《The Battle of Sargasso》


 Chapter 1: The Longest Day

    Prologue


    Chapter 1


    TheLongest Day


    Mounted upon his horse, a spare, flaxen-haired youth descended from his lookout where seated in silence he led a nation and defeated an empire. Lost in his thoughts, he muttered to himself and was pleased. He fixed his gaze to the distance--a pair of cold eyes to meet the dying day. Making his way through the battlefield, he was sombre amidst the riot and wild cheering. Though the men would salute or doff their hats, he gave no sign of recognition but for a vague nod and a wan smile. His mind was elsewhere, formulating the next phase of operations and there far beyond the red horizon other plans were being set in motion.


    Finding a secluded spot away from the battlefield, he got off his horse and sat on the grass to admire the sunset. The grass around his was cold and dry and the vast rolling hills that dotted the plains were still in spite of the conflict. The telltale tramp of a travelling army pock-marcked the land though it would take a keen eye to see it from this side: the dragging tread of rumbling atrillery trains and the dusty trail of infantry did not disturb the dry hills while the heavy fist of artillery shells did not mar the picturesque view. Straightening his cravat and his black silk cloak, the young man settled himself down to fnd his inner peace.


    ¡°Why does it always seem so far away?¡± He told himself, staring at the distance. He opened the lid of a silver pocket-watch and raised it just so to catch the sun. Listening to its rhythmic whirring, thoughts curdled in his mind. Though the day grew late, the victory was timely. Had events not followed their course, defeat would have been all too easy. Thumbing the rim of the watch, he fell to thought. Much had gone according to plan. But for the timely revelation of a hidden scheme, the battle had cost them nearly everything. He flipped the lid and hit a switch.


    A Holographic display of a woman flickered to life. Staring at it for a moment, the young man was lost in thought as his eyes hung lazily before her. The display began to move and speak without sound, slowly moving in a pantomime of a young lady sharing her secret cares. Immediately, he snapped the thing shut and grunted, turning his gaze toward the setting sun.


    The victory won that day had kept the fight--his fight as much as theirs--on course. But that was for another time. FIrst, the preliminaries. Tomorrow he and the General will take care of negotiations pending the surrender of their foes. But as much as he''d like to believe that he had crossed by reaching stride further into that retreating distance there were many steps--far too many--in between. Snapping the thing shut, he savored what sounded like a confirmation of the day''s finality. All things in their time, he told himself as he pocketed the watch.


    A young, red haired woman in uniform approached him, arms resting on her sides.


    ¡°You done wasting your time?¡± She said, smiling.


    ¡°Not quite,¡± he replied, smiling, ¡°but you''re welcome to join me.¡±


    She sat beside him. The wind blew softly across the meadows as the sun sank slowly in the distance. ¡°I wonder how it looks like at home.¡±


    ¡°Just the same I suppose,¡± he said,


    "You''d think that you''d lighten up a little after winning."


    "If I did you''d suspect I was an impostor."


    ¡°For being the only person not cheering? Now why would I?¡±


    They had known each other for an age and he had always been like this. It frightened her somewhat that in spite of all the furor raging about them he always had what she told him were the "the eyes of death" a gaze cold and needless of haste--that he felt neither the wind at his back nor the grass at his feet, always chasing some far off horizon.


    "I wonder if she sees it the way we do," he said.


    ¡°Now you''re just being a pansy!¡± she laughed, giving the young man a slap on the back. ¡°The guard''s almost ready. We''ll be going back in a few.¡±


    ¡°Perfect,¡± he said, getting up, ¡°I could use a cup of tea.¡±


    ***


    Seated on a bluff overlooking the battlefield, Lord Albert Mayhew watched with rapt attention as the guns of the 32<sup>nd</sup>Rosalian Infantry punched its way through enemy lines. Setting down his spyglass he fell to thought, stroking his thick beard. He was in a good mood, all things considered. The Northern contingent of the Grand Alliance was making good headway against the Silmerian invaders, this battle effectively blunting the latter¡¯s southward campaign. With one final push, the General told himself, it will all be over: our enemies will be in rout and the Alliance victorious. Tomorrow the representatives of the Imperial 4<sup>th</sup>Army would meet to agree on terms--it was time to press home the advantage. Given the results, the enemy would be apt to accept even the harshest they have to offer, more so for the ill conduct of their irregulars and the perfidy of the Duke of Montferrat. But more on that later: there were more pressing matters at hand. Should the Alliance lax its guard any reverses will be irreparable despite the victory. But with their rear and flank secure, the enemy will more likely turn tail than risk assault his planners assure him--heaven knows they''ve barely made it out of this one alive!


    Just a few weeks ago, two armies, one to the west and the other to the north overran the countryside around the town of Sargasso, threatening to isolate the outpost before help could arrive. Although capturing the town itself presented a major problem to the Imperials--to the West it was bordered by the Carmel river, to the East by a chain of hills, and the North by the spine of the Parnasse--at the rate the invaders were going, it was only a matter of time before they surrounded the town and starved it to death. Should it have fallen, the way would be clear for the invaders to threaten the capital city of Leonide to the south, the heart and stomach of the Dacia¡¯s military might. An untimely attack left unchecked would have forced the League into a separate peace, dashing any hope for the campaign''s success. However, with the 4<sup>th</sup>defeated, the Imperials would have to retreat behind the Carmel to regroup and prevent further losses.


    The General began to rub the bridge of his nose. Recent shortages have deprived him of his morning coffee and he was fast feeling its effects. No matter, he grumbled, there were things far worse than not having his cup of black. But with their position secure, not only did that mean more supplies but more guns, more ammo, and more troops--equipment and personnel needed to arm and defend the little town of Sargasso, now in a key position to act as a gateway into the Silemrian Empire. With any luck, the bureaucrats at theCours la Rose, the headquarters of the Joint Alliance Command, will see the town¡¯s value and turn it into an Alliance fortress or better yet a base of operations for a future campaign further up north. Moreover, victory over the Imperials here would keep any neutral or allied states from defecting, this battle giving them renewed confidence to resist diplomatic pressure if not to support the Alliance outright. What had begun as a slow retreat and a logistical nightmare spun on its heels and turned in their favor. But for now they can rest. It was over.


    As the dust settled on the plains of Sargasso, Lord Mayhew began to clamber down the hillside where a squad of horse waited for him. A bit young for a General but still in his forties, Mayhew was a large barrel-chested man with a commanding presence. Though steep in the infirmities of his profession, there was something in the wolfish eyes and jagged grin that made plain the high regard for his person and the esteem he enjoyed as a result.


    Nontheless, plagued by an injury and a slight limp, his hike downhill was slow and taxing. Wearied by the climb and now by the descent, the general grumbled his way to the bottom, carefully shifting his weight in an effort to reduce his complaint as well as to prevent his making a fool out of himself--at neither of which he was wholly successful. Despite his infirmity, the old sword made it a point to refuse assistance whenever offered. It was either he got down ¡°his way or the high-way¡±, whatever that meant, this disposition of his being well respected.


    Despite his eccentricities, the general was well loved. ¡°Old Cid¡± they called him, sometimes "the Grand Rebel", in part for his unshakable pluck, in part because of his legendary quarrels at the Court. Though by no means a man of genius, he was certainly a man of courage gifted with a certain toughness of mind and a nose for danger. Where he lacked in subtlety he made up for in audacity. This strength of character translated itself on the battlefield as a robust strength of will, one which radiated and carried those around him. It was to this man that many others were known to pledge and then to follow till the ends of the earth.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    This evening, however, they were satisfied to merely escort him back to camp. It was his practice to allow his troops to talk freely in his presence until otherwise ordered, claiming the activity did good on his nerves. Though this small liberality was greatly frowned upon by his fellow grandees in the service, he paid them no mind--after all did he ever? They thus fell to talk with two lieutenants sharing between them the better part of the conversation. At some point the topic shifted toward the recent battle, one swearing the day¡¯s fight to be the closest run thing he ever saw, ¡°Could¡¯ve gone the other way hadn¡¯t those Rosalians arrived!¡± the lieutenant, a bearded man named Oscar exclaimed and shook his head. There was a murmur of assent all around, each man having participated in the battle, the smell of gunpowder still fresh in their minds.


    One of the lieutenants, a scarred Lancer named Serrault couldn¡¯t agree more. ¡°Bravest lot of bastards I ever saw--if a little on the short side.¡± The company let out a hearty laugh ¡°Like little Mincio over here,¡± said the man accosting his friend, ¡°I bet he could pass for a Rosalian--maybe even one of their lasses.¡±


    ¡°Maybe, if he put on a little perfume and took a bath for once¡± cried one of them.


    ¡°Or practiced his manners.¡±


    ¡°Mademoisellemay I have the honor of having this dance?¡¯¡±


    Laughter.


    A scrawny young man, Mincio had always been--and, some venture, always will be--the butt of his better''s worse humor. It didn''t help that he was a young man too small for his boots--a fact the company made sure to remind him of. Thus, although he didn''t take it against them--he was the sort of person to take such things lightly--he was dour and took to brooding.


    ¡°Oi, Mincio,¡± cried Oscar, ¡°Who was that woman you were talking about earlier? The officer. What¡¯s her name? Phoebe?¡±


    ¡°Chloe.¡±


    ¡°Chloe, that¡¯s the one,¡±


    ¡°I never said anything about her,¡± replied Mincio


    ¡°Come now, who was the one going on and on about the pretty girl with the red hair?¡±


    ¡°I never said anything,¡± Mincio scowled.


    ¡°That''s alright,¡± said Oscar, the bearded lieutenant who had began the joke. Clapping a large hand on Mincio''s shoulder, ¡°more for me then,¡± he grinned. ¡°Red hair. Don''t see that everyday!¡°


    ¡°Albright''s still the better woman.¡± ventured Serrault, ¡°Don''t know about Rosalians, but a good Dacian woman''s for me.¡±


    ¡°Not like you''re ever going to have her. She''s out of your league."


    ¡°You two, cease this instant,¡± shouted a captain who was with the company. He had had enough of the coarse banter and was eager to have it stopped. ¡°Both are commanding officers of the allied army you will show them some respect.¡±


    ¡°Aye, sir,¡± said the hussar, ¡°you can have Albright.¡± Laughter yet again.


    ¡°Guttersnipe!¡± the Captain drew his sword and wheeled his horse to face the men. Suddenly aware with apprehension, the Captain''s heart sank and the frown on his face loosened.


    ¡°Enough!¡± shouted the General. ¡°Gentlemen, this behavior is unbecoming of officers of the crown. Lieutenant, show your superior officers some respect, the man means well.¡±


    ¡°Aye sir, beg your pardon.¡±


    ¡°As for you Captain,¡± the General smiled, ¡°lighten up a little, what is a victory¡¯s worth if we cannot enjoy a little banter?¡±


    ¡°Sir,¡° responded the Captain.


    For a minute there was silence. In an effort to break the ice, Mincio ventured on another topic.


    ¡°Eerie, though, how they seem to march so silently, them Rosalians, like they¡¯re possessed or something.¡± Again there was a murmur of assent. It was common for Dacians to sing as they marched shoulder to shoulder toward their enemies.


    ¡°Or daft as hell disappearing without orders just like that," said Oscar ¡°Their commander must have been mad! What''s his name?¡±


    ¡°Clairaut, I think¡± replied Mincio.


    "You mean the man all in black--with the coat and everything?"


    "Aye, knee-britches and all," replied Mincio.


    "He wasn''t even wearing a uniform!" one of the men shouted.


    "And commander with the rest of them," the Serrault responded.


    "Don''t matter. Blighter''s daft for disappearing like that."


    ¡°My friend, consider that if they hadn¡¯tre-appeared, we would most likely be dead!¡± retorted the Captain


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying that sticking out your neck on a hunch that some phantom army¡¯s on the move hours before they show up is just plain daft, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°But they weren¡¯tjusta phantom army, were they?¡± said his companion gleefully.


    ¡°But if theywerethen the blighter¡¯d be court-marshalled.¡±


    ¡°But theycan¡¯tdo that can they?¡± retorted the other.


    Oscar was not satisfied. ¡°What do you think, General, sir?¡±


    ¡°I think that at this point the character of the Rosalians is unassailable. If Alliance Command had any sense they would decorate the man, foolhardy as his venture was.¡± He had only saved them from near annihilation, after all!


    ***


    Arriving at the town square the General dismissed his entourage. Weary after the day¡¯s excitement the men were eager to retire and left the general as he entered the marble doorway of the town hall. Makiing his way past saluting officers, he arrived at his office where he was relieved to see aide-de-camp, Major Yana Albright.


    The woman who accosted him was of a slim yet sturdy build, dark-haired, slightly tanned with smart eyes and a sharp demeanor. Though she would inevitably be bested in looks by the softer specimen of her sex, she had a bright face and a comely smile and was not wanting in admirers, both in the service and out. Looks aside, her accomplishments were of considerable merit. Graduating at the top of her class of the Academy, she rose through the ranks as a staff officer and served on several major campaigns in Arvos and in Illyria before requesting to be assigned to General Mayhew. She has been described as competent, efficient and, most importantly better attuned the general¡¯s idiosyncrasies than most. With a smart salute, she accosted the weary general. ¡°Good evening, sir. Has the day treated you well?¡±


    ¡°Never been better, though my bunions say otherwise. One more push and we¡¯ll have the ¡®merians running home with their trousers down. A victory for the Alliance! And a right sound victory it certainly was. Never been this excited in years!¡±


    ¡°I highly doubt that, sir.¡±


    ¡°Well, you certainly should! I¡¯ve been winning victories like this all my life! But a soldier¡¯s work is never done. With this, our rear¡¯s as good as secure and we can begin reparations. Consolidation, my dear--consolidation!" The manservant entered shortly after carrying a tray of biscuits and honey, "I say, I could use a cup of something. What do have?¡±


    ¡°Mint tea, sir, two sugars, boiled at three-fifty for six, courtesy of the Rosalian contingent.¡±


    ¡°Eh? What this you say?Tea? Why, I must have my Black or I shall have the hives! Rosalians and their colonial teas. Colonial, indeed. Doesn¡¯t even come from a colony! They grow it in their back yard, didn¡¯t you know? None of this Mint nonsense.¡±


    ¡°Perfectly fine, sir. Black in six. Anything else, sir?¡±


    ¡°Yes. First, I¡¯ll need a report prepared on the current battle stating the security situation and our immediate need for troops and materiel. We¡¯ll need the reserves in Arda to be transferred here immediately so we can begin preparations to arm the town. We¡¯ll also be needing engineers to put up some fortifications--the western wall could use some touching up-and gun placements. Sargasso is to be a key town for a northern campaign and we¡¯ll need all the firepower we can get to make sure it stays that way, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir. Shall I address it to anyone in particular?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Browning¡¯s office. Try to make it look like it¡¯s his idea, he¡¯s argued it before though he won¡¯t admit it. Damned numbskulls in Arletine won¡¯t take orders from anyone short of His Majesty¡¯s poodle. Bureaucrats and their cliques, blackguards one and all! We must have those divisions or we won¡¯t be able to fend off another attack when the time comes. Maker knows those bastards won¡¯t spare us an inch.


    ¡°On second thought, produce a copy for the Home Secretary. Perhaps some added pressure will make them pliant. Impress upon him the urgency of the matter, with any luck I¡¯m sure they¡¯d come to their senses. Second, I¡¯ll need logistics to secure our communications to the south and begin preparations for transport. We¡¯ll need a telegraph running through Arda and Aretino as soon as possible so we can coordinate the construction of a depot here in Sargasso. Finally, I need a letter composed addressing General Sorrel of the Silmerian 4th so we can begin negotiations. After-¡±


    ¡°Sorrel is dead, sir.¡±


    ¡°Come again?¡±


    ¡°Sorrel was killed in battle, sir, or at least that is what reports have claimed. His body has not yet been identified but we have teams going through the refuse to confirm.¡±


    ¡°Well that¡¯s wonderful news! Address it to whoever is the next in command. Erm, who might that be?¡±


    ¡°Colonel Arnaud Boussiere, decorated twice for bravery. Velvet cross, Order of St. Aletha.¡±


    ¡°Ah, a field man! Tough, unyielding--a born leader no doubt. Most importantly, one without experience in negotiations. Tell Mr. Boussiere we will be expecting him. Impress upon him the urgency of the matter. Oh and treat the poor chap kindly. Perhaps some of that cured meat we¡¯ve been saving. Do we have those? Ah, very good! Maker knows some civilization will do us all some good.¡±


    ¡°Shall I contact the officers for a debriefing, sir?¡±


    ¡°No need. Not until tomorrow when negotiations have concluded.¡±


    ¡°Anything else, sir?¡±


    ¡°No, no. That will be all.¡±


    ¡°Requesting dismissal, sir.¡±


    ¡°Granted. Oh, and contact Colonel Clairaut. I would like a word with him.¡±

 Chapter 2: Heedless of their Fate

    Chapter2


    Heedless of their Fate


    With the ample provision by the town''s Mayor, the General¡¯s Quarters in the town hall were neatly furbished with all the comforts becoming of a gentleman. Fine upholstery, and sturdy desks arrayed the office from wall to wall, while silver, fine linen, and requisite accommodations and accoutrements added form to function in every room. To complete the touch of gentlemanly ease, portraits of the good Monseiur Mayor and his esteemed predecessors lined the hallway leading to the office. Here, between the odd stack of paperwork and the necessary map, the general was to entertain his guest to discuss beforehand the terms they were to bargain with the enemy commander. While waiting, the general took out a file that sat on his desk and moved a chair toward the balcony.


    Of all his field offices, this was the best. Being within Dacian borders, supplies were easy to move and for once they got the general¡¯s wishes right. But it was here, by the balcony on the upper floor of the Town Hall, where he could get a full view of the town and the outlying terrain, that the general spent his evenings.


    He looked down onto the streets and admired its peace. It was empty save for a lone street sweeper. Though inwardly joyous, the people of Sargasso celebrated the victory with a good night¡¯s sleep, the tension and fear having been lifted after days of waiting. Tired from his work, the man stretched his arms, looked up, and saw the general. The man saluted and smiled. The General smiled back.


    Pulling up the chair, he sat at the balcony window. The moon had colored the hills and forests a soft purple and grey while the wind carried the rustling of the trees. Mayhew looked out to the hills to the north where the battle raged and ended. He could only imagine it: the field strewn with corpses where the odd lantern lingered like a spirit among the dead. Inwardly, he saluted the men who had died protecting his homeland and thought yes some things are worth dying for. He was proud to be a Dacian.


    He opened up the file and realized that it was a digest from the week before. One of the things he demanded be part of the transport detail was the latest copy of the Times. The general insisted on being updated on the news and every week a packet of broadsheets was delivered to his office as soon as the detail arrived. Upon reaching there it was sifted by Major Albright for news on major headings to be presented in a file for the general''s consumption at seven the following day. He had originally decided to read the news for the latest but decided to review the events of the week before. Of this selection, two headlines stood out: the re-capture of a province once occupied by the Silmerian Empire and the transfer of five Rosalian Divisions in anticipation of an attack from the Parnasses.


    General Mayhew looked out the balcony again. A little to the west of there, hugging the forest was the Rosalian camp. There, just outside the town, they made do with what little shelter was available to them, there being no further room for the soldiers but only offices for files and rooms for officers, this offered as a courtesy and this courtesy politely refused. Instead, they requested to turn these buildings into sanatoriums for their wounded and for Dacian doctors to attend to them. The request was promptly effected.


    A minor outpost to the north, Sargasso was one of many interlocking towns through which reserves were passed and deployed. The town itself lay at the at the very center of a road network straddling the length of the Parnassus, a mountain range stretching across the Northern border of Rosalia and thereby central to the movement of any army wishing to traverse the Peninsula. As a Military District, the Sargasso valley was manned by recruits drawn from the nearby provinces. In time of war the garrison towns of Sargasso, Arda and Aretino served as rallying points for both militia and army stationed in the region. Though by no means small, with only four regiments of the line and two regiments of the reserve--in all four of infantry, two of horse--with neither group at full strength, and about forty guns in varying weights not counting the town¡¯s own gun placements, the garrison was meagre considering that they were at war--a notion preposterous to the General.


    Thanks to a treaty with the Duke of Montferrat that secured his Estate''s neutrality, Alliance command determined that the town was of low priority far from the fighting and was manned only so that it could defend itself long enough for reinforcements to arrive. The defense of the north was to be left, as mission command insisted, to the ¡°concentration of reserves upon their conjunction in predetermined areas through strategic withdrawal from non-key locations." In other words, in the event that said reinforcements do not arrive, the towns were to be abandoned.


    "Madness!¡± cried Mayhew to his colleagues at the Arletine, the nerve center of the Alliance military. ¡°One does not solve such problems by burying one¡¯s head in the sand!¡± Lord Mayhew knew well the enemy they were dealing with. In the last war a decade ago he saw first-hand the ferocity with which the dread irregulars prosecuted their campaigns. Of them all the most terrifying were the Ayavskayan riders. Though merely irregulars, roughly cloaked and armed with old rifles and rusted sabres, they were the terror of the Silmerian military. They were hardened, treacherous and could move through difficult terrain with such speed as was beyond the imagination of a civilized man. Meagre garrisons, he argued, would simply fall to them. We must defend the north, the general insisted, ¡°they will make an attack there, I am sure of it. They have taken to fort just north of the Western Gate of Parnassus. This suggests that they are planning an attack through the wastelands and would likely move south to target the alliance command center there and threaten the capital.¡±


    On the table was a raised sheet of glass from which a scale topographical display composed entirely of light hungin low relief upon the air, depicting the Rosalian Peninsula. At attendance were the leaders of the Rosalian Alliance, and having met early without breaking fast were ill-disposed toward one another. They were arranged around the table as they argued, their voices a shrill cacophony against the early moring calm, with some standing, some sitting, some smoking cigars, the air a dyspeptic constipant punctuated by the occasional cough.


    Counters made of arcane light hovered slightly above the sheet, navigating the terrain according to the presenter''s instructions. On order the map would shift noiselessly as the display conformed to the topography.


    "The general sees danger everywhere", Sibelius Anatole, Field Marshal of the Creoniste forces, replied, ¡°the Western Gate is a well-guarded pass protected by forts and several, well-known, patrol routes. Need I remind you as well that we are protected in that direction by our agreement with the Duke of Montferrat? No less by their pledge of neutrality to the international community?" He was confident in the scheme: it was a commitment of his own devising and the issue was a matter of pride. The Montanistes, the citizens of Montferrat, would never countenance a violation of their rights, much less betrayal. It was Fides he said. His Lordship would be damned to have a sacred agreement fall through.


    "Unconvincing," Mayhew retorted. Mayhew took note of the Marshal''s grave theatrical air as he described his straightforward but unimaginative policy. He stated his distaste out loud, to the great consternation of the assembly, "the forces of war recognize no higher power than the temple of Force. If not through the Gate,¡± he asserted, sneering pointedly at the gilded Marshal sneering back in his chestful of medals, then through the mountains.


    The Marshal scoffed, "The Parnassus is a cold, desolate land littered with sheer cliffs, bandits and Maker knows what else! Any enemy meaning to pass there is merely courting suicide. Communications will be stretched, supply will be nearly impossible, security along poorly mapped mountain passes alone are a logistical nightmare--it is devoid of sense! Better to focus on the palpable than to worry about ghosts." The Court was only interested in the rich Silmerian mining towns to the east than it was about illusory threats. This, they said, is the key, their hallowed center of gravity.


    Marshal Collins, Mayhew''s elder and superior in the Dacian military raised an aged hand and beckoned the assembly to silence. He was seated at the head of the table alongside the other venerables, smoking a pipe. Hearing his voice, the attendees fell quiet. Holding his pipe in one hand he signaled the operator to start the machine. It was better, he said, if they began at the beginning.


    Ponderous Silmeria, with its armies arrayed all around them, lay far across the forbidding Parnassus, a mountain range running along the Peninsula''s northern border. At either end lay the Parnassus Corridors, known popularly as the Gates, which guarded the two main entries to the Viceroyalty. To the west, neutral nations created a corridor that barred entry to the province, while the East was barred by the Vasa, rivals of the Dacians and leader of the Rosalian Dukes still loyal to Silmeria.


    As this was being said, the light shifted tone and high mountains arose from the void, creating a barrier at the head of the table. Two valleys punctuated the wall, lined with fortifications and two roads on each side. A rail passed through the center, the train billowing holographic steam into the air.


    The Gates have always been the focus of Rosalian foreign policy--and Dacia more so than others. Of the many powers guarding Her independence, it fell on Dacia to guard the Rosalias the most, straddling as the province did both corridors and therefore the great landward thoroughfares of les Rosalias Vieux. The most sensible strategy, the Marshal insisted, involved knocking the Vasas out of the war as quickly as possible before linking up through the Eastern Gate with Latia.


    ¡°What is at stake here is not whether the fight will take place at the Western or the Eastern Gate but whether our alliance will stay taut.¡± What was needed was for an envelopment of all Vasa positions by the collected Resistance forces in a rapid march toward their Capital. ¡°Nothing less than the total mobilization of the Rosalian Peninsula would work and to organize it, and total control of the Military must be placed beneath the Banners of Creon due to their seniority. The alliance commitments would be based on that fact alone, the Gates be damned.¡±


    The generals of the minor Houses demurred. Yes, they said, total mobilization of the Peninsula was beyond doubt but placing the control of the military machine beneath Creon command was out of the question. It was a question of Prestige. They would not surrender control to the Creons at any cost.


    "It is unbecoming of Rosalian officers", Collins replied, "to argue against the basic principle of unity of command. Creon can have the presidency of the effort but the Generals will have the command." It was not a fight, he said, for bitter spoils but the liberty of the Estates. How would, he argued, the war be remembered by posterity were it to bog down before it was fought? "Not very well, surely."


    It was his age and esteem that had an effect on the audience but it was also that was also the muted applause of the Minister Plenipotentiary of Rosalia that did them in. "Bravo," the Rosalian Minister said, "it doesn''t pay to fight against principles." With three of the four Grand Estates supporting Creon, the minor Estates had to toe the line. There was not much question of resistance to begin with.


    "Are we agreed, then, that Creon will have the presidency?" Collins asked. There was a General murmur of assent.


    There was something else, however, Mayhew noticed, a quick wavering of the Marshal''s expression, which had softened from granite to a mild chisel, that caught his attention. It occurred to him that the greatest difficulty was not so much the planning as the plea for cooperation amongst squabbling minds. Catching the hint, he turned to their guests.


    The civilian representatives were seated on a raised platform arranged in two rows around the table, all silent and at attention. The debate had subtly become hostile as the Generals then negotiated their respective commitments to the war effort. There was the inevitable tension between men of power unaccustomed to cooperation but for the tacit acknowledgement that they were fighting for a war, first for for survival and then for liberation. They were all smiles and blank faces--Dacia, as always, will take up the brunt. They would have no presidency now and their prestige would not be satisfied but they need not fight the war so strenouously. They¡¯ll do what¡¯s right, nevermind the young General. That¡¯s the ticket, Old Dacia will save us--It is tradition. Mayhew almost spat before he caught himself.


    The air was thick with smoke, and agitated whispers punctuated the discussion. Several were in favor of full deployment and used their influence to pressure their colleagues into commitment, while others were concerned about allotment for homeland defense. The debate centered around two men, Marshal Anatole and General Mayhew, the latter having the silent approval of the Particularistes.


    Fools, Mayhew told himself. He was no hero to these men. Although fully aware of the need for a unified policy, his argument was grounded in his knowledge of his homeland''s important role in the war policy. He wanted no part in the selfish aspirations of his Allies. Had it not been so, he would have argued otherwise.


    Anatole led the discussion. Nodding to the operator, he began his presentation. ¡°The plan that had been agreed upon is to make two successive strikes in the east: first to quash the threat presented by the Vasas and then to link up with Latia.¡±


    The counters depicted a cloud of counters meeting along the eastern valley, with one cloud disappearing to depict the defeat of the Vasa forcesThe story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°The Vasas, as you all very well know, are the leaders of the Dissenters,¡± The Dissenters were the Rosalian dukedoms that had rejected the Declaration of Independence and joined forces with Silmeria, ¡°crushing them will provide us an outlet for the army to move through while in the second phase our goal to link up their forces with the Latians north of the eastern Gate in order to make a North-by-Northwest swing into the SIlmerian heartland and toward the Silmerian capital, hinging upon the crook of the mountain range''s eastern Gate.¡±


    The counters moved into position according to Anatole¡¯s instructions. A cloud of counters appeared east of the mountain as the topography telescoped toconform to widening of the terrain. Two clouds of counters met East of the ridge and began to crash into one another, depicting a heated battle. Meanwhile another set of counters south of the ridge floated across the mountain and began to release smaller counters, depicting an aerial transport.


    ¡°As the operation develops, the Rosalians will move their Airship Flotilla across the mountains in order to secure their communications and supply via a crucial aerial route. They will land their army due west of our line of operations and link up with us for a flanking attack. We expect Aerial resistance en route but with enough speed, we should be able to force the battle North of the Parnassus.¡±


    Anatole led them further into the web, ¡°Once we develop the attack on their center, the Latians will swing North to threaten their capital while another army, led by the Rosalians, are to attack in concert to join their forces there and engage the enemy. Silmeria must and will defend this in order to prevent their Capital''s annexation"


    The counters glided into place, depicting a surrounded Silmerian Army.


    ¡°At this point, we expect to bring the Silmerians to battle on one of these points and then throw their armies upon the Parnassus towards the waiting Rosalians.¡± Addressing Mayhew, Anatole sneered, "The problem of the Western Gate thus solves itself. Through a durable threat to their capital, we can draw troops away from the West into our lines. We cannot devote units elsewhere."


    Mayhew differed, "And what of their fortifications? Without a sizable force defending the Western Gate we may very well expect an attack from that direction, troops drawn or no. No less that unguarded routes present a greater temptation to those who have the means to take it."


    ¡°Preposterous!¡± the Marshal scoffed, ¡°Do you also mean to say that they would break convention and make war with Lorraine in the North? An attack on Aetolia and Montferrat will open up a second front! I would not daresay the enemy weak but another front in the middle of the war is something even they cannot afford."


    The Marshal amplified on his observations. "Nevertheless, should the alliance fail to take the eastern gate, no attack would be possible. Not for Creon, not for the Rosalians, with or without their ships, and certainly not for the Dacians." Anatole patted off sweat and straightened his medals, ¡°to achieve the speed and security that the camapign needs, all forces must be devoted to a single offensive and a single policy. When we have secured the first phase of operations, then we can consider separate fronts. The Alliance cannot devote more units elsewhere.¡±


    "And yet the possibility is anything but benign." Mayhew paused for effect ¡°There are reports,¡± he continued, "that the Silmerians are beginning to put up earthworks along the western edge of the SIlmerian heartland. The visible build-up of field fortifications indicate an increase in troop concentrations and an increase in movement to and from the frontier.¡± This buildup, he asserted, suggested one of two things: either the Silmerians had an interest in either the relocation of their own troops or the prevention of Alliance troops from massing in that direction. Taking either case implies that interest in this region is justified. "An attack through the western gate would catch us by surprise and a successful attack from this region could threaten our rear at the moment we''ve completed any attack on the eastern gate."


    "A bromide, as you very well know." The Marshal was only acutely aware of this and took offence that he had to be apprised of what he already knew, "the Court is aware of these facts, however our security is dictated by the terms we have concluded with our neighbors. Unless both Silmeria and Montferrat intend to open a multi-pronged war in the area there is no sense expecting an attack from that direction."


    Diplomatic spirits cautioned parsimony. ¡°Perhaps they mean to secure it in case of an incursion on our account? The fact that they have taken to fort so easily despite our own effort only proves the difficulty of serving in that terrain. No argument is necessary. All that needs to be done is for us to wait it out. If ever they do attempt a pass, forces already in the area should be sufficient to take them in detail.¡±


    "Our alliances do not eliminate the possibility of an attack originating from the Gate," Mayhew began, "The Gates have long been and remain a key vulnerability of the Peninsula. At the very least we must provide for the contingency that our Allies may be swept away before we would have any time to respond." Historically, control of the gates had been an important part of Rosalian policy in the days before the Silmerian conquest. ¡°Neglecting their defense is a failure to understand its historical importance.¡±


    ¡°Its historical importance is beside the point. Forces in the area should be sufficient to respond to the Silmerians and the violation of the neutrality of Montferrat will only throw another hundred-thousand strong in their wake."


    The Marshal paused, "I tire of this argument especially when we have aught but danced upon a familiar point." Anatole rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Mayhew, listen, if our intelligence is correct--and the good Rosalian gentleman sitting at the dais can vouch for me--there are nearly eight hundred-thousand strong Silmerians waiting to receive our attack. In total we have five hundred-thousand, maybe, not including the Latians. That gives us five more. We must have a unified offensive if any of this will matter and we must throw our weight where the fight hurts the most. We need to accept an exposed rear in order to develop a strong attack. You know this better than most"


    The audience was solemn at the thought. They all knew they were outnumbered but instead of throwing their weight upon the attack, they feared they would lose the defense. It wasn''t, as it was often said, simply a matter merely of liberation but of survival. It was an admission of weakness to be sure, but the moment''s sincerity had its effect. If Rosalia was to be free, they would all have to work together, like it or not--and they hated it as much as they needed it.


    But the young general refused to be placed. He spoke slowly. ¡°It has been done before and can be done again. Treaties are only so much paper. A well-suited defensive force of about twenty divisions will be necessary in order to respond to a possible threat. They are well aware of our vulnerability here and this they will exploit. The northerners are not to be underestimated lest they rob us blind! The costs of losing this region are too great and the sanctity of treaties can be ignored!"


    "As the man said our neighbors have already expressed their solidarity." Marshal Collins, until then wrapped in a grave silence, intervened to cool Mayhew''s nerves. "It would be unthinkable that they would abrogate their pledge when it is the only thing keeping their state intact!"


    "And for heaven¡¯s sake," interjected Anatole, "my lord the Duke has pledged to mount a resistance on our behalf in the event that Dissenters do attack us, Maker knows you¡¯re about to argue it. The Court applauds the general¡¯s vast capacity for imagination but we deal in facts not Fantasy.¡°


    ¡°And I applaud the lack in yours!" Mayhew retorted. "A strong defense is the only deterrent to our Allies defecting. A durable threat by the Silmerians North of the western Gate will be a good reason for the Lorraignes and their puppets to bandwagon. This Court was established to address threats and direct offensives wherever necessary. If we ignore the threat in the North we''re risk giving the Silmerians a foothold in the region. It will be the first of many waves. With our gate open and the League in their pocket we will be forced into a separate peace or worse! We have more to lose, dammit. And we alone among others!"


    Yet there was little discussion thereafter even with all the theatrics. Between the dignitaries present, Mayhew looked for support. He found only disapproval in their eyes, and in some a jaundiced sort of mirth approving the flow but not the substance of the debate. Mayhew could only accept defeat. Concluding thus, the argument ended. But the greater powers at the Court prevailed and Mayhew was consigned to silence.


    Almost a year into hostilities, the initial phases of the attack on Silmeria had, for the most part, prospered. The Vasas, seeing no choice for their survival, acquiesced before the alliance and turned coat. What was expected but not believed was that the attack would grind to a halt a few hundred miles into Silmeria. The Silmerian populace, galvanized by what they saw as twilight of their esteemed Empire rose as one against the invaders. Though they would not push the Alliance, their fight would always see resistance come from every direction. A stalemate was, thus, unforseen but inevitable.


    No less crucial was the advantage in materiel the Empire possessed. With a half-centuries'' lead in Aerodyne Technology the result should have been unsurprising. The Battle of the Central Plains, as it would then be called, would be remembered as a battle for the supremacy of the air no less than of land. With the full panoply of Silmerian industry on show, there was no question of defeat.


    As it turns out, the Northerners proved to be the wily, elusive enemies the general considered them to be. Instead of striking the Alliance force directly, they would goad the juggernaut into difficult land then out of nowhere would unleash a swift and brutal attack on their rear or their flanks. They would take little bites out of the whole. Not at all as damaging as one can imagine, but deathly terrifying. Whenever the enemy would respond to their strikes with precision, they scattered. When the enemy scattered in order to expand their control over the field, they concentrated, executing precision strikes at the edges of the battle. They struck at irregular times and irregular places that defied the expectations of field planers. Then, their prey demoralized and terrified, the Silmerians would step in, guns blazing, to claim the day


    To be truthful, battle with the Silmerians was not always as one-sided. But as all accounts go, there was a measure of truth in this portrayal of events, and, all things considered, it only goes to show how little the Alliance planners understood the Northerner¡¯s means of making war, combining the treachery of the Ayavskayan riders with the discipline and sheer weight of the Silmerian military. In fact, the ¡°Grand Center¡±, as the main army was called, had successfully seized the mining towns it set out to obtain. In a mere three weeks, the first of these towns fell with surprising ease. The Dacian military arranged a grand entrance into one of the towns in full dress as a show of force, with trumpets blaring and muskets at the ready. To their great surprise however the town was empty. And not simply vacated either. The entire town was devoid of anything of value, grain, arms and all. Most importantly, the coal they had fought for was missing.


    The first response of the commander was one of exhilaration. "If they are retreating with this many supplies then they must be encumbered on the roads! Finally, we shall give the enemy the taste of their own medicine." In the months to follow, the Center was to learn that this would not be the case as arsenals and magazines turned from prize to bait. The Grand Center was soon to fight an intense struggle that would end in stalemate, both sides having sufficient forces to prolong the battle but insufficient ability to throw the other.


    ***


    Lord Mayhew sat in silence as he waited for his guest to arrive. Tea had been served but neither it nor the biscuits were touched. Thoughts lay heavily on him as he reflected back on that day and the victory they had gained. Had it not been for the Rosalians all would have been lost, Dacian discipline or no. They would have been routed and forced to retreat or worse. Thanks to His allies'' initiative (not to mention the all too flagrant insubordination), the north had been saved. And by a hair¡¯s breadth no less! "Then again perhaps I¡¯m being too hard on my enemies", Mayhew thought. If they had retreated, who knows what might have happened? It was equally likely that they could have alerted garrisons en route to concentrate sufficient force to at least pin the enemy short of Arda. But that would have meant the forts to the north would have been taken--not that any did fall--no, that¡¯s not right. The general rubbed the bridge of his nose then sighed.


    War was a matter of probabilities, not syllogisms. One can¡¯t be sure until after the action. Fortunately all turned out well. For all his fastidiousness, Mayhew was not inclined to view war as an orderly prosecution of affairs like some who profess that it can be fought by some kind of algebra of arms. And yet he would have liked to believe that this victory was the product of the mind of a brilliant officer who had come to the same insight as he. But how we grasp at straws! Perhaps his rivals at the Arletine were right and the North could have been secured according to their recommendations. It was at Altair¡¯s insistence wasn''t it--was it? Or had he convinced himself of this?--that they had fought and won. He thought about victory, about defeat, about destiny, his nation¡¯s destiny, this aged ailing thing.


    His thoughts were curdling in the mind of the weary general when he spied out of the corner of his eye the dossier of young Colonel Clairaut lying upon his desk. It was he who made this entire thing possible yet he has claimed only responsibility and none of the glory. Strange lad. In the world of politics--and the higher-ranks in the military were for all intents and purposes political positions--self-effacement, very unlike flattery, got you nowhere. Either you fought for your position or you earned it one way or another, sometimes in the shortest time through the most circuitous route. He opened the file.


    ¡°Altair Clairaut. Colonel, age34 Assigned as Military Attache in Paresh, and known to have served the Dey in an unofficial capacity. Assigned to Ayseri, known to have served as an adviser to the Prince as Minister Plenipotentiary of the Rosalian Crown.¡± known to have, known to have, known to have. What the devil does the boy do? ¡°Some desk jockey, no doubt,¡± the general mumbled to himself. Ah, here we are, ¡°served as Charge d''Affaires to the Rosalian Delegation the end of the Eastern Crisis. Honored with the Citizen''s Cross and the Medaille de la Rose.¡±


    Mayhew smiled knowingly. Having said thus, he drew himself to such a height, then immediately adopted a pose of sublimity. Aside from the numerous known-to-haves, the boy had hardly any military qualifications, let alone any personal history. Anything prior to the list was as good as blank save for a few entries. Graduated with honors from the ¨¦cole Superiure, administrative corps. Promoted to the rank of Captain in the Fin de Siecle war. Served as a clerk in the Ministry of Revenues for about a year and then transferred to the Foreign Ministry. One last entry: ¡°Known to have served in the Gendarmerie as chief intelligence officer." The general would say that sums it up but these were tolerant times he reminded himself.


    ¡°Very strange.¡± the General smiled.


    Destiny. Was it destiny that this young upstart arrived in time to rescue Dacia from defeat? No. A man writes his own destiny for a destiny that is by others is a mere resignation to the inevitable. War was about control. Control amidst the changing fortunes of a battle that was at best tenuous. Anything could have happened, convince themselves of their own correctness as they may. Defeat could have happened.


    His thoughts fell silent for a moment as he mused upon the caprices of the Shaper. That shouldn¡¯t blind us to the facts. The world is inherently chaotic and war much so, for all the art, science, and strategy we employ. That war or politics or some such should be rational is a mere aversion on our part to be sunk in this horror we¡¯re born in.


    The general grinned. ¡°Why, Mayhew, old fox, you¡¯re a philosopher!¡± He chuckled. While he''d rather have other things in mind, the victory had afforded him some time to reflect and for that he was thankful. "Tomorrow we bargain." Destiny was not written yet!

 Chapter 3: On the Train to Sargasso

    Part 1


    Chapter 3


    The Long Ride to Sargasso


    Three Months Ago


    The lamp flickered in and out of life as the train car lurched to and fro. Beneath, the hot stench of packed men throttled the air as the soldiers hacked and coughed for breath.


    It was cold. Early dawn. The men were recruits from distant parts of Dacia brought together to serve as a single fighting force. It was about less than a division packed in the freight, this train having over several hundred cars and being one of a hundred hurtling from the rear to the front lines. This car was carrying a company of fifty, and the bleak, rolling mass stitting shoulder to shoulder amidst the rotted wood and the rusted bolts shuddered for life within the gloom.


    A youngish man in a ratty uniform--the sort of man a bit too loose for his boots--was staring at his neighbor, a bearded man apparently deep into his business. He was reading some sheafs, letters apparently, with frayed edges and blotted ink, and smiling to himself. His bemused expression struck him as singlular amidst the brooding company corralled in the freight. Amidst the pitch and yaw of the rumbling train, the gloom of the dim bulb was playing across his face. Moved by the bleak silence of his station, they youth was eager for talk. He was about to venture on a topic when he was caught by surprise.


    "May I help you?" The older man inquired.


    The youth was caught off guard. He did not seem put off, he told himself, grinned, and asked, "What are you reading?"


    "Letters from home." the older man replied, "I did not have time to bid my friends farewell so I keep letters," he said, bending closer to help the youth see the writing, "fortunately, the Quartermaster was kind enough to keep or letters before departing to the front."


    Not quite sure how to continue but eager to speak, he ventured, "do you get many?"


    "Oh, plenty. The missus wrote me every week while we were still in drill," he fetched a battered piece of stationary from his pocket and read a passage. Pausing for breath, he explained, "the children are attending school this summer and we''re hoping the war''s short enough I''d see them in their robes.  We were fortunate that the schoolmaster accepted our son''s tuition. A washerwoman''s income and a soldier''s half-pay don''t make much for educating the young ones."


    Heartened by his new friend''s confidence, the young man continued, "your family, what''s it like?"


    "It''s the best family one could ask for. There''s my wife, the most lovely woman imaginable and my two sons. They used to visit during drill, you know. She''d fight the patrols when they refused to hand over her presents." The older man was laughing slightly while thumbing his letters.


    The bearded man drifted off slightly, staring into the air.


    He had thought about home almost every day after he enlisted. It felt like a distant dream. There would be his mother there and a brindle cow. He remembered how every day he would boast to his mother about how he would be a soldier, just like his late father. Then there would be a thousand strictures piled upon him, that there were bad men in the army, not to drink a lick, to always give grace and to know he was the better man--that there was a world for him outside the Army. He didn''t want to be a farmer so he enlisted.


    He was 18 when he enlisted. His mother cried the day they came for him to send him to the District. Then for a month, it was drills, drills, drills, and more drills and the dirty swaggering Sargeant who beat the life out of those who didn''t keep time. It was to be discipline for him rather than the soft bed and the warm fire of home. Everyday, he dreamt the same dream and he dreamt while he was awake. He dreamt that the great sweep and fire written in bloody ink would draw him from his fatigue and prop him on a pedestal. He imagined himself eagle-eyed and commanding leading with great vim the great demonstration and with a sweeping gesture bring his foes to his knees. He didn''t dream for a second of the suckling mud or the dirty seargeant and the ratty clothes--always the great horde standing before him.


    He was now on a train toward the front, the mobilization order having been given three weeks ago, toward Sagasso and an unknown fate. He had not regretted leaving the Drill Camp. He had not regretted leaving the mud. But rifle on his lap he thought that for a moment as some small recompense that he would one day be part of that great demonstration that he had lost himself to dreams in, that the drudgery and boredom of waiting would find release in some distant engagement.


    He had wanted to say this--somehow--when the older man asked him a question.


    "What''s your name, son?"


    "Tercio Salerno, sir, you?"


    "I''m Serrault, lieutenant in the Dragoons, at your service." He offered him his hand. "What''s your unit, son?"


    "I''m from the Dragoons too," replied Tercio, taking it, "they got me in the month before the mobilization."


    "Hey, boys," crieid Serrault, addressing the freight, "this here''s Salerno, he''s new."


    They all replied lazily.


    The young man was beginning to feel welcome when from the back of the car a man bellowed, "Hey kid, was it you what passed wind? I swear I''ll gut you if it was you."


    Tercio looked up and saw a pink ogre of a man stare out from underneath a scar. He was sitting at the back between another group of men playing cards. He was leering at Salerno, and glowering with a vicious look when one of the men he was playing with spoke, "Oh yeah? And if it was me, what would you do?"Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    "Then I''d gut you! Merde!"


    "Don''t bully the kid, Oscar." said Serrault "Gods knows you pass wind, too."


    "Can you people shut it?" a young man in a shako said, "there''s only so much air to go around, your breath''s clogging up my nostrils."


    "If you didn''t drink so much maybe it''d smell better," replied Oscar.


    "Quit it, you fool, you''ll get into fistcuffs again," his friend said.


    "Salerno, that there''s Mincio, he''s new, too, but he''s been with us for a couple."


    "A pleasure." Mincio said.


    The train was waking up, so to speak, to its own scent with the car bursting all at once into idle chatter. Heartened by the new ambience Salerno began to inquire.


    "So, guys, what''s the General''s plan? Any idea? Were you briefed? Do we get to see the enemy when we land?"


    "Careful, kid. Keep asking questions like that and I''d start to think you''re a spy." A man on the far end of the car was lounging lazily against the wall, his cap slouched over his head, one arm resting on his stomach, the other rubbing lazily the holster of his pistol. "Causing a public disturbance, asking suspicious questions; so, kid, are you a spy?"


    "Very funny, Danilo, don''t scare the kid." said Serrault to the man. Turning to Salerno he said, "he''s the Captain, and the leader of the Dragoons."


    "Can''t say that the pleasure''s mine but you can have it all the same." said the Captain to Salerno.


    The young man replied shakily, "Likewise."


    "So, how''d you get into the Dragoons, kid?" Oscar asked, "your mother get you in?"


    There were evil grins all around when the Mincio interrupted, "Oscar! Not even your mother would get you in."


    Laughter.


    "My father was a veteran. The gentleman at the lists asked for my name and made me pick. He said he knew my father and that he''d let me pick so I picked the Cavalry."


    "So it was your father that got you in," Serrault said, "I know a couple of Guards who had their uncles get them in. Not very easy."


    "So you''re special I take it?" the Captain said.


    "No, we own a farm. My dad was a lieutenant in the old war."


    The Captain leaned in, "Mutineer?"


    "My father would have been offended."


    There was some scoffing around the group at this while Oscar on the far side was grinning.


    "You see this?" pointing to his scar, "I got it from the mutiny. Officer slashed at me right up to my cheek. Said they''d kill me if I wasn''t so brave."


    "They''d allow you back into the army, even for that?" asked Serrault.


    "Conscription, of course," Mincio replied, "Mission command needs all hands and is willing to take dissidents."


    "You have this on good knowledge?" said the Captain


    "Oh, you bet. The mates in the staff were hobnobbing with us in the mess, said they''d offer a pardon if they enlist."


    "Bloody nuisance." Oscar spat.


    "Right, and if they didn''t offer that to you you''d be hanging from the gallows."


    "Enough, enough," the Serrault replied, "did the staff say anything about orders."


    "Not a wink. We''d be all guns but they''re keeping a tight lip."


    "But we''d be meeting the enemy when we land, right? There''d be a battle straight away, right?" Tercio asked.


    "Why, kid, you scared?" Oscar asked.


    There was a commotion at the back as one of the men took a pile of cigarettes for winning a hand.


    "Think he''d run?" One of the men in the back said, barely audible. Tercio kept an eye on them as they''ve been playing. Oscar was beating them fair. Tercio had waited a bit to see some hand pull out an ace out of his sleeve but there was none forthcoming. He''d lose--he lost frequently--but he never lost his cool, unlike his mates. By the end of the game he had the biggest pile of the four and raked in his winnings "show''s over boys." Oscar called out.


    "Everyone runs." one of the players said.


    "Think he''d shit his pants?"


    "Probably." said the other, yawning.


    The four shuffled again for another game.


    Tercio leaned back. Would he run? Everyone runs. He saw himself stumbling off a hill into the woods bloody and beaten. For a moment he was offended. Real men don''t run. They stay in line even with their fists blasted in and he saw himself standing mightily in line pouring volley after volley into the enemy line before charging in with his bayonet. He saw himself ensconcend in light and leading the charge, firearm in hand screaming mightily with no fear or regret into a vague enemy line and then that line would cower and run and he''d stab at them and then be pleased. He didn''t imagine it''d take much and swam dreamily into his vision. He was brave. The war was just. They would win.


    "So, guys, what do you think the plan is, any guesses?" Tercio mused.


    A couple of men looked at each other and laughed, shaking their heads.


    "We''ll likely be deposited in Sargasso to await further orders," Mincio said.


    "More bloody waiting," Oscar interjected.


    "I have it on good word that a sizeable Silmerian Army is waiting to invade the Western Gate," Mincio said, "we might see some action very soon."


    "Rumors," the Captain interjected.


    "The Empire won''t do that, they have treaties," Serrault said.


    "You know what the Empire would do?" Bellowed Oscar, throwing his hand down. "They''d break them. They''d put them all up and take them all down."


    "That''s not how it works."


    "That''s not how Diplomacy works. That''s not how it works." some of the men began to mutter.


    "Think they''d turn coat?" said the man at the back.


    "Probably." said the other.


    "Think they''d turn tail?"


    The man sneered pointedly.


    Mincio began again, "They''re saying that the Duke of Montferrat''s going to cross the floor. There''s an army waiting for us at the end of the trip and we''d all be up in arms, fighting." as he said this, Mincio was rubbing his hands together maliciously.


    "You wanna know what the plan is, kid?" Asked the Captain. "Alright. This is how it works. We fight, you obey. You''re given an order, you obey. The higher ups will tell us what to do. If you were infantry, you''d be packed into a square, see? And this square is led by a Colonel. You''ll hear trumpets, you''ll remember your drill and you''ll run. You''ll run for your life and then you''ll stop. You won''t know why you stop but you''ll stop. And then you''ll push. You''ll push like your life depended on it and then you''ll see the enemy. What you do at that point is your business.


    "Now, you''re in the Dragoons we answer to the Generalissimo directly since we''re his eyes and ears on the front but that don''t mean your special. You''ve picked the meanest, dirtiest of the jobs the General wants us to do. We''ll throw pickets, camp at the edge of the enemy''s line, and follow them for weeks. You won''t get a wink of sleep for days on end. You won''t get good food. You remember those boots your ma gave you? You''ll run them through and then you''ll want some. I don''t know how you got here, maybe your ma pulled some strings, maybe she didn''t. It ain''t hell, but it ain''t heaven either and I expect you shut the hell up. We''re recon and we fight light. If you don''t keep up we''ll have to leave you behind and I do not want to be responsible for that. You get it, kid? Welcome to the Cavalry. Now get some rest, you''ll need it."

 Chapter 4: At Sargasso Station

    Chapter4


    At Sargasso Station


    The train had arrived at Sargasso station when General Mayhew woke with a start. He was roused from his slumber by the low whine of the brakes and the mild lurch when the train had come to a stop. Behind him in the aisle, he could hear one of his aides whispering orders to subordinates before dismissing them abruptly. Without skipping a beat, he went to check on the General, but, seeing him awake, saluted, and made his way to the compartments clearly eager to be elsewhere. He knew the man, one Lt. Major Wenck, who on most occasions was the very figure of composure. "Very unlike him," the General muttered, limbering up. Craning his neck slowly--it was a bit stiff--he took in his surroundings before lighting a cigar. "Almost to the front," he muttered, "can''t blame him."


    It was rare for the General to travel in style, rarer still in wartime, no less so for taking the Peninsular, famed for its luxury as well as its length, whose rail stretched as far South from the coasts of Rosalia all the way North to the mountains of Dacia. It was a model of Electrodyne Technology, running on a mixture of electricity and steam and was as modern as it was fast. Excepting that the war imposed certain privations upon the liner, with furnishings ranging from expensive Rosewood tables to leather seats still slick with polish, the ride was luxurious indeed. Between the crystal lamps and the baroque, swirling facade of First Class, the General was in rare luck in spite of the conflict.


    Save for five cars at the head of the train, many compartments were replaced with freight and amenities were laconic with officers stationed in front and soldiers packed in the rear. As for those cars, the proprietor considered it a poor investment to strip them cost-for-cost but to preserve them for future use. The Generals, the proprietor said, may dispose of them as they saw fit--an indulgence they took no small advantage of.


    With the war already a few weeks in, the necessities of state ate at the edges of this fine specimen of industrialization. The train, to the proprietor''s great consternation, was one of the first things to be commandeered by the Army, being the only train to complete the journey along the length of Vieux Rosalie, and was repurposed to ferry troops.


    The arrangement was itself a novelty. Straddling three countries, there was some dispute as to how each of these sponsors would benefit from its convenience. A group of able administrators had struck upon the idea of holding the rail in common while holding the liners in private, all three being allies of a sort, the issue having been resolved through the exchange of diplomatic notes. Since the Peninsular was run by a Dacian company, the train would be run by Dacia while the other two would field their own liners upon the same rail with the requisite compensation to private ownership held in trust in lieu of a victory.


    The shrill whistle of the barker echoed outside as he directed the station hands and his calls could be heard from within the train. From his seat by the window the General saw the heads of the staff--about five in total--in formal dress at the station gates arrayed to receive the General, while the rest, threadbare in their patience, dispersed to see to the locks.


    "A bloody nuisance," the Mayhew muttered, "they didn''t have to go this far."


    It was no secret that Mayhew was a famous General and while all men took heart with a small dose of theatrics, Mayhew himself could never get used to the treatment. He was a Dacian, no other, and a citizen besides. Among the Grandees he was the most strange for wearing his egalitarian pretensions on his sleeve. "They''ve probably got the whole town behind them, too." Sinking slightly into his seat, Mayhew took a puff from his cigar. Low, audible whispers punctuated the fine light and milling silence of that Spring morning, "almost like a dream," Mayhew told himself, fully aware of the irony.


    He thought again of the campaign. Heretofore, the Silmerian Armies had seen to it to emphasize the eastern Theatre where Latia and the Auxilliaries were operating and with good reason: where the weight of operations resides, there resides the decision. Now that Silmeria was bogged down in an interminable exchange at the Latian frontier, it was a common supposition that the Emperor would seek to open a new front to knock either Lorraigne, her puppets, or Rosalia out of the war. The likely line of approach would be through the Wetern Parnasses or a wide sweep through the sea after a rapid and audacious march west. In either scenario, the belligerents expected that the new line would stretch West by Southwest, emanating from a base established north of the Parnasses. It was only a question where the weight would land.


    His mind drifted back to the scene in the Arletine. "We must at least try," Mayhew insisted to himself although the Court had adjourned a fortnight prior. He made it a point to call upon Marshal Collins thereafter, to insist on an advance through the Western Gate. Standing in Collins'' office over a table-sized map of Rosalia during an otherwise quiet afternoon, Mayhew had thought that his cause was lost in the sea of competing voices. The Marshal had previously acquiesced to a defense but not an advance. The decision arrived at in the Conference, according to the Marshal, must and will stand--this was not for Mayhew to question. But he had to try--the North was special to him this way.


    "I''ve had it up to here with your theatrics, Mayhew," the Marshal retorted, "you may be a General now but you''ve never outgrown your love of a fight!" Sitting there with his pince-nez and littered sheafs, Collins bore the air of a beleagured official, deep into his work, with little patience for discussion. "An advance through the Parnasses is out of the question. It will open up new difficulties and alientate our business partners. We''ve discussed this before. Unless Montferrat agrees to mobilizing on our side, our hands are tied. Any attempt to intimidate the Duke will only result in saddling our allies with the costs of a new campaign. They may very well side against us if we push them too far."


    "And not a single diplomat to argue on our behalf?"


    "Rosalia has already sent a delegation. It is of no use to us to go about bullying the Duke''s officers into siding with us," having said that, the Marshal held Mayhew''s eyes with a glare, "and I would caution you not to go bellowing gods knows what into the ears of all and sundry--you already know how precarious our alliance is. Lorraigne may be on our side now but they will use this to justify a withdrawal quite likely in the near future."


    "Ten divisions."


    "I beg your pardon?"


    "Give me ten divisions and I will make this problem go away. Ten. Six of Dacian, Four of Foederati.


    "Out of the question. You were allocated five and that is all you will have."


    Mayhew sighed and arched himself over a map table in disbelief. "Ten. You know we need this now more than ever."


    The Silmerian Offensive caught everyone by surprise. The late buildup of troops on the Western edge of Silmeria had been worrying but within treaty limits. It was dismissed by all pundits as defensive in nature, meant to scare the Rosalians into silence. It was when SIlmeria went from billeting soldiers to sending them illegally across the border that all bets were off, this unthinkable result being, according to them in hindsight, the effect of the ''real forces of war'', forcing the hand of Silmeria into opening a second front. It helped little that it was, above all else, a Silmerian claim.


    "Seven and no more. Five of Dacian, two of Foederati."


    "I cannot hope to defend the gates without ten."


    "You pin your hopes on a nightmare and expect a miracle? Then a miracle you shall need: seven. I''ll inform the Quartermaster and see I can have the reallocation approved. Maker knows I have better things to do."


    In the event, Mayhew received the allotted seven Divisions and five more from the Rosalians on trust. To his surprise, he was promoted to Lieutenant General for this purpose in spite of Collins'' questionable confidence--a sign, he thought, of his superior''s recognition and congratulated himself on being able to communicate the urgency of his cause, the condescension of the whole of Arlington be damned. Regardless, the matter having been decided, he saw no need to press further and was disinclined to pry.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Reaching for his cane, he noticed that the murmurs, until then barely audible, were now in heated discussion. Just as he got up, his aides-de-camp came in from the neighboring car. As Lieutenant General, he was entitled to two aside from his staff: Lt. Major Wenck and Lt. Major Albright. Both had served with him in at least two campaigns and a litter of minor scuffles on the side. Yana Albright was a specialist in intelligence while Wenck had served in the Dacian General Staff prior to being reassigned. In true Dacian fashion, the most recent appointments to the line were left out to dry and as specialists were so placed in order to learn the art of command, surviving on a diet of cunning, good sense and pluck--qualities indispensible to any General.


    "Status?" asked Mayhew as the two approached.


    Saluting, Albright began, "we have a problem, sir."


    "Go on."


    "Due to some difficulties loading the troops, it will take the 17th and the 19th another day to arrive."


    "What''s causing the delay?"


    "It appears we did not anticipate the load due to mobilizing on short notice. With all rolling stock headed to the eastern front, we''ve encountered a supply bottleneck affecting transport."


    "I take it we know what is causing it?"


    "Mostly munitions although we''ve already arranged for the arsenal to be supplied from neighboring districts per SOP. Apparently, there were not enough munitions in Central Dacia to feed the surprise deployment. However we do expect to remedy the deficit shortly. The munitions will be shipped with the 17th and 19th and our deployment should be completed within the week.


    "Excellent. No news on the additional units from Rosalia?"


    "No, sir. but Major Wenck should be better informed."


    Turning to Wenck, Mayhew said, "Well?"


    "We have received a communique, sir, from the Rosalian Chief of Staff that a number of divisions--five in total--should be transported to Sargasso in short order."


    "Expected time of arrival?"


    "None, sir. The alloction was provided on pledge as part of Rosalia''s diplomatic ''communique'' regarding their stance on the SIlmerian advance."


    "Anything else?"


    "There is the matter of the Rosalian official who arrived ahead of us."


    "And who might that be?"


    "One Col. Clairaut, sir," replied Wenck, who paused, and seeing the General''s irritation, ventured, "he apparently arrived in a passenger car with his staff prior to our arrival. It seems he''s been here a whole week."


    "Very good. Inform M. Clairaut that we will be seeing him shortly. Wenck, I want someone to establish Headquarters. The Court expects an open line promptly and they''re eager we do not disappoint. We will also need lodging for the troops. Ask the Mayor if there are facilities available for the officers. I want the troops billeted and the camps established in short order. Yana, you will come with me. Dismissed."


    It was early dawn when the train arrived and the town was half asleep blanketed in mist. In the distance, the clouds rested upon the mountainside as the sun, not quite roused, rose lazily upon their peaks and cast a feeble light upon the range. Then there was a low crack, groan and thunder as the tip of a glacier tumbled headlong into the valley, the crash scaring the crows into fight. Stepping out of the car, the first thing Mayhew noticed was the cold and then the crisp air and bracing wind of the valley. A station hand in a frock saluted him as he passed, and Mayhew nodded. he paused for a while to catch his bearings and stifle his shivering--it was poor form to present himself before the welcome company looking like a nervous wreck.


    "A terrible thing, this cold," Mayhew said, barely stifling a sneeze. He was more used to warmth, having aged in southern climes and waged camapaigns in southern theatres. The North, however, was his home and was eager to see it prosper. It was with some consternation, then that he noticed that no one else was shivering.


    "Would you prefer an overcoat, sir? You have been advised to wear some protection. I could have one fetched for you." suggested Albright, smiling helpfully.


    At this Mayhew took offense. The cold was no impediment to him he muttered, not to himself at the very least. Being Dacian, the cold of the mountain range should have been a part of him and looking around he noticed that among the the train staff there was not an overcoat in sight. The hands were threadbare and the staff were in morning coats and simply dressed. It irritated him that he should be shivering but being the wiser, he asked for the coat and thanked Albright for her consideration. "I could use a cup of something right about now."


    "Patience, sir. Wenck is busy confirming our arrangements with the Mayor."


    "Doesn''t the cold bother you in the least?"


    Albright smiled. "Not at all, Sir. Worry not, we''ll have that coat soon."


    In spite of the cold, Mayhew''s thoughts were curdling. Wenck had good cause for worry. As far as observers are concerned, the Silmerians were in heated battle with the Lorraignes North of the Parnassid frontier. The Lorraignes, having borne the weight of the SIlmerian advance have retreated west, towards the famed Montaigne line--a belt of fortresses connected by extensive trenches that dotted the hillside. The Silmerians, having been goaded into an attack have incurred heavy losses against these defenses. In response, they have put up earthworks ostensibly to prevent a counterattack. To Rosalian eyes, this was incontrovertible evidence that SIlmeria now posed an indelible threat to their frontier. It was, after all, in the nature of battle to seek its level, and, having been rebuffed at first instance against stern opposition, would find, as with water, the nearest sluice. It was the unfortunate case that the minor nations that dotted the countryside now presented such an opening and their neutrality, though sacred, was now merely a greater temptation. Mayhew shook his head at the prospect.


    Turning to Albright, he asked, "What can you tell me about the latest from Silmeria?"


    "You mean the fortifications, sir? It could be anything. The staff believes it could be a staging ground for an advance futher West or further South. The Silmerians still have access to the North Sea and so can make a hook at the Lorraigne rear in spite of the Montaigne. It can also mean they have designs upon Rosalia although this is old news."


    "Very clever, these Silmerians. They could either attack Rosalia or Lorraigne with the most important fact being their freedom of choice. With fortifications they''re secure no matter which direction they choose."


    "We''re anticipating a southward swing but there are those who believe it is wholly defensive."


    "Do they expect Fifth Columns?"


    "We think. The Lorraignes have not been too kind to SIlmerian minorities in the west heartland.


    "And Montferrat?"


    "Quiet, for now."


    "Ah," Mayhew said in a hopeful tone, "if only!"


    "Pardon, sir?"


    "A bagatelle. If only the Duke would agree to an alliance." Mayhew mused and then said pointedly, "has Montferrat changed its stance?"


    "No sir. And if they did, it was never vocal"


    "What do you mean?"


    "They''re dithering, sir. It appears that their leadership will be ''crossing the floor'', so to speak."


    "They mean to bandwagon?"


    Albright shrugged, "Rumors. That was, ostensibly, why M. Clairaut''s mission was sent in for. We received the information from his delegation, after all."


    "Can we invite the man to chat, Albright?"


    "Not immediately. He had already informed us that he will be unavailable until the 31st. He has been sending his communiques to us from the Montferrat capital."


    "Not bad. I hope the gentleman does not disappoint."


    The air was still as the two officers waited upon the coat and the chill cut Mayhew close. The worst part of the issue was his injury. His leg, which had sustained in his younger years a wound from musket fire was aching throughout the ordeal. Shifting the weight of his feet on his cane, he fidgeted slightly. Falling to thought, he ventured on a question, "don''t you find it strange that Montferrat has remained quiet throughout all this? What do you think the chances are that they''ll side with Silmeria?"


    "I beg your pardon, sir?"


    "I mean, suppose Montferrat sides with Silmeria, that would solve all our problems, dont'' you think? I suppose that--"


    "Sir, your coat!"


    An orderly approached with a thick greycoat in hand and Mayhew, disturbed from his reverie, accepted it gladly.


    Having received the coat and put it on, Mayhew and his aide made for the entrance of the station. It was an old affair, the terminal, with half the structure exposed to the elements and rustic inasmuch as such stations go--nothing like the Grand Central Station of Rosalia with its marbled style and crystal windows or the stately Dacian Capital Station with its wrought-iron gateworks. But appearing now before the welcome committee--he was right and at least half the town was behind them--he felt the same warmth one would feel in a much belated homecoming. And between the mottled, bespectacled party and the band''s awkward tune, he felt at home in spite of the cold.


    "You know Albright, it has always been my dream to do something for Dacia. I have fought for the Estates for far too long. It was about time I came home and did something."


    Nodding vaguely, Albright replied, "Of course, sir. Until Major Wenck returns, we shall have time before we can retire. Might I suggest we inspect the troops?"


    "Very well," Mayhew said, "let''s see to that, shall we?"

 Chapter 5: A Flight of Stairs

    Chapter 5


    A Flight of Stairs


    Collins disliked exceptions.


    The Silmerian Offensive caught everyone by surprise. The difference between expectation and reality is such that although someone might very well have predicted the event, many things nevertheless come off as unthinkable. The Silmerian campaign westward was one such thing. The sanctity of treaties had declared all the petty nations west of the Parnasses immune to the war--a token compensation for their weakness--and their neutrality was to be respected. When the first of several hundred thousand Silmerians began to pour through the borders, the first reaction was disbelief. How could they? And yet it was so. It did not come off to them as any small irony that so many leaves and bottles of ink could stop both blade and bayonet, no less when borders are made of grass and agreements only so much wind. It was in this sense that what the Silmerians did surprised everyone and it is in the nature of such surprises that, when the veil is breached, the cold wind of a forbidding night would carry the first of many invaders trundling past these borders to take what is otherwise sacred. A treaty, after all, is only so much wind and the eager patriot, chomping at the bit, is no exception when cast in the defense of the things he loves. Collins was worried about such exceptions.


    As he travelled amidst the smooth cobblestone roads of Leonide accompanied by his wife, Elandra, Frederick Collins pondered the shapeless caprices of foreign policy. Passing by an ornate streetlamp in the wealthy district of the La Volenta he was struck and taken aback by the hapless circumstance that troubled the Rosalian nations. The scraping of a mountebank''s fiddle sung an elegy as the cheerless player, harangued and surrounded by a pair of shabby streetears, prattled his tune. How strange that what we should otherwise suspect as so very orderly a state of affairs would take special coloring behind the distant lens of introspection. Treaties being what they were one suspected some form of solidity, or, at the very least, civilisation from one''s partners.


    "You''re doing it again, dear" his wife said.


    "I am doing what again?" Collins replied.


    "That face"


    "I am making no face!"


    "You are quite clearly frowning, dear."


    "I am pondering important facts of state! It is a mere unfortunate circumstance I could not refrain from being ugly in the process."


    His wife pouted and pinched his cheek. "You promised you wouldn''t take violent thoughts on our way to Mrs. Mayhew, remember. Today''s our day out dear, I want you to enjoy yourself."


    They were dressed well for Lunch, Collins in a strapping black uniform and his wife in a fine silk dress and beaver hat. They made quite a pair, on that fashionable street. More than once the knowledgeable citizens would doff their hats and Collins would nod grandly. But the gold lace and brass buttons nor the high collar could hide the bulging circles that rimmed his eyes and the paunch that would otherwise be a token of age would hang just a little more loosely.


    He was not a man given to drink, much less to overeating but if overwork was to him was a sin then a soul blackened by fatigue would be his benighted dark. Elandra worried about him and so arranged to eat out that weekend and having arranged a meeting with Eleanor sought to show her husband a little sun.


    "Frederick!" she said one day, throwing open the velvet curtains of his study. He had slept again among the documents, trying to meet his deadline. No one entered the room while the Marshal was working and dust had caked the linings of the curtain after over a week of continuous work. Elandra thought to have it cleaned. Motes of dust would hang in the air for a few moments while Collins stirred. The deadline of the ultimatum was a week away and the mobilization in full swing. He was struggling to get missives in order to have the rail departments to arrange the deployment on time. The dust landed gingerly on the stack of papers occupying his desk.


    "What time is it, dear?" he said, groggily.


    "Its ten in the morning."


    "Three hours of sleep. I''m off schedule."


    "That''s enough dear, you''ll work yourself to death."


    "If I don''t work, I''ll send my troops to death!"


    "And if you die on me, who will look after the troops?"


    "Why, Mayhew, of course! But I need a succession plan in place, I''ll get to that right away."


    "Dear, you''ve barely a wink. Why not take the day off?"


    "If I do, Browning might forget to organize the levies!"


    "Forget Browning, dear. Browning can take care of himself."


    "But Browning can''t take care of the troops! And the exchequer still doesn''t want to approve the new allocations. If I don''t send a missive to the Prime Minister, we''ll never have those agreements in time."Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Collins had a bad habit of taking on too much. He had been advised repeatedly to delgate. "Delegate, delegate, delegate" he was told by his predecessor, a trim man named Verne, the previous Marshal, when he first arrived at the Arletine--"it is by delegation we are saved!" But he never learned to delegate. Instead, he had an unhealthy suspicion of the incompetence of his peers and his subordinates. They could never get his wishes quite right and there would be a frightful row over documents, his lifeblood. In the end, instead of replacing his lackeys--new hires would often find it too difficult to work with him and quit after a few months--he took on more and more by himself. This was made worse by the fact that he did not like working with people he did not know and had a temperament that was often cool to the touch.


    But his briefs were impeccable, well-written and insightful bits of policy written by a true expert in the field. This is why he had survived not just two but three Prime Ministers as Field Marshal of the General Staff and now Minister of Defense. But his habit of working his staff a bit too hard to get his way got him into a fix and his health would suffer as a result. Only his sheer will and ability to plot a steady course would keep him alive in spite of the burden.


    It was a bit different with his wife and his son, lately of the civil service, and the Marechal du Fer had a soft spot for his family. There was warmth there, the kind not often found out-of-doors and, save for his study, his hearth was tidy and well-kept.


    Elandra made a face and Frederick backed down a bit. "You may be right. I do need some rest maybe a little sunshine, perhaps I can have a coffee in the cafe. I''ll take the papers with me right away. I''ll--"


    "Dear, you''re panicking."


    Collins gave way. "Oh, you know how I am. If it''s to be war and we''re not ready, who knows what might happen?"


    "And if you fall asleep when reviewing the troops, what will happen?"


    "I''ll--" Collins fell to thought, " Why, you''re right. Whatever shall they think of me?"


    "No less, I''m sure," Elandra replied, "but spare your old wife, Frederick, you''ll worry her to death."


    "Oh, you know I won''t do that to you."


    The Boulevard the couple was walking on was known as the Volenta or ''the Flight'' as it resembled a casement of stairs winding first upward and then Downward the great Hill that sat in the center of the city of Leonide. Leonide was a city of castles, after all, with tall spires, high walls and soaring towers. It was built on a nest of five hills and was built around a fortress that hugged the Marlene, the river that cut across the Parnasses and threw watercourses throughout the hillside before dispersing upon the coast.


    Leonide was old, far older than the grandest sire who would sit rocking upon the banks of the Marlene and was for good cause the great capital of the North. The high walls that started from the Colline Sacre and wended its way down into Fort Marbeouf and from there criss-crossed the city were built and rebuilt over the centuries so that here and there there were red brick walls crashing into blue painted stone and the ancient white mortar would send powdery gusts were the wall was weak and every so often there would be government brickmen touching up the walls with cement. The city itself was no fort and would survive no bombardment, not against modern weaponry, but the Marbeouf was well-kept and its walls were low and made of new brick and cement. Galvanic Catapults would rest on their tops and the sheen of the yellow afternoon light would catch the glint on brass and copper wiring and light up the city. It was a city built on its cannons.


    But it was morning still, not quite noon, and the cool morning sun shone mildly. Collins looked up from beneath an awning where he and Elandra had paused to catch their breath. It was not often that they would go out and the aged couple would fan themselves and buy a refreshment. Elandra turned to Collins and straightened his uniform


    "I want you to be on your best behavior."


    The irony made Collins smile, "you know I always am."


    "No exceptions, I want you to steer away from talking about policy and enjoy the afternoon."


    "You know that''s impossible. You know what I''m like--and what''s the harm, really?"


    "Your blood pressure, that''s what."


    Knowing Mayhew, she knew it was impossible but that her stately disposition would have a calming effect on her husband. It was impossible, she told herself, having invited Mayhew on the express intention of having someone for her husband to talk to. If anything calmed him down, it was work or talk of work, and the irony was not lost on her. She could not call on the getlemen of High Street for they were away or indisposed and her polite adventures among her calling cards led her to the Generalissimo''s second in command, who was, fortunately, away.


    She didn''t like Mayhew. Too combative she said, too much of a fighter. Having grown old in a comfortable minister''s family, Elandra thought that what Mayhew had in military sense, he lacked in manners. Worse, he was said to be something of an eccentric, spending the majority of his days away from the battlefield smoking rough cigars and taking solitary rides into the forest. It was fortunate that he had the able administration of his wife to balance his books. But it was strange how the man and her husband got along. Mayhew would barge in while Collins was working and her husband would greet him like an old brother. They would talk for hours while they smoked cigars in the parlor, Mayhew in his stiff uniform, and Collins in his smoking jacket.


    "Like a Minister tending to a foreign dignitary", she told herself once and then never complained.


    Of all her friends, it was Mrs. Mayhew she trusted most and her being the eldest daughter from an intellectual''s family, she had the good sense to know her way around matters of state more so for her keen mind and her educated pretensions. She was a bit cold, she admitted, but a good woman.


    "I want you to take the day off, you understand? I want no talk of business, much less of the war. You''ll be plenty busy in the coming weeks and with the war only a week away, I want you to enjoy yourself."


    "Dear--"


    "No buts, I''m still talking." Elandra said, straightening Collins'' collar and generally fussing about him. "Frederick, listen, with the war about to start, we don''t know if Silmeria will come quietly or with guns blazing and I don''t want them in Leonide. You will be fighting them from your office so there''s no threat to your person, but I''m saying that if you go in there you might not be home for days and a cold meal in the evening is all I will have to remember you by. Now, when the war starts and I''m not saying I want it to start--"


    Collins held her by the hand. "Dear, it will be fine. The mobilisation is underway and hopefully SIlmeria will accept the results of the referendum. It could just be a--a--leaf in the wind. We simply need to present the Silmerians a show of Solidarity for the political effect it would have on them."


    "And if they don''t? If they don''t accept the terms of the referendum?"


    "Then you''ll eat with Mrs. Mayhew daily to stay warm."


    "Oh, you know she''s no good as company!"


    "Don''t worry, we''ll be home before the first snow falls."


    It was the Queen of all exceptions.


    ***