls. Each one comes with a set of pre-cut fuzes, all courtesy of Garing, Gutierrez, and Truscott.

By the middle of the afternoon, each gun stands assembled and ready, sitting on massive rotating frames which the engineers assure you will allow your brigade's newly sited artillery support to lay down fire quickly and effectively upon almost any point within two thousand paces of their hilltop emplacements.

Such assurances come none too soon, for that evening, the plains beyond the River Kharan come alive with what seems like an endless swarm of dark shapes and glittering steel. As night falls, the horizon glows dull orange with the light of ten thousand cookfires, their smoke thick enough to blot out half the stars in the night sky.

Khorobirit's army is here.

quote:

Despite the looming inevitability of the battle to come, the mood back at the cantonment that night is far from sombre.

Instead, the air is filled with the sounds of song and cheer, along with the stink of spilled wine and spirits. Not even the precautions that Havenport has ordered can dampen the mood. The immense bonfires meant to light the riverbank only add to the festive mood. The sight of entire companies standing guard as picquets against any nighttime attack seems to make little impression at all.

Why should it? The men of the King's Army know exactly what kind of danger the enemy poses. It is, after all, the very reason for their carousing; with battle on the horizon and death not far behind, it is only natural for soldiers to seek out friends and companions who they may never see again, to say what could be their final farewells, be it through a solemn affirmation of fellowship or one last round of desperate celebration.

Perhaps you ought to be doing the same?

Perhaps Lord Marcus is up for one last game of Tassenswerd.

I've not seen Lady Welles since Mhillanovil; I look for her.

Best I take the Experimentals up on their invitation now; I might not have another chance to.

I would like to see the men of my squadron, one last time.

No, tonight I would have no company, save my thoughts.

WhiskeyWhiskers posted:

Pry some more into why the countess is upset that her Dad died.

busb posted:

experimentals > men > countess if we got time. we have a battle to win

busb posted:

experimentals > men > countess if we got time. we have a battle to win

AJ_Impy posted:

Experimentals, Men, Countess. A deed from our past, those with whom we stand in the present, and a potential future.

AJ_Impy posted:

Experimentals, Men, Countess.

quote:

You find the Experimental Corps' tents exactly where you expected to. However, you also find what seems to be the whole of the Experimental Corps itself there as well, a strange enough thing; while the King's regiments do have something of an insular quality during normal times, such distinctions rarely hold any substance in times such as these. Tonight, Highlanders drink with line infantry, and lancers dice with artillerymen. Even your own dragoons have scattered to the winds, seeking old friends among the men of other regiments.

Yet here you see no Line Infantry orange or Lancer blue, only solid masses of dark green, broken up only by the light blouses and woollen jackets of the camp followers among them.

"What do you want?" an enlisted man calls out, his words taut and hostile, perhaps a result of the contents of the half-empty bottle he sloshes about in one hand.

"I'm here on Major Reyes's invitation," you reply.

The drunken Experimental seems less than impressed. "Yeah, and me mum's Saint Stanislaus. Piss off," he replies with an egregious lack of respect. Perhaps he does not see the lieutenant-colonel's insignia on your collar and shoulders.

"Now then, Maitland, is that any way to speak to an officer?" enters a vaguely familiar voice, whimsically lilting with a Warburtonian accent. "This is none other than the good Sir Alaric d'al Sancroix, who saved Mister Lewes and I last year." The speaker steps out of the shadows, a big sergeant with a head of curly hair and sideburns fit to match even Staff-sergeant Lanzerel's.

"Don't mind Maitland, sir," the Sergeant mutters to you under his breath. "He's a fine rifleman but loses his manners at the bottom of a bottle, so he does. I'll knock his teeth out and have him recite you an apology later," he says with a grin. "The Major and Mister Lewes are this way, if you'd follow me."

quote:

The Sergeant leads you to a large fire-lit clearing in the centre of the Experimentals' camp, where Major Reyes and Lieutenant Lewes sit surrounded by perhaps two or three dozen officers and men in green. Almost every one of them has some sort of bottle or flask in their hands. The only exception sits at the edge upon a camp stool, plucking the strings of a Takaran shamisen and accompanying the carousing of his comrades with the words to The Last Grenadier in a well-worn voice.

"Good evening, sir!" Reyes calls out as he spots your approach. "Gentlemen! A seat for Colonel Sancroix! Quickly now!" he calls out.

At once, some of the men in the circle shift, and one fellow produces another camp stool and places it next to where the green-jacketed Major lounges upon the packed earth.

"More comfortable than a saddle, ain't it?" he remarks as you sit down, his breath smelling sharply of alcohol. With one hand, he offers you the open silvered flask in his hand, its surface still emblazoned with the regimental crest of the 8th of Foot. "Have a drink, sir?"

With a nod of thanks, you tip a little of the flask's contents into your mouth, doing your best not to cough as it burns and pillages its way down your throat and proceeds to lay siege to your gut.

"Strong stuff, ain't it?" Reyes says with a grin. "Nothing like what the lads are drinking though, and most of them can't even stomach what Lewes is pouring down his misbegotten gullet."

"It's an acquired taste, sir," Lewes replies, his sullen tone made joking by his crooked grin.

Reyes snorts derisively. "Perhaps in the sense that only one with no taste could acquire it," he retorts as he returns his subordinate's grin, sharing between them what must be a much familiar joke.

quote:

"Is there a reason why your men keep to themselves like this?"

"I beg pardon, sir?" Reyes replies, trading question for question.

"You could go to the camp of any other regiment tonight and find visitors from other units sharing drinks and stories," you clarify. "Yet there are no such visitors here. In fact, judging by the demeanour of the man whom first greeted me, I could almost say that your men don't care much for the soldiers of other regiments."

"They don't care much for us, either," Lewes answers bitterly. "Putting on the green coat means making yourself a target for the army's contempt."

"Lewes has the right of it," Reyes adds sourly. "I suppose it must be different for you—after all, you dragoons do skirmish work yourselves—but the officers of the Line Infantry hold us in very low esteem. They do not like how we fight; they think it dirty, beneath them. The fact that we operate under the personal sanction of the King does not better their mood, either."

"I don't understand," you reply. "Are you not all recruited from the Line Infantry? Even if the officers show their contempt, why would their men display so much antipathy to their former comrades?"

Lewes shakes his head. "It's more simple than that. Those of us who're born common, we're brought up to follow," he answers, the bitterness in his voice growing by the moment. "When a man who speaks the right way and carries himself just so, his orders are to be obeyed, his claims to be accepted as fact. After a while, you start doing it without thinking."

"Mind you," Reyes interjects, "they're right, those officers; there's a difference between facing a man in battle and slitting his throat as he sleeps, or shooting him from a bush as he eats his supper." He shakes his head. "Perhaps one day, all our wars will be fought in such a manner. Some part of me would rather be ashes in the wind before that."

quote:

"Is it a good idea to get this drunk the night before a battle?"

Lewes responds with a bitter chuckle. "No. I'll be waking up with my head rattling like a drum; most of us will."

"Then why do it?" you ask. "Would it not be better to fight a battle unencumbered by roiling guts and a headache?"

The green-jacketed Lieutenant shakes his head. "Headache or no, they'll fight just as hard and shoot just as well," Lewes proclaims, his words halfway between boast and statement of fact. "Besides, there's little time for fires and gin when you're trying to stay hidden. The men don't often have a chance to spend a whole evening sitting on their arses, getting tattered. For a lot of them, it's going to be their last."

Your eyebrow rises of its own accord. "You expect heavy losses tomorrow?"

"There are many ways for a skirmisher to die in an open battle," Reyes answers. "We could be trapped in a crossfire, caught by a rush of enemy infantry, but there is no death that a rifleman fears more than being run down by cavalry. We don't have close-order drill or bayonets to fight them off with, and we can't flee from them without horses of our own."

The Major shakes his head sadly. "I would rate my men the best of their kind in creation; they fear neither heaven nor earth. What they do fear are cavalrymen, and Khorobirit's army has tens of thousands of them."

Reyes offers you a thin, meaningless smile. "So, I let them drink; this time tomorrow night, most of them may well be dead."

quote:

"I don't suppose either of you have any advice?"

"Coming to us for advice?" Lewes asks, as lips curling into a crooked grin. "The mighty cavalryman? Knight of the Red and all that brasswork? I wouldn't have believed it if I'd not just heard it with me own ears."

You smile back, perhaps a little sheepishly. You suppose it is rather odd for a cavalry officer to be asking infantrymen for advice. "I could use all the wisdom I can get," you reply. "I'm not so discriminating as to turn away practical knowledge, no matter where it comes from."

"All right, how about this?" the green-jacketed Lieutenant replies with an amused chuckle. "Never trust any man above the rank of colour-sergeant!" he shouts out, loud enough for every man in sight to hear, and loud enough to elicit barks of laughter from every single one of them, officers and men.

Reyes is quick to reply. "On the contrary, that would mean ignoring a bit of advice that has served me quite well over the years." He reaches out with his free hand, flicking the lieutenant's pips on Lewes's collar. "Never take advice from scruffy, unshaven lieutenants jumped up from the ranks!"

A fresh wave of laughter washes over the clearing, just as loud as the last. Reyes leans back and takes a deep slug from his flask.

"In all earnestness though, sir," he continues, this time directing his words to you alone. "I do have advice: never lose sight of your men. Keep your graces about you when you are with them, knock a few heads about when needed, that will remind them that you are their officer. Yet if they see that you are willing to drink with them, they will be more easily convinced that you are willing to die for them."

For a moment, Reyes looks away, at the carousing shapes of his own men. A fond smile forms itself on his lips. "Convince them of that, and they will never fail you."

quote:

"I should be going. Good night, gentlemen."

"Already, sir?" Lewes asks. "You've just got here."

"I am sure the good Lieutenant-colonel has more important things to do, more exalted people to see," Reyes replies easily. "After all, he is not pariah-among-regiments, like us."

The more junior man nods, both in reply to his own commanding officer and to you in farewell. "Watch yourself out there tomorrow; there's bloody few proper officers in this army without their heads stuck up their arses. We can't afford to lose any of you."

"Saints go with you, sir," Reyes adds, a more traditional goodbye to see you off as you leave the Experimentals behind you.

Perhaps Lord Marcus is up for one last game of Tassenswerd.

I've not seen Lady Welles since Mhillanovil; I look for her.

I would like to see the men of my squadron, one last time.

No, tonight I would have no company, save my thoughts.

quote:

The men of your squadron are hardly difficult to find, for they gather within the massive canvas walls of your squadron's common mess tent, not twenty paces away from the entry to your own tent. Inside the immense structure, where the men of Sixth Squadron had once gathered in orderly lines to take their meals, the sounds of raucous laughter and song mingle with the orange light streaming from the open entrances.

Surely, it would be a simple enough task to stride in, announce yourself, and mingle with the men, catching their mood and perhaps raising their spirits a little. After all, while your men do not particularly like you, surely a personal and informal visit from their commanding officer cannot hurt things, right?

Apparently not.

You are not half a dozen paces from the entrance when you are stopped by a familiar figure: your Staff-sergeant. He steps out into the night, smelling rather strongly of Antari potato-wine.

"Sir?" he asks. "What are you doing here?"

"If you would recall, Staff-sergeant, I live right over there," you reply drily, waving a finger at your tent. "In any case, I thought I would drop by, say hello to the lads, talk them up a little?"

Lanzerel hesitates for a moment, as if reaching for the right way to reply with the appropriate amount of delicacy. "Is that a good idea, sir?" he finally asks.

"Is it not a good idea, Lanzerel?" you reply.

"You're not a lieutenant anymore, sir," he answers. "You can't just walk in and sit down next to the men. When it was just us, before Blogia, perhaps, but now?" He shakes his head. "It'd be like a duke eating dinner with his footmen; they won't know how to act around you."

Your Staff-sergeant's words give you pause; are you truly so far above your common dragoons that you cannot even drink next to them or speak to them without having them stand before you at attention?

Lanzerel is right; this isn't my place anymore.

I should at least let them know that I wish them well.

I will do as I damned well please; I am going inside.

quote:

As of the Spring of the 611th year of the Old Imperial Era

Sir Alaric d'al Sancroix
Age: 39
Rank: Lieutenant-colonel (Brevet)
Wealth: 50
Income: 0

Soldiering: 24%
Charisma: 50%
Intellect: 60%
Reputation: 48%
Health: 40%
Idealism: 50% Cynicism: 50%
Ruthlessness: 95% Mercy: 5%

You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.

You can speak, read, and write the Antari language.

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Lanzerel

Discipline: 64%
Morale: 47%
Loyalty: 44%
Strength: 75%

Ikasuhito posted:

Fine! I didn't want to see them anyway.

WhiskeyWhiskers posted:

Like any uncomfortable party. Just stick our head in and say hi, before giving some excuse and leaving early.

AJ_Impy posted:

You're never too high a rank to do a Henry V from campfire to campfire bit. Let them know we wish them well.

ParanoidInc posted:

but uh lets keep it short we kinda let them freeze to death

WhiskeyWhiskers posted:

Like any uncomfortable party. Just stick our head in and say hi, before giving some excuse and leaving early.

quote:

You suppose there is a sense to it; you are not a junior officer anymore, and you can no longer afford to act like one.

Still, it seems so very wrong to simply treat your men like something less than human beings, to have no more connection to them than you would to fighting automatons in green-grey coats, to put on a stone face as they pass by and see them only as if their sole purpose was to fight and kill and die at your command.

You shall not intrude upon them, but you shall at least make a gesture, so they know.

"Staff-sergeant, could you at least convey to the men my compliments?" you ask, keeping your voice as steady as you can. "Tell them that I am proud of them, and that I wish them the best of fortune for tomorrow's battle."

Lanzerel's face softens as he nods. "Yes sir, I'll do that, sir. Is that all?"

"It is," you reply. "Carry on."

You stay outside the entrance as Lanzerel makes his way back inside. The voices die down as he shouts for quiet. Then, with a loud and clear voice, you hear him convey your words to the men.

For a moment, there is silence.

Then it comes. "Three cheers for the Colonel!" a voice calls out, its owner hidden by the folds of tent canvas.

The tent erupts in robust cheers, hundreds of voices united. "Huzzah!" they roar, "Huzzah! Huzzaaaaah!" The third cheer stretches until it fades and is drowned out by the sound of mugs clashing and glasses being shattered in your honour.

It is only then that you turn and walk away, with the lusty voices of your men ringing in your ears and tears of bittersweet joy stinging your eyes.

quote:

For a moment, you consider turning back. Considering the way your men have welcomed your words, surely—

No, you quash that thought. Perhaps it is better this way, to stand as a distant figure of authority rather than a present one, standing over your men more like a god or a king than a companion.

It is partly a galling thought; gods do not receive friendship and affection from their worshippers, only offerings and supplication.

You try to push that heavy thought out of your mind. At least you still have half the night to do it.

I've not seen Lady Welles since Mhillanovil; I look for her.

quote:

Finding Lady Welles proves considerably more difficult than you had first imagined.

Your primary obstacle, in hindsight, begins to seem like an obvious one: the Countess never told you in which part of the cantonment she would be staying. Had you been seeking anyone else, it would have been simple enough to find their regimental encampment and search for them there. Unfortunately, Lady Welles is not a soldier tied to a single unit; as a special observer, her tent could literally be anywhere within the expanse of the army's cantonment.

Asking for directions proves little help, either. Most of the men around you are already well into their cups and seem to know little besides. Asking after the Countess by name only gets you blank stares, more general inquiries after where a lady might be found only elicits mocking, gin-sodden laughter and slurring insinuations that you are looking for an entirely more vulgar sort of 'companion.'

Finally, after more than an hour of fruitless searching and even more unproductive questioning, you finally stumble upon someone of use: a major of the 2nd of Foot who not only happens to be reasonably sober but also a member of the Duke of Havenport's staff. Furnished with a rough description, he quickly directs you towards the encampment of the 5th of Foot, the regiment which, he confides to you, her father had once commanded.

So, it is only then, after what ends up being a total of an hour and a half of trudging through the half-lit camp, that you finally manage to find Lady Welles's tent.

What you find there makes part of you wish that you hadn't.

quote:

You find the entry flap to the Countess's pavilion closed, but it is obvious that you are at the right place; the heavy canvas glows with the orange haze of lamps, and within, you see her shadow, standing silhouetted against the light.

She is not alone.

There is another person in the tent with her, a man: slim and graceful, with the bearing of a gentleman-officer, the gentle curve of a light cavalry sabre hanging from his hip. They stand close to each other, close enough for his hands to clasp hers.

"I fear you shall take too many risks," you hear the Countess say, her voice laden with an obvious affection. "Promise me that you will look after yourself, for my sake, if not your own."

Almost against your will, you edge closer to the tent. Whoever this other fellow is, she is certainly entertaining him in damned intimate circumstances.

"There's no need to be afraid for me, Ellie," answers the other figure, his voice deeper but not by much. A junior officer, then, young and not quite grown into his voice, but not a stranger to Lady Welles, judging by how familiarly he addresses her.

"Besides," he continues a moment later, his voice beginning to sound oddly familiar to you. "I'm expected to take risks, manly courage and all that; if I actually try to show a regard for my safety, then the other officers will p—"

"Would you not speak so lightly of this?" the noblewoman replies, her words pitched high with apprehension. "If you are killed—" She stops for a moment, her shadow turning away, just long enough to regain her composure. "I have already lost so many, I cannot—I will not—" Her voice cracks, and she leans forward towards the other figure. His hands wrap around her shoulders.

"Promise me that you will come back," she whispers, so softly that you can barely hear. "Promise me, Addy."

Only when Captain Adalberto d'al Garret's voice replies does the identity of the man in Welles's tent become obviously clear.

Surely, they are only close friends.

I would not presume to jump to conclusions.

Might it be possible that the two are involved?

Lord Cyrahzax posted:

Kentauri burr

Leif. posted:

She's about to get sabered. Intimately.

quote:

You see no reason why the two could not be courting. After all, Captain Garret is presumably a gentleman of the blood from a reasonably well-founded family, and you cannot deny that both the Earldom of Welles and its lady would be a choice prize for any such gentleman in want of a wife.

The pair are certainly intimate with each other; had they been of the same sex, you would have easily mistaken them for very close friends, but as gentleman and lady you do not think they could be anything but involved in some romantic fashion.

It is not a certain matter, of course. You might have misread things, having as you do only the snippet of an overheard conversation as evidence. In either case, you may have to investigate further to arrive at a certainty. Perhaps Lady Welles or Garret themselves might be prevailed upon to give confirmation.

In any case, it does not seem as if the circumstances shall allow you to call upon the Countess tonight. In any case, it is already too late for anything else, save bed.

quote:

The next morning comes cold and sodden. You step out of your tent to find the whole of the cantonment filled with a low, thick fog. Amidst the low shapes of the massed tents, you see men stumble to and fro, some hung over, others simply yet-waking, greatcoats clutched tightly around their bodies as they emerge from their canvas shelters.

Marion is waiting for you, bleary-eyed and pale but ready with a basin of warm water in one hand and your shaving kit in the other.

At first, you put down your bat-man's rather worn state to last night's revels, but it soon becomes clear that it is not throbbing temples and a sour stomach which makes the razor tremble in his hands.

"Nervous, Marion?" you ask, both to take up the silence and to get the Corporal's mind off his shaking hands.

"Terrified, sir," he replies.

"Good, that shows you haven't gone mad," you answer drily. "Only a fool would ride into a battle like this without some sort of fear."

"What about you, sir?" he asks warily. "Are you scared?"

You smile back. "Haven't you noticed? I'm frightened out of my wits, Corporal."

"No, sir, I haven't," Marion replies. "You seem as composed as you always are."

Whether he says it out of loyalty or honesty, you do not know, but you do know that his hands have stopped shaking.

quote:

Breakfast consists of two slices of cheese on toast, tea, and a bowl of green olives; a blessedly light meal, yet still almost too much for your nerves to handle.

You force down each bite anyway; you may not have a chance to eat again today, and it is far better to be a little dyspeptic now than to be too hungry to think straight whilst on the field.

Marion stays by your side, waiting silently until you finish breakfast.

"Shall you be going into battle armoured, sir?" he inquires.

"Yes, I think I shall."

"Not today, I do not think."

Lord Cyrahzax posted: