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1. While politics is obviously not our forte, we must be expected to be more than simple thugs with blades, riding down the enemy. Mayhap we can make further inquiries into the state of the partisan raiders and such, letting our men hone their skills against an enemy in the field rather than dulling themselves against a wall.
"If I might ask," you begin, "what exactly is this Experimental Corps?"
Hartigan makes a dismissive gesture with his pipe. "Never you mind that, Ortiga. Some major in the 8th of Foot thought up some silly ideas about deploying some sort of special infantry force armed with rifled muskets. Somehow His Majesty got wind and ordered a unit together to test it out. It's all nonsense, of course."
"I'd hardly say that," Keane replies pensively. "Such a unit could be applied to great effect."
"Great effect doing what?" the Line Infantry officer retorts. "Stealing crops and burning villages? Skulking through forests like poachers?" He turns aside to you. "That is what those men are, you know: poachers, bandits, ruffians. Their officers too, some of them even commissioned from the ranks, if you could believe such a thing."
"Let's just say," Lord Marcus says with a wry grin, "that the Experimental Corps is a contentious subject, and leave it at that."
Ask about the progress of the siege.
"How is the siege progressing?" you ask. "Will we be seeing the new guns in action soon?"
Lord Marcus nods. "I spoke to Major Diaz of the Engineers yesterday eve. He says he is confident the new guns will be in action by tomorrow morning and that we shall have a practicable breach in Kharangia's walls within a month."
Keane shakes his head. "You would take the word of an officer of the Engineers at face value?"
The Kentauri nobleman's eyes narrow. "You would call Major Diaz a liar, sir?"
The senior Dragoon officer shrugs. "I would call him an engineer, sir."
Ask Keane what he has against the Royal Engineers.
You turn to Keane. "If I may ask, sir, why do you revile our army's Engineers so?"
Lord Marcus nods. "I too would wonder as to the cause of your dislike, sir."
Keane replies with a bitter smile. "I do not suppose that either of you have had much experience with His Majesty's vaunted regiment of Sappers and Engineers?" he asks, the final words of his question dripping with sarcasm.
The Kentauri shakes his head. Your own sole experience with the Engineers had been a short period after your first winter in Antar, when a small group had helped fortify the outpost you had been posted to. You had not even exchanged words with any of them. You too shake your head.
"Then allow me to explain," Keane replies. "The Engineers require their enlisted men to be literate, physically fit, and capable in mathematics. For this, they are paid twice the wage of an infantryman—almost as much as a dragoon, in fact—and generally go about their duties in some comfort and safety."
You nod; that doesn't sound too bad.
"The problem is," your superior continues, "that for an officer of Engineers, there is little chance of advancement, and as their men already know their business, they have little to do but dissipate themselves. They are some of His Majesty's finest men, led by some of his worst officers."
Lord Marcus nods, as do you. That makes sense. With little chance for promotion or glory, only the most dissolute, indolent man would thrive as an officer of Engineers.
Inquire about the partisans and the supply situation.
"Are the raiders on the roads still bedevilling our supply columns?" you ask.
Keane nods, his expression bitter. "They are."
The Kentauri nods. "Aye. My brother has broached the topic of asking your dragoons to assist the Experimental Corps, as your men are already accustomed to the skirmish."
The Dragoon Colonel nods back. "Indeed. I received word to that effect this morning. You may assure His Grace that I have already drafted the necessary orders."
You try to keep your expression neutral. Has Keane ordered your men to hunt the partisans in the forest? For an instant, you consider asking, but you wave that thought away quickly enough. Now is not the time, and besides, you will know soon enough if and when the orders arrive.
-
The next few minutes pass in desultory conversation but nothing of real note. There is a scattered discussion of recent Cortes politics, the obligatory complaints regarding the bureaucratic pigheadedness of Grenadier Square, and the final, obligatory toast: "To His Most Tierran Majesty, Miguel of the House of Rendower, long may he reign."
After that, there is nothing left but to bid your fellow officers good health and a good evening.You and Keane retrieve your crested Dragoon helmets as Hartigan puts on his officer's bicorne from the pair of straight-backed footmen standing all but invisible by the tent's entrance.
Then the three of you step out into the darkness of the camp.
-
The night is still warm when you step out of Lord Marcus Havenport's pavilion, despite the fact that by your reckoning, it must be no more than an hour before midnight.
Despite the late hour, it seems you are not the only one up and about. Low fires dot the camp around you, and from them radiate the sounds of an army at rest: the low burble of quiet conversation, the rattle of dice, the rough sounds of masculine voices in song, and the quiet but omnipresent bubbling of kettles.
For some time, you walk in silence, a step behind Colonel Keane as the two of you head for the part of the camp where your regiment now makes its home. There is really little to say. You had known him only tenuously before the Battle of Blogia and had little chance to speak with him after he was made lieutenant-colonel and effective regimental commanding officer. In fact, it might be possible that this evening has been the longest you have spent in his company outside the field of battle.
Besides, you tell yourself, it would hardly be proper for a junior officer to demand conversation of a superior. So, for a few minutes at least, you follow your regiment's second-in-command as he makes his way through the rows of orderly tents, his expression lost in thought.
-
Finally, your superior officer speaks.
"Ortiga," he begins as he stops and turns to face you.
"Yes, sir?" you reply.
"Now that you have been with us for the better part of two months, I would request your opinion regarding the enterprise in which this army is currently engaged," he says, his hand gesturing airily to his left.
You do not need to follow Keane's hand to know exactly what he is gesturing at, for to your left, beyond the field fortifications, the sappers' trenches, and the six hundred paces of dead ground stands the solid, defiant bulk of the walls of Kharangia, still unbroken after five months of siege.
"You want my thoughts on the siege, sir?"
Keane shakes his head. "No. I want your opinion of the war, of which this siege is merely one small part."
1) "I trust the King's plan to bring us victory soon, sir." 2) "I believe that we shall have victory but at a great cost." 3) "With all due respect, I believe this whole conflict to be pointless."
As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 953
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 78% Cynicism: 22%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.
2. Our belief, having lost so many in the past, is that war is a necessity but a hellish one, and one that man ought not to run towards madly but once engaged in it, he must lose himself in the fullest to the dark gods of violence and bloodlust and embrace the crimson nightmares they bring about, in order to be victorious.
"I…" Keane begins to say, only for his voice to trail off.
"I see," he says, this time more quietly, his voice more hollow. "Then it shall be more men into the inferno, then? More empty seats at tables, more toasts to fallen friends, more familiar faces to be snatched away?"
"I suppose so, sir," you answer, "but we shall have victory at last."
When Keane answers, his voice is dead and toneless, his eyes distant and cold. "I suppose one might call it that."
With that, he turns again and continues onward.
You walk the rest of the way in silence.
-
Corporal Marion is waiting for you when you step inside your tent, a mug of tea already in hand.
"Letters came for you while you were out, sir," he says as he hands you the heavy pewter mug of piping liquid and begins stripping off your greatcoat and helmet. "They are on your desk."
You nod as you take your first tentative sip of tea. You make a mental note to finish it all before you go to bed. After all, you have had nothing to drink since sunset save claret, whisky, and Kian spirits. You can already feel the beginnings of what is likely to be tomorrow's hangover.
"Will that be all, sir?" Marion asks in an attempt to remind you that he is still there in the most unobtrusive way possible.
"Yes, that will be all," you reply. "Good night, Marion."
The Corporal gives you a light bow as he steps out of your tent to return to his own bedroll. "Good night, sir."
-
Your tent is hardly as large or well-appointed as that of a more senior officer like Lord Marcus Havenport. Still, as an officer's lodging, however temporary, it is by far superior to the quarters of your enlisted men. Where your regular dragoons, corporals, and even your sergeants must share a small rectangular construction with two or three others, your own tent boasts twice the space of their cramped residences. While they must sleep upon thin bedrolls, as an officer you have been provided a narrow cot drawn from stores, a small cast-iron stove, as well as a battered chair and a small, weathered desk.
It is this last set of furnishings which you turn your attention to now, for as your bat-man had promised, a pile of letters sits atop the scratched and battered surface, barely visible in the faint light given off by the embers of the still-hot stove. You take a few moments to settle in your chair and get the small brass oil lamp on your desk burning bright enough, then you turn your attention to the letters.
The first comes sea-stained and slightly crumpled. It doesn't take long to spot your family's seal pressed into the red wax holding the letter closed.
The second letter also comes weathered and discoloured by some long voyage. It bears a different seal, one you could swear you have seen before. You stop for a moment to take a closer look at the familiar-looking sigil in the flickering lamplight.
Then you come to a realisation: you have, in fact, seen its like before, stamped in silver-and-gold relief on the signet ring of a man now nearly three years dead. The letter is from the Hunters of Wolfswood.
I read the letter from Wolfswood.
You run your thumb under the folded edge of the rich, thick paper. The stuff is smooth under your fingertips, far better than what you could afford for sure. You work your fingernail under the edge, and with a single flick of your thumb, you pull the wax seal apart, folding the paper open.
The script is fine and spidery, like the sort which is taught by the high-priced calligraphy tutors which instruct the children of high nobility to write even better than 'lesser' banebloods. It is a note that bears reading carefully, and so you do, taking care with every word.
Sir Alaric,
I have never had the privilege of meeting you, sir, but nonetheless I write to you, for it is my great hope that you will be of assistance to me in the cause to which I am now devoted.
It is my understanding that you had the privilege of serving under the command of my late son, the 12th Viscount of Wolfswood. I remember him likely as you do, a man full of enthusiasm for all noble pursuits. I am told he fell upon the field of Blogia whilst performing an act of great heroism, and thus stands eligible for elevation as a Saint of the Red.
My intention is to see this possibility fulfilled at some time in the future. In this enterprise, I would ask for your aid, both as a man who served under my son's command and a well-regarded officer of the King's Army in your own right.
This war has already taken both my sons from me. Without them, the great noble house which was so ennobled by their presence will die out forever. This enterprise is my best hope of seeing it remembered.
I pray that you respond swiftly, Lady Frederika d'al Hunter, Dowager Viscountess of Wolfswood
-
You set the letter down and let out the breath you did not know you were holding. It is a strangely personal message, desperation and resolve jacketed by stilted formality, but it asks your aid in an enormous endeavour: to effectively elevate your old commanding officer to godhood.
Of course, you have little doubt that Lieutenant-colonel Hunter, as you knew him, fits the criteria for a Red Martyrdom. By all accounts, he had fallen on the field of Blogia whilst performing an act of utmost bravery, rallying his battalion of grenadiers around him so that two full brigades of the Duke of Wulfram's army could make good their retreat, and yet…
To elevate a man, even an undisputed hero, to sainthood is a long and tricky process, even for a powerful noble house. Worse yet, whatever rivals that the Hunters might have would no doubt take an interest in opposing such a move. If you were to offer your support for it, Wolfswood's enemies could become yours as well.
Still, he was your commanding officer once, and a fine fighting man besides. Perhaps it is something you owe his memory.
1) I'll do it. I'll pledge the Hunters my support. 2) I cannot make any guarantees, but I can at least say that I am in favour. 3) No, I will not allow myself to be drawn into this.
As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 953
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 78% Cynicism: 22%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.
Nothing worth having is gained without sacrifice, and we wear the old weathered scars our enemies inflicted upon us as our greatest of medals and prizes, and hope for the day when our mettle can be tested again so that our enemies will know that our hearts are not lacking.
Let us be remembered for our loyalty and faith, and let us shout from the tops of cathedral spires that this man was a hero.
You take a piece of paper from your desk drawer and ink your pen. It only takes the space of a few minutes to dash off a letter offering your support in the campaign to elevate your old commanding officer to the ranks of the Saints of the Red.
The reply barely takes up a third of the page, but there is not exactly much to say, writing as you are to a woman whom you have never met.
You sign your name and titles on the bottom. Then, after waiting a few moments for the ink to dry, you fold and seal the letter with a few drops from a stick of red wax and your signet ring. Then you place the sealed reply in your desk drawer. It is far too late in the night to send anything off, but you make a mental note to order Marion to send it by courier to Noringia tomorrow morning.
I read the letter from my family.
You unseal the folded paper with a flick of your thumb, wondering what your ungrateful wretch of a father wants from you now. You unfold the paper and begin to read: Son,
I suppose it is good that you still live. However, the pittance which you have deigned to send us is far from adequate. I do not think I shall need to remind you that you owe this family still for the expense which we lavished upon your commission.
I shall expect your reply and additional funds to arrive in a timely manner.
I remain, your obedient servant, Lord Ezinbrooke
It is all you can do not to crumple the damned thing up and throw it into the glowing embers of your camp stove.
He barely even acknowledges the fact that his son and heir still lives, and then to attempt to scold you into giving him more money besides?
Still, bitter old miser or no, your father is right; your family will need a lot more to pull itself out of debt.
Will you acquiesce to your lord father's demand for more money?
1) No. In fact, I cut him off entirely. 2) No. I will keep things as they are. 3) Wretched old miser or not, my family needs me; I send everything I can.
As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 953
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 78% Cynicism: 22%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.
It’s not inconceivable that we might get robbed or looted after a loss and be out everything we have on hand. We still seem to have a pretty fair amount of cash on us for other emergencies, we could buy that great horse many times over.
3. Can't believe an option wasn't available to explain (patiently) to her that a well-known partisan guerrilla force has every likelihood to be "retreating" in order to set a follow-on ambush when our men are jouncing around in the trees. On foot. As Dragoons.
Yes, the way things stand right now are quite good enough in your opinion. Your lord father may berate and scold as much as he likes, but you have no intention of submitting to his tyrannous demands.
-
Thus, you deal with the last of your letters. There is nothing else left for you to do tonight, save go to bed.
You clear off your desk, finish off the dregs of your now-lukewarm tea, and snuff out your lamp before stripping off your tunic and boots and climbing into the soft embrace of your narrow cot.
-
You wake in the morning to the sound of cannon fire.
That is not a particularly new occurrence. Every day, the Duke of Havenport's army bombards the city of Kharangia, but the shelling so far has been ineffective. The light guns and mortars of the field artillery are of little use against Kharangia's massive fortifications.
This morning, however, there is a new sound joining the soft thump of mortar fire and the low boom of field cannon: a sharp, echoing, reverberating thing, the sound of two thunderous lions roaring in quick succession. You feel the earth shake and your tent rattle each time the sound comes.
There is little uncertainty in your mind as to the source of this new sound. Sure enough, when you step outside, you confirm your suspicions with your own eyes. Nestled into the immense earthworks between the siege camp and the city sit a set of monstrous artillery pieces, five of them, each mounting an immense gun barrel of black iron, easily the width of a fully grown horse and likely twice as long. Men in the grey-faced jackets of the Engineers swarm around each piece, dwarfed by the huge guns and the complex structures of metal and stone which serve as their mountings.
As you watch, one of the men standing near the breech of the furthest gun leaps backwards, a string in his hands. You see the immense gun heave, the entire construction rolling backwards on a set of iron tracks as the muzzle spits a gigantic tongue of flame and smoke.
The sound of the gun's report washes over you as if it were a gust of wind. Before it fades, it is joined by a second, more distant roar. Your eyes follow the new sound to the walls of Kharangia, its stone face newly marred. A cloud of fire and pulverised rock rises from the crater of the shell's impact.
When the dust clears a little, you can see the full effect of the morning's bombardment. Even from a kilometre and a half away, you can see the jagged wounds punched into the walls by the new guns. Before long, those wounds shall become breaches, through which the brave vanguard of Havenport's army must assault.
It should not be long now.
-
You do not get much time to dwell upon it. Marion is soon at your side with a jug of water, a towel, and a freshly sharpened razor. If the thunderous noise of the monstrous new cannon rattles your bat-man's nerves at all, he gives no indication of it; the razor remains rock-steady in his hands, even as the siege engines rant and roar their iron battle-cries not three hundred paces away.
Breakfast comes after your washing-up: tea, sticks of cornbread fried in the Kian style, and sausage in the Salt Coast fashion, cooked with spicy red pepper. Despite the difficult supply situation, officers like you might still enjoy such meals, not unlike what you might find in a cafe in Crittenden or Leoniscourt. Your enlisted men must make do with their bread and salted pork rations. You have heard that the rankers in the Line Infantry regiments are lucky to get even that.
Your first meal of the day does not detain you for more than a few minutes. Then, you see to your appointments with Marion. With your subordinates handling the day-to-day business of drilling and ordering your men, you are left with an exceptional amount of free time, more than enough to see to personal affairs; all well and good, as there is little else to do in a siege camp for a cavalry officer, save arrange the occasional patrols and sign off on a few requisition forms.
What do you arrange to do first?
1) I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring. 2) I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to. 3) I want to make sure my men are doing well. 4) I think I shall begin writing my recollections on my military service.
As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 953
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 78% Cynicism: 22%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.