Daybreak Volume 4 Chapter 17 – Fog of War

It was the first day of March, and Spring had arrived early this year. A warm front from the southeast had advanced into the Lotharin Heartlands over the previous evening. This brought a dramatic shift in weather as the air dampened overnight and by morning, a thick blanket of white mist had enveloped the land.

The oppressive fog cut vision down to only a few hundred paces which veiled everyone’s sight. The humid air felt stifling yet remained uncomfortably chilly to every soldier not in winter clothes. And as more than 28,000 men of Sylviane’s host marched across the empty farm fields and tree lines between Lake Alis and the old Imperial Highway, none of its leaders could see more than a few banners of the massive army without magical enhancement.

“Is this the gods’ blessing or curse?”

Caradoc muttered to himself as he turned around on the back of his light chariot. Several hundred cavalry and vehicles from his vanguard rode behind him as they advanced upon the cobblestone road of the Imperial Highway. He could not see the main body of the army and its tight formations of massed infantry. He couldn’t even spot the expansive waters of Lake Alis — the largest lake in Western Hyperion — which was just a few kilopaces away.

Had the battle plan remained per his original proposal, then this fog would have been a godsend. It would have reduced the chances of his army being detected by either Gabriel’s or Henri’s forces until it was too late. However, given the new battle plan agreed upon in yesterday’s war council, Caradoc needed Gabriel to observe their advance so the latter could sally out.

In fact, the longer it took for the false emperor to notice, the further he would be behind Sylviane’s army. And this would force Caradoc to keep up the pretense of attacking Henri for much longer, which inevitably raised suspicions from all around.

“Order Lord Geraint to detach with three banners of cavalry and sweep north,” the General growled at one of the mounted adjutants who followed behind his chariot. “Find Gabriel’s nearest picket or patrol and hit them with overwhelming force. I want the pretender to know that our army is on the move!”

“Yes Sir!” A young signal officer answered.

Caradoc then turned towards the eastern road and noticed that the fog was growing denser. Visibility ahead was reduced to around a hundred paces, and the general considered casting Fog Sight to aid his gaze. However, he also needed to be able to feel the effects of the weather for himself, to recognize its effects on both his own soldiers and the enemy’s. And in the meantime, his scouts were more than capable of keeping a lookout for any approaching threat.

Though if this fog gets any worse… He frowned inwardly and considered the other problems brought by low visibility before raising his fist into the air.

“ALL STOP!”

The General and his personal retinue of elite troops had ridden at the head of the vanguard column. Each of the drivers slowed their horses until their agile chariots came to a full stop.

“Milord?”

“All of you –- collect a bundle of branches to tie to the back of your chariots,” Caradoc ordered.

“Yes, Milord!”

The General didn’t bother explaining further. But then, he didn’t need to. His retinue troops had followed him through thick and thin for decades and trusted him with their lives. Not one of them looked skeptical as they dismounted their chariots and began to hack down branches from the nearby trees.

“I’m guessing you’ve noticed that the mist is growing thicker as we advance east. And Henri’s men will have to rely upon their ears more than their eyes to determine our numbers on first contact.”

The one who spoke was none other than Caradoc’s driver — his friend, bodyguard, and close confidante Lestyn.

“Exactly as you say,” Caradoc smirked before he turned to another adjutant. “Order the banners behind us to follow suit.”

Perhaps in hindsight, the fog was a blessing from the Goddess of War herself.

 

—– * * * —–

 

Henri emerged from his cabin as he noticed the chaos spreading through his camp. The fog hampered his vision but did not muffle the confused cries and rushed preparations from twenty thousand men. There was a distinct sense of unease in the air as every noble or armiger who emerged from their cabins was still putting on their gear. The reason for this soon became apparent as Henri heard several more horn blows from the camp’s western perimeter which alerted them of an emergency.

“Milord!”

A Count in his late prime cried out as his mount galloped across the grass of the inner camp. He then pulled hard on the reins as he forced his steed to come to an abrupt stop.

“We’re under attack! Chariots outside the western camp perimeter!”

Henri’s eyes widened as the mere mention of chariots immediately made him realize that he was beset upon by Sylviane’s army. And while the lightweight Ceredigion chariots were agile enough to be used as cavalry, their main role was to serve as rapid transportation for Ceredigion’s best-trained heavy infantry. As such, the presence of these vehicles rarely meant mere harassment, and were usually the prelude to a major attack.

“How many?” The young lord immediately demanded.

“Couldn’t tell. None of my officers know how to cast Fog Sight. And you can hardly see a hundred paces in this forsaken fog!” The nobleman cursed as he waved around.

Henri’s lips formed a sharp scowl before he remembered that the Count and his men came from a region in the rain shadow of the South Lotharingie Mountains. Therefore, it should have been of no surprise that they rarely dealt with fog.

I should have put a different unit on perimeter guard duty. The young lord berated himself.

“–But from the sound, there were hundreds of chariots and thousands of infantry following in close order!” The Count then added in a rattled voice.

“How did they get that close without being detected!?” Henri’s tone grew alarmed. “What of Lord Reine and his cavalry picket?”

“Lord Reine and his retinue retired inside the camp late last night to rest,” the nobleman replied. “And as for his pickets — I don’t know, Milord. They were likely overwhelmed before they could raise an alarm.”

“Imbecile!”

A surge of anger flashed through Henri’s eyes as he squeezed his right hand into a fist. He then noticed the faint flinch that struck the nobleman before taking a moment to calm himself.

Henri might not be a seasoned commander, but he knew the impact his mood would have on the morale of soldiers and officers alike. It would not do for anyone to see him lose control or panic, especially when they were already on edge themselves. Instead, he needed to be their pillar of imperturbability, and for that he needed to stay composed and in control.

The young man took a moment to purge his previous thoughts and inhale a deep breath. It was the same technique he learned when he first began to make public speeches in Arcadia’s crowded forums.

“Rally what men you can gather and hold the western perimeter wall,” Henri replied with a renewed steadiness in his voice. “I will organize the army into battle order and keep you reinforced!”

“Yes Milord!” The older noble nodded before he sped off on his mount.

“M-milord?”

A young adjutant asked breathlessly as he ran up with his hands still tightening the straps of his leather jerkin. He was the first of Henri’s signal officers to arrive, and the young commander immediately gave the man his first order:

“Farspeak to Emperor Gabriel — tell him that we’re under attack by Sylviane’s army in force and we require immediate support!”

 

—– * * * —–

 

“Your Majesty, something isn’t right.”

Emperor Gabriel watched the elderly Marshal Menno lean over the map table and point at a spot north of where the Imperial Highway bent towards the lake.

“Why would Sylviane’s cavalry rout a picket of ours here?” Menno pondered aloud. “If they were marching east towards Henri’s camp, they should have done it along the Imperial Highway or south of it.”

“Perhaps one of their columns got lost in the fog,” one of the other lords in attendance said.

“Lost enough to depart the only road running east-to-west without realizing it?” Menno looked back up as he raised his eyebrows. “I don’t buy it.”

Meanwhile, Gabriel gave a half-hearted shrug and raised his hands to both sides before he responded:

“All we know is that they hit three of our scouting groups in the south, one of which is positioned halfway between my niece’s camp and Lord Henri’s. That could only mean one thing — that Sylviane’s army seeks to defeat us in detail by eliminating the Army of Rhétie first.”

“I agree that would be the logical tactical move, as she certainly has no chance of defeating us first,” Menno concurred before voicing his disagreement. “But there’s also something odd here. Because if I were in her shoes, I would seek to draw as little attention as possible, and use the cover of this fog to reach and defeat Henri before we could even react. Yet the way they swept aside our pickets — it’s like they wanted us to find out that they’re out in force.”

“Plans and intentions are one thing. Execution is another matter entirely,” Gabriel replied.

“It’s perfectly possible that someone on their side messed up,” another lord nodded as he pitched in.

“Besides, for what other reason would she have to march to Henri’s camp?” The Emperor asked.

“Might Henri have switched allegiance and joined her?” Said a young lord that Gabriel recognized as Menno’s nephew.

“No. Had that been the case, Henri would be marching to join her, and not the other way around,” the Marshal declared before his eyes narrowed and he looked back at the map. “Unless… they did so in secret and are colluding to bait us out.”

“I find that extremely unlikely.” Gabriel commented with a frown. “Young Henri would not have the authority to abruptly overturn his father’s decision on his own. And according to my spies in his camp, he’s still keeping Sylviane’s envoys as prisoners of war.”

“But that itself could be a ruse…” Menno warned before one of Gabriel’s armigers interrupted the conversation:

“Sire, I’ve just received a Farspeak message from a chevalier whom I know to be in Lord Henri’s retinue. He reports that Sylviane’s army is attacking their camp in force and Lord Henri requests our immediate support.”

The Emperor pursed his lips as he stared knowingly back at his Marshal.

“Menno, I know you do not trust House La Tours due to their failure to reinforce you in battle long ago,” Gabriel acknowledged first. “However, in this instance, I do count them as my allies, and I cannot afford to have my allies defeated in detail while we stand and watch from afar! Especially not when Henri can serve as the anvil upon which Sylviane’s army can be smashed by our hammer.”

“Your Majesty, even if we march out now, there is no guarantee that we will arrive…”

However, before the Marshal could finish his retort, the Emperor put his proverbial foot down and declared:

“Marshal, I am ordering you to march out in full force.”

A brief twitch passed through Menno’s brow as he gazed upon the Emperor whom he had declared allegiance to. The silence dragged on as the Marshal stared intently at Gabriel, as though reminding him of his promise made back in the ‘throne room’ to not interfere.

Nevertheless, as Gabriel stood outwardly firm in his conviction, it was Menno who gave in with a faint sigh.

“I sincerely hope that I’m wrong and you’re right,” the Marshal said before he began issuing orders.

“Gather all men into marching formation. Tell them to leave behind everything except their arms and armor. We move south to join the battle at double pace! Form the cavalry up outside the camp as I have special orders for them!”

“Yes, Sir!”

Gabriel turned south towards the windows as the assembled nobles and officers departed from the cabin to pass orders and rejoin their units. The lakeside breeze had cleared the morning mist and he could see the sun’s rays through the partly cloudy sky. The Emperor knew he had overruled his senior-most military commander for a good reason, even though Marshal Menno might not agree with him.

Nevertheless, a wry smile formed on his lips as he thought of this pivotal moment and his choice.

Everything is set. The rest… is up to fate.

 

—– * * * —–

 

King Alistair could hear the roar of battle cries from the east. The clanging of swords against shields echoed through the thinning mist as the sun rose higher into the morning sky. The King didn’t know if General Caradoc was able to deliver on his word of raising as much ruckus as he could without actually engaging in close combat. But if the experienced mercenary in Alistair had to venture a guess, the lack of tension he felt in the air was a sign that Caradoc’s men were indeed more bark than bite.

“Cavalry from the west!”

The King turned about face as he heard the cry behind him. A rider emerged from the mist and galloped towards his troops in the rearguard. The mounted ranger came from one of the scouting parties posted behind the army to warn of Gabriel’s approach.

About fucking time, he thought.

Alistair looked to the distance where his spell-enhanced vision cut deep into the fog. The results weren’t perfect, as the refracting mist caused objects in the distance to become blurry as if he had myopia. Nevertheless, the King could just barely make out a column of riders clad in brightly colored tabards and barding. They were emerging around the road’s gradual bend nearly a kilopace away. The heavy cavalry was screened by two squads of light cavalry which advanced along the tree line on both sides of the Imperial Highway.

The King had heard that due to prolonged influence from their neighbors, some Belgae nobles, particularly those who had lived under the Imperium for too long, preferred to train their retinue as armored horsemen rather than foot soldiers. Nevertheless, the raising of heavy cavalry was frowned upon by the late Emperor Geoffroi for a reason — they were simply too expensive to maintain in large numbers, and often cut deeply into purses that were better spared for developing much-needed civil infrastructure.

It’s no wonder the Belgae lords always cry poverty then, Alistair’s lips twisted with annoyance.

The approach of the Belgae cavalry also created an annoying deviation to his plans. Alistair had hoped to lead a charge against the traitors’ army with his elite shock infantry. But the vanguard of cavalry he was facing had far better tactical mobility than his soldiers did, which would allow them to either charge or evade as they best judged the circumstances.

However, the fact that Alistair couldn’t clearly see the enemy meant that his opposing counterpart also would not be able to tell his elite guardsmen from common infantry. The conventional order of battle certainly did not place royal armigers at the rear. His enemy would have to overcome their own expectations to realize that Alistair’s men were not the usual mix of peasant militia led by a few dozen armigers.

“Rory, give me mist, just a little to obscure our position.” Alistair said to one of his royal armigers, who had accompanied him since his days as a mercenary in the New World and had stormcaller training.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Fionnlagh,” he addressed his youngest companion next. “Open a link with Pascal’s command and tell him that we’re about to slay some Belgae heavy cav.”

“Yes, Sire!”

“Lowlanders! Highlanders!” The King then cried out as he pulled a runestone from his pocket and activated it to amplify his voice.

“MEN! ABOUT FACE! FORM RANKS!” He shouted again as he unbuckled the leather straps on his back. His hand lifted the heavy zweihander and raised its huge blade into the air.

His orders were echoed as officers of the elite Black Guard and Royal Guard banners stepped forth to pass it down the ranks. Meanwhile, the King stepped through his men’s shifting formation to take his own place facing a new front.

The armigers of the Glens’ lowlands preferred lucerne hammers over the Highlanders’ two-handed swords. And now, as ordered by their king, they formed a single line in front and braced their polearm-hammers against their greaves to create a row of pointed spikes. Behind them, the second and third ranks readied their huge swords at chest and shoulder-height. Together, nearly 1,200 guardsmen fanned out to form a concave hedgehog of bristling steel that expanded to the tree line on both sides of the Imperial Highway.

Behind him, Alistair could hear the shouted orders from six banners of rangers directly under Lady Lynette’s command. Those lightly equipped woodsmen rushed towards the trees that flanked Alistair’s formation, where they would take positions with a clear shot at the open road.

The King watched in silence as one of the Belgae scouting groups emerged from the mist by the tree line in the north. Eight of the horsemen were felled almost immediately by the rangers’ precise shots. The last remaining two tried to turn about and flee but their horses were killed under them. One of the men fell into the bushes and out of sight which, assuming he was still alive, had probably just saved his life.

The second scouting group, advancing along the southern tree line, met a similar fate. However behind them, the ground began to rumble as an entire column of heavy cavalry made their approach. The morning mist had thinned to the point where the men could see around three hundred paces with the unaided eye. Nevertheless, Alistair heard shouted orders even before they reached that distance, and the armored horsemen began to fan out as officers on the other side clearly used the same Fog Sight spell that he did.

Hopefully they’ll mistake us for common infantry until it’s too late, the King thought.

It was the reason why his phoenix Almace was still not merged with him. Instead, Alistair could feel the bird’s talons grasped around the sword straps behind his back. The lingering mist would make it difficult to clearly see his men’s equipment at a distance. And once the heavy cavalry began to gallop during the final phase of their charge, it would be too late to stop their attack.

The King watched as two rows of Belgae cavalry tightened their formations as they trotted up for the first charge. The armored warhorses began to canter as they emerged from the mist and into plain sight. However, the rangers hiding to his flanks held back their arrows. Lady Lynette had agreed earlier that Alistair would call the first volley. His aim was not to scare his enemies off early, but rather to draw them into close combat instead.

“Archers!”

The King cried out for two banners of militia bowmen assembled behind his triple lines to start shooting first. Their volley soared overhead and rained down upon the heavy cavalry to little effect. The Belgae horsemen shrugged off the indirect shots with their wards and armor. The attack seemed to only spur on the riders as they closed to a hundred paces before hastening their steeds to attack.

“CHARGE!” Alistair heard the cry from the officers on the other side.

Six hundred armored warhorses began to gallop as their riders couched their lances and leveled them into rows of spikes. Two thousand steel-shod hooves hammered the ground in succession which made the earth shake and tremble. The onrushing cavalry loomed like a great wave of sharpened steel and towering beasts that was ready to sweep aside all resistance. And for most soldiers, the mere thought of trying to hold the line against such an unstoppable force would seem like folly before the natural urge to cut and run.

However, the men of the Glens who stood by their king were no ordinary soldiers. They were veterans and elites who had fought in past wars and knew that a cavalry charge’s greatest weapon was its psychological shock. Each man knew that their adjacent comrades, their brothers whose bonds they treasured above even their own lives, depended upon them to stand their ground. And as such, there was no way a unit as cohesive as these guardsmen would even consider breaking to rout.

“RANGERS!”

Alistair cried out as his phoenix merged into him at last. Almace’s soothing warmth filled his adrenaline-spiked body as his raised sword erupted into blue-white flames.

“VOLLEY!” He heard the response cry out from the mist-laden woods to both of his flanks.

Hundreds of arrows soared out from each of the tree lines. And unlike the militia volleys from earlier, these missiles flew in concerted waves with precise aim. Dispel arrows led the way as they crashed through the Repulsion wards of the Belgae cavalrymen which would deflect light projectiles. They were followed by bodkin penetrators and spell-infused arrows that delivered everything from fire to lightning bolts.

At the same time, the men in the rear of Alistair’s formation threw out a volley of runestones. Many of the opposing officers had been thrown off guard by the sudden hail of arrows, and only a handful of them cast Mana Seekers to intercept. The runestones that landed activated their obstruction spells which terraformed the land. Their effects ranged from simple pools of mud to transmuted hard-clay spikes that sprouted out from the earth like stalagmites.

Chaos immediately broke out as some horsemen crashed into the obstacles while others pushed into their compatriots as they dodged. Large gaps emerged in the charging wavefront as more and more men and horses fell victim to the onslaught of arrows and spells.

Facing them, Alistair’s guardsmen held firm against the oncoming tide like a solid embankment of bristling steel. And as a result, most of the horses who made it to his line either tried to veer away or balked at the unwavering steel by digging in their hooves.

Two of the horses that charged Alistair’s position stopped suddenly before the row of spikes. Their armored riders were thrown off and flew into the defenders’ waiting ranks. One of them landed next to the King and did not even have time to get up before Alistair shoved the tip of his huge sword into a gap beneath the man’s outstretched arm. At the same time, the armigers who crouched in front of the King stepped forward and thrust their polearms into the horses’ padded chests.

Arrows from both flanks continued to soar in and pick off those cavalrymen who either turned away or tried to retreat. Meanwhile, the King signaled for his soldiers to press forward and kill any downed cavalrymen before they could attempt to reform.

“ADVANCE!”

Alistair raised his sword as he readied himself to kill another fallen horseman who had just managed to stand back up. But an armiger to his right landed a lucerne hammer swing that pulverized the man’s left hip. The dismounted horseman cried out in pain and collapsed sideways onto his knees. His bent posture left a gap open in the armor protecting his right lower torso. The King took advantage of this as he hacked his sword in to finish off his enemy.

As he pulled his sword from the corpse, Alistair looked to his left and right to check the state of his men. The Glens infantry maintained their formation as they advanced to bring the fight to their foes. Many of the horsemen had been dismounted by arrow wounds and now fought in a disorganized mess. They were cut down one by one as the advancing guardsmen scythed through their ranks before stepping over the corpses of beasts and men alike.

Meanwhile, behind them in the foggy distance, Alistair could see a mass of at least three thousand infantrymen pouring forth from the road’s gradual bend. They rushed forward in columns at double pace, as though the opposing commander could see that the first attack had failed yet nevertheless opted for a strategy of ‘send more in’.

The King continued to advance with his men as he hacked his zweihander into the back of a Belgae man-at-arms who had just crawled out of a muddy pool. The soldier’s helmet fell off and another armiger took the opportunity to land a decapitating blow. A youthful face rolled across the ground as the severed neck spurted blood onto the mud before the body went limp. A braided gold torc worn around the stump revealed that the young man had likely been an heir to his family’s estate.

Flower of Belgae nobility, Alistair pursed his lips as he looked around and saw another young man who wore a similar accessory cut down.

What a goddamn waste.

In that moment, the King perfectly understood why Princess Sylviane wanted to spare Henri’s army from the merciless slaughter of battle. Or why the opposing commander was throwing in more men in an attempt to salvage the failed first attack. To see such promising members of the future Lotharin leadership cut down in a civil war between ethnic kin… it was truly a disaster from which only their enemies may gleefully benefit.

Yet, despite the disgusting bile that he tasted in his mouth, Alistair did not forget that he was a leader of men on a battlefield. There would be a time for mercy and reconciliation later. For now, his overarching priority was to win.

“REFORM RANKS!”

The King shouted as his men mopped up the last of the survivors from the first charge. The cavalrymen who managed to stay on their horses had already retreated. However, many of them did not make it as the rangers shot arrows into their backs. Dozens of downed and wounded soldiers could be seen crawling along the ground as they tried to make it back to friendly lines.

The advancing Belgae infantry’s front ranks stopped around four hundred paces away. However, squads of shielded men rushed forward to retrieve in their wounded compatriots.

This time, there would be no ambush. The last of the morning mist was beginning to disperse, and the rangers had already exposed their position among the trees. The enemy also knew they were dealing with an Oriflamme Paladin. This narrowed the candidates significantly on whom they faced.

“HIGHLANDERS! LOWLANDERS!” Alistair shouted for his men to switch formations.

It was his turn to press the attack this time. That meant the claymore and zweihander-wielding highlanders needed to be in front. The King himself stepped up as he pulled several runestones from his pocket and activated them. His skin tingled as several layers of fresh wards wrapped around his armored bulk.

“ADVANCE!” The mercenary-turned-king shouted as he led personally from the very front.

Over eleven hundred guardsmen — his troops had suffered barely any casualties from the previous attack — strode forward in the wake of their liege. They marched around the obstacles from earlier and reformed the line after passing each. The soldiers’ discipline was perfect as they crossed the exposed flat terrain.

Meanwhile, Alistair could sense unease spreading through the enemy’s ranks. The Belgae infantry watched the silent advance of men who had not just stopped, but utterly destroyed a heavy cavalry attack.

“Volley!”

A shout came from the other side before a torrent of arrows flew into the air. At least five hundred missiles formed a blanket of projectiles that arced into the sky before falling upon the King’s men.

“Mana Seeker!”

Several officers who used aura magic shouted before sending bursts of magical projectiles into the air. The other mages had already passed out runes for every armiger to use themselves. From the trees a few arrows also flew out intercepting the hail of incoming missiles. Their tips activated Cyclone Blasts on contact which blew away at least a third of the projectiles.

Alistair kept a Repulsion Field rune in hand in case he was hit by a dispel. However, despite the rain of missiles that his men waded through, few of them were receiving any meaningful injuries. Fire and thunder burst among his advancing ranks but they were largely nullified by Resistance spells. The poor coordination between the enemy’s magic and archery revealed that his opponents were mostly inexperienced recruits.

The guardsmen strode forth undaunted through a second and third barrage. They closed to a distance where they could see the whites of their enemies’ eyes. The King then raised his flaming zweihander aloft and bellowed “CHARGE!” as he led his retinue into a run. A wave of steel-clad armigers followed him into the thundering charge as they bellowed their own battle cries.

The loudest of these remained the screeching “DOUGLAS!” from the three hundred remaining members of the Black Guard. There was no boy raised in Lotharin lands who did not know the infamous Black Guard of Clan Douglas and the terror they inflicted. The unit’s motto of ‘no quarter, no surrender’ exemplified their belief that there was no such thing as ‘prisoners’.

Alistair could almost see the fear of his enemies as they realized exactly whom they faced. The first ranks of defending infantry faltered and fell back before his thunderous charge even reached their spear line. Dozens, then hundreds of men threw aside their weapons as they began to flee towards the rear. Only isolated groups of soldiers in the front ranks stood their ground — most of them formed by the occasional noble and their armigers who shouted for their levies to hold their line.

A barrage of several dozen missiles flew in from the trees. Many of them were negated by wards from the defending mages who still held their ground, but some shot through gaps among the defensive spells caused by the fleeing soldiers. Explosions and thunderclaps rang out as they landed among the soldiers with infused elemental spells, which added yet more chaos among the troops and demoralized more to join the retreat.

Alistair surmised that the reduction in support meant the rangers to his wings had met more enemies in the woods. It would be down to only he and his men to crash through the enemy front.

A Belgae armiger stood before Alistair with his spiked polearm raised to receive the Paladin’s charge. His thrust, however, was weak as the burning aura of an Oriflamme engulfed him before Alistair even entered his reach. The King easily dodged his attack before smashing the flaming zweihander between the soldier’s neck and shoulder with bone-breaking force.

The defender’s wards combusted as phoenix fire ignited the mana it cut through. A mail coif caught the steel edge and stopped it from hacking through the neck. Regardless, the armiger collapsed from the blow, though Alistair did not stay to finish him off. The King carved deeper into the heart of the defenders’ ranks as he trusted his loyal armsmen to guard his back.

Let’s see how deep I can cleave into them before pouring Almace’s flames.

The furious onslaught against the traitors had proven more fruitful than he had anticipated. The defenders’ ranks were a mess as he cut his way through the mass of men. Retreating soldiers trying to escape the slaughter pushed and shoved against those attempting to hold the line. This compacted the defensive formations further until many no longer even had enough room to properly fight.

The battle was turning into a slaughter as Alistair and his guardsmen hacked their way through layers of living flesh. The King and his royal entourage formed a wedge as they carved deep into the enemy lines. Blood drenched their polished steel as they cut down one man after another in their advance. Countless bodies fell under their blades until the ground was covered by the dying and the dead.

Then, after slashing his way through at least twelve ranks of men, Alistair finally came face to face with a banner of armigers and militia who held a solid line. A wall of polearms advanced in tight formation as the defenders sought to push him back. However, the King raised his flaming sword before driving it into the ground with a cry:

“FLAMEBREAK!”

Blue-white embers poured out of Alistair’s sword and armor as an explosion of phoenix fire burst forth. The entire area was consumed within the blink of an eye by Almace’s cleansing flames. Dozens of men screamed in agony as the conflagration roasted them alive. Their wards and armor did nothing to protect them as the sacred fire breached mana and steel alike.

By the time Alistair stood back up and the embers dispersed, not a single Belgae soldier stood within twenty paces of the King dripping a bloody red. Over a hundred burning corpses littered the ground around him. The towering monarch brandished his zweihander sword and raised it once more before his chest.

The Belgae soldiers who remained stared in horror as their hands trembled and they began to back away. And within seconds many of them had thrown away their weapons as they began to join the rout and run.

 

—– * * * —–

 

“General!” Caradoc heard his adjutant shout from the trees behind him.

The Ceredigion commander had just thrown a javelin into the tower that kept watch over the left side of the main gate. The three men inside ducked down and his missile struck a pillar on the far side. An infused Cyclone Blast rune triggered upon impact and blew apart the thatched roof. The tower’s support groaned and buckled as the rudimentary structure collapsed into the camp.

Caradoc gazed across the clearing as his chariot driver took him back towards the tree line. The Ceredigion charioteers were making individual caracole attacks against the camp’s walls while his dismounted infantry formed a solid line to beat their shields and weapons. It was a clear show of force that was probably starting to raise suspicion given how long they’ve been at it. But so far the Army of Rhétie had cowered behind their fortifications.

“General, Lord Pascal reports that King Alistair has stuck the traitors’ vanguard in force!” The adjutant cried out as he rode closer while the infantry opened a gap for Caradoc’s chariot to drive in. “Princess Sylviane is leading in the second wave!”

Caradoc grinned as he received the news he had been waiting for at last. There was no longer any need to keep up pretenses by skirmishing with missiles in front of Henri’s camp.

“All banners turn about! Time to sink our fangs into our real foe!”

 

—– * * * —–

 

Lieutenant-Colonel Ariadne von Manteuffel held firm against the backward shove of her enlarged Manteuffel swordstaff as its tip made contact with a gryphon rider. The impact of her charge dismounted her foe who fell from an altitude of no less than two hundred paces. She wasn’t sure how bad were the injuries she inflicted, but the nobleman’s excellent armor had definitely stopped her weapon from penetrating. Whether or not he remained alive after the fall depended on how many ribs she shattered and how long it took for him to recover from the stunning impact to cast Air Glide.

A sudden shriek came from her left as one of her own men swerved aside from a charging lance but his mount received it instead. The hippogryph he rode flapped its wings one last time before it either fell unconscious or died from the deep wound. The attacker meanwhile banked sharply right as he evaded a javelin that had been thrown after him by another Knight Phantom. This however took him in the same direction that Ariadne had turned in, and she tapped her pegasus twice with her right foot to signal another charge.

“Negation Surge!”

Ariadne cast the spell into her weapon as she leaned forward and braced it against the lance-rest on her cuirass. Her pegasus Edelweiss dashed through the air as she flew towards the enemy who turned his mount to face her attack. His powerful gryphon had deadly claws and was protected by steel barding around its chest and over the head. However, there was no matching Edelweiss’ agility as the pegasus rose faster before diving down with an altitude advantage.

The young lady pressed her left greave against the side of her mount to prepare Edelweiss for a sudden swerve. Then, as the two riders speared towards each other with their polearms, she shifted her body mass to the left and evaded an attack that came so close it cut through several strands of her windswept pink hair. Her weapon made contact with his cuirass and the pushback almost shoved her off the side. The impact struck just beneath his right shoulder, which once again failed to penetrate but was enough to disarm and unseat her target from his gryphon. The Negation Surge canceled even the protective enchantments that would have kept him in the saddle.

With her heart pumping and her lungs expanding in short breaths, Ariadne took a look down to see what happened to her friends and foes alike. The cavalryman she struck had activated a spell that slowed his fall so that he wouldn’t slam into the ground. Meanwhile, her petite second-in-command had rescued the hippogryph knight whose mount had been killed under him. They climbed back up into the sky as arrows flew after them from the enemy infantry swarming the ground below.

“Look out!”

Ariadne wasn’t sure whom the cry was directed at but she ducked forward as her training taught. A javelin flew over her head from behind while a deep-green forest drake –- a wyvern per the Ceredigiens’ name –- charged straight towards her from dead ahead. The armored man seated on the beast’s back let loose an arrow which flew through the air less than a pace before her eyes.

The startled lady swiveled around in her saddle to see the arrow lodged in the mail-clad chest of a Belgae hippogryph knight. He had been charging towards her with a sword drawn but his eyes now stared above her head in fright. The wyvern from earlier flew over and past her before snatching the man off his mount and throwing him into empty air. The hippogryph tried to follow its master but another arrow from the mounted archer sunk into its shoulders and crippled its ability to fly.

“T-thank you…”

Ariadne spoke in a gasping voice as she struggled to calm her breathing. Meanwhile, her savior circled around in a wide arc and as he flew back towards her she recognized the dashing face of Earl Hywel. The air battle around them was slowing down as the remainder of their enemy began to retreat. The Weichsen-Ceredigion air cavalry had won through an overwhelming advantage not only in numbers, but also in the quality and experience of its riders.

“Milady! The Belgae air cavalry is broken and your Colonel is chasing away their remnants,” Hywel commented loudly as he drew near.

“Chasing? We’re supposed to bombard the enemy rear after winning the air!”

Ariadne replied in bewilderment as she looked towards the northwest. And exactly as the Ceredigion air commander spoke, she could see Colonel Hammerstein’s North Wind Knights Phantom flying north after the twenty or so remaining Belgae fliers.

“Your Colonel seems to think he can take Gabriel’s fortified camp with a single banner.”

“He’s a brave fool.” Ariadne voiced her honest opinion for once before turning back to the Earl and blinking in realization. “Though… if he sets the camp on fire with his attack, the traitors’ army might believe their camp has fallen even if it isn’t true.”

After all, the primary mission given to the allied air cavalry during this battle was to stop the enemy from retreating back behind their fortifications. Whether they do that by harassing the enemy rear or through other means was up to them.

A sly grin crept across the Earl’s face before he replied:

“You Manteuffels truly have the devil in you. I’ll take my wyverns to reinforce his attack while your unit disrupt the enemy’s rear.”

“Understood, Milord.”

The Ceredigion air commander then flew off with his drakes while Ariadne shrunk her Manteuffel Swordstaff back to its normal size.

“Reform! Prepare for ground attack!” She yelled to the riders of her company who flew all around.

“Reform!”

Ariadne heard the order echoed by her platoon and squad leaders. Meanwhile, she looked down to the barren forest beneath her and reassessed the overall tactical situation.

The frontal attack led by King Alistair’s ‘rearguard’ had thrown back the Belgae vanguard with heavy losses. And now, Ariadne could see the blue-white flames of two Oriflamme Paladins leading the assault into the densely-packed spear formations in the center. At the same time, the energetic war song of a third paladin began to resound just south of the main battle.

Good timing, the Lieutenant-Colonel thought as her adrenaline from earlier was beginning to subside, which left her feeling somewhat winded. Yet now, she could feel her energy returning once more as she listened to the mysterious song-magic.

Looking to the flanks, Ariadne tried to make out the shadowy figures who skirmished among the trees without any formations. The Ceredigion and Heartland rangers who fought for the Princess both had more experience in forest battles than their Belgae counterparts who spent more time in wetlands. And while it was difficult to tell for certain, Ariadne was fairly sure that her side was winning and pushing back Gabriel’s left wing.

The arrival of chariots from General Caradoc’s ‘vanguard’ only further bolstered the strength of their northern flank. Their aim seemed to be to collapse Gabriel’s left wing and roll them back towards the west. The Princess’ army was superior to Gabriel’s but they were also in a precarious position. They needed to defeat the Army of Rhétie as quickly as possible before Henri could join in the fight.

Ariadne turned her eyes to the Imperial Highway that ran towards the northwest. She could see a mass of infantry and wagons where shattered units of Gabriel’s army had been stopped from retreating by officers of the rearguard. There, several of the banners seemed to be reforming their ranks. Meanwhile, others grabbed supplies from the wagons and… are they replenishing their ammunition or their stomachs?

We can’t let them reform and rejoin the battle. Ariadne thought as she glanced around and met her signal officer’s gaze. We can’t afford for this to turn into an attritional slow grind.

“Tell headquarters that Gabriel has a wagon train at the back of their roadbound column. I’m going to smash it and wreck their field resupply!”

“Yes Sir!”

“Ghost Riders! Follow me!” She yelled before driving her pegasus Edelweiss towards their next aim, all while she reached into her extradimension storage pouch and pulled out a shrunken-barrel grenade.

 

—– * * * —–

 

Sylviane threw her meteor hammer out in a wide arc against the wall of spears. The enchanted cylindrical head increased its mass as it gained velocity, weighing as much as a sledgehammer as it crashed into an officer and caved in his armored chest. The trailing chain then flew into six militiamen who were also knocked off their feet. This created a gap in the spear wall which her armigers dove into to exploit.

They batted the defenders’ polearms aside with their shields as they clubbed into the soldiers with winged maces to crush bones. It took only a minute before the breached schiltrom unraveled from within. The troops who were not killed or crippled lost heart as they broke formation and began to flee. However, behind them came three more schiltroms – their ringed hedgehogs were packed tight with goedendag-wielding men who surrounded themselves with layers of poles with spikes.

There’s no end to them!

Sylviane huffed as she flapped her phoenix wings and rose up to hover above the reach of the tallest spears. She peered into the distance through the sparse trees and could see that Gabriel’s army had formed up for a defense in depth. There were three lines of polearm infantry in schiltrom rings of a few hundred men each. And between them rode small units of horsemen who provided flanking support with their counterattacks.

It reminded her of the Battle of Glywysing where the Tauheed attackers had to clear her troops from each building in town. The fighting was devolving into a bloody attritional grind that consumed precious time that she could not afford to waste. Her entire battle plan required speed to finish off Gabriel’s forces before Henri could join in. Furthermore, with the sun already touching the horizon in the West, she had only two, three hours at most, to conclude the battle before darkness fell.

Then, in the distance, Sylviane spotted a shallow ridge upon which stood a group of fifty-plus men. Four flag bearers waved their banners above to pass orders, while two others stood with the royal banner of House Gaetane held high. Two rows of armigers who stood protectively in front all wore the finest polished plate armor. There were even a handful of Knight Templars with their helmets gilded by golden crosses standing in the mix.

“Uncle.”

The Princess gritted her teeth as she eyed the figures atop the ridge. Three men stood conversing to one another within the protective formation of armored retainers. Sylviane could see the glint of a crowned helmet and she had zero doubts that it was from her father’s murderer. She could almost see his charming yet fictitious smile sneering back at her in taunt.

“ARMIGERS! FORM UP!”

The Princess landed on the ground once more so her ten remaining armigers could form a chevron with her at its tip. A quick glance to each side confirmed that Elspeth and Reynaud covered her flanks. The redheaded armiger had rejoined her ranks upon her request during the army’s approach towards Henri’s camp. And although Reynaud had his reservations as Kaede’s fate was still in limbo, the Princess made it clear that Henri must not be provoked to take further action at this time.

And the faster we finish this, the safer Kaede will be!

Sylviane kicked off and leapt into the air with a burst of flames from her steel-shod feet. The special capes worn by Oriflamme Armigers had phoenix feathers woven in, which allowed a paladin to pull them behind her as she flew. This offered better speed and flight control than the Levitation spells they used to stay airborne, but they had to stay in her wake to take advantage.

Sylviane kept her eyes nailed to the command trio on top of the ridge as she flew up to fifty paces high. She could just make out a narrow-shouldered figure with plum-colored hair before she went into a shallow dive. Her uncle’s face grew clearer as she closed the distance between them. His sides were flanked by a general and a templar, though the Princess paid neither of them any attention as she cried out in rage as she envisioned her father’s head on a spike.

“GABRIELLLLL!!!”

The Princess spun twice and hurled out her meteor hammer as the pretender drew his sword from an ornate scabbard. A cloud of tiny golden crucifixes surrounded him as the cylindrical weight struck one and was brought to a sudden halt without even the sound of impact.

The complete loss in momentum startled Sylviane as it unbalanced her fighting style. She was supposed to change the vector of her hammer’s motion while maintaining its speed at all times. The Princess could only yank the chain of her meteor hammer and wrap it in a wide arc around her arm as she landed three paces in front of Gabriel. However, none of this broke her hateful stare into her uncle’s eyes as she screamed:

“FLAMEBREAK!”

A burst of blue-white fire erupted from her body as she had been saving it for this very moment. The templar and the general to Gabriel’s sides both screamed in agony as they were immolated and burned alive by Hauteclaire’s sacred flames. Blood-curdling cries came from around them as the flag bearers fell along with dozens of steel-clad retainers. Those who survived were plunged into a fight for their lives as Sylviane’s own armigers flew down from the skies and crashed into their ranks.

Yet, despite being a mere pace away from the epicenter of the fiery blast, the false emperor was completely untouched within his sphere of glowing crucifixes.

“Protect his majesty!”

Sylviane heard someone cry out and knew she had only a short time before her armigers would be overwhelmed. Her Flamebreak had wiped out most of Gabriel’s bodyguards and bought her some time. However, she was still deep inside the enemy’s army with no one to support her except ten good men-at-arms.

It had been a spur-of-the-moment gamble to take the head of the enemy and bring the battle to a swift end. However, Sylviane had forgotten about Gabriel’s holy sword in her abrupt decision that was fuelled by thoughts of revenge. She had already heard from Saint Edith who told her what little she knew about the Sword of Fortitude that was given to Defenders of the Faith. The sphere of countless glowing and floating crosses created an impenetrable barrier that granted effective invulnerability to its wielder.

Hoping to prove her information wrong, Sylviane grasped further down her steel chain and slung her meteor’s head against her uncle like a flail. Her other hand blasted him with spells ranging from Dispel to Earth Reaver. However, no matter how many times she attacked, her magic would splash off his barrier and her weapon would always be stopped by another floating crucifix.

“Give it up, Sylv! You cannot win against me!”

Gabriel taunted with a smirk as he raised the Sword of Fortitude up to an overhead stance and slashed it down. Its pristine steel blade shone like a beacon of light to the men surrounding the shallow ridge who cried out “Charge!”

The Princess caught the blade in her steel chain before wrapping the links around to hold the sword in place. She kicked out at Gabriel but even her steel-shod foot was stopped by a glowing light cross. She tried to yank the sword from his hand next but his grip proved stronger than her tug.

“Highness!” Sylviane heard a desperate cry from her bodyguard Elspeth. “We cannot hold this position! You must fly!”

I can win now if I just disarm him!

However, Gabriel grasped the wide guard of his sword with his other gauntlet and began to pull the blade from the Princess’ grip. Sylviane tightened the chains that wrapped around the sword but the polished steel was slowly slipping away.

“Air cavalry!” Another one of her armigers called out which made both the Princess and the Emperor look up into the skies.

A formation of riders who had concealed themselves above the low-flying clouds came down in a steep dive. They numbered not merely a dozen or two, but over a hundred as an entire banner of elite cavalry rode in flying the colors of House La Tours.

Sylviane knew her own air cavalry had already been committed. She could see a few dispersed squads of Knights Phantom harassing Gabriel’s rear in the distance. Those men were busy fighting their own battles based on their pre-arranged battle plan. And even if they noticed her precarious position, they would never be able to interdict the diving charge in time.

“Fuck.”

The Princess cursed uncharacteristically as she felt all her hopes fade away. With her trump card already expended, there was no way she could even extricate herself from the vertical envelopment. Sylviane knew that she and her armigers were now trapped by hundreds of assailing enemies from all sides. Her audacious attack to win the battle in one decapitating strike had led them all to their demise.

 

—– * * * —–

 

Kaede’s nerves were strung tight as she looked up at the clouds that blew towards the northwest. She had seen Henri’s air cavalry climb and vanish into those soft cotton shapes. A wind had picked up since then which made the rolling clouds move across the skies in greater speed. It would not take long before the Rhétien air cavalry reached the battlefield where Pascal and Sylviane would be fighting for their lives.

And with all forces in both Sylviane and Gabriel’s armies committed, even a single banner of elite cavalry could prove decisive in turning the tide.

The Samaran girl watched anxiously as Henri finished talking with his nobles in the distance before walking back across the grassy field. She had overheard his orders to stay put in their encampments. His reasoning had been sound on a tactical level –- his army was still too exhausted from their forced march and too demoralized from the scare of a morning raid.

However, Henri did not mention any political reasons for his choices. He also consoled those nobles who urged for battle by reminding them that he had sent in his air cavalry and was assembling his light horse before the camp as they spoke.

But who is he siding with? Kaede couldn’t help worrying as she exchanged an anxious glance with Cecylia to her side.

She had a feeling from their previous few dinners that she was making slow gains in changing Henri’s allegiance. But the young lord kept stressing that it was not ‘his decision’, which hinted to Kaede that there was some sort of negotiations happening behind her back. Yet, the morning raid — if one could call it that, given the Ceredigion chariots never even broke down the palisade walls or breached the wooden gate — showed that there was clearly no peace between Henri and Sylviane.

“Lord Henri…”

Kaede called out as she scurried towards him. Her steps were hobbled by her ankle chain which she struggled to drag across the tall grass and not trip.

“Have you made a decision? On whom you will be siding with then?”

“Of course.” Henri beamed with the kind of bared smile that young men made when they were planning something bold if not dangerous.

“My mind was made up since last night.”

“And?” Kaede asked impatiently.

“Her Highness refuted my offer of marriage,” Henri said without the faintest shadow of regret or loss in his smiling countenance.

Meanwhile, Kaede’s jaw fell open as the bombshell news hit her for the first time. She never even realized that Henri’s ‘not my choice’ meant he had offered a secret marriage contract to the Princess. And considering the fact that both Henri and Sylviane were Trinitians who believed in monogamy, it meant he expected Sylviane to call off her betrothal to Pascal if she agreed to it.

“T-that means… you will be siding against her?” Kaede said nervously as though she dreaded even hearing the answer.

“No.” Henri beamed again as he shook his head.

It made the Samaran girl tilt her head as she looked back in confusion.

“Her Highness would rather lose her crown than betray her marriage — her Weichsen allies and her fiancé who helped her so much,” Henri explained. “It shows that when push came to shove, she would rather stay true to her allies and compatriots than to profit from opportunities.”

The young lord looked towards the northwest with a contemplative smile as he declared:

“I respect that, even if I’m not sure I could have done the same in her shoes. Regardless, what I do know is that if I help her today, then she will remember her gratitude for years if not decades to come, which is more than I can say for that backstabbing kingslayer who murdered his own brother for power’s sake.”

 

—– * * * —–

 

“–FOR THE PRINCESS!”

Sylviane’s eyes swelled as the air cavalry diving down from above declared in her name. Her emotions, which had been sinking into the abyss mere moments ago, soared back up like the rebirth of a phoenix in roaring flames.

“Traitors!” Gabriel screamed in anger but his cry was drowned out by the follow-up yell.

“FOR RHIN-LOTHARINGIE!”

The Princess and her armigers watched in awe as the Rhétien air cavalry threw a hail of torpedo javelins towards the ground as they pulled out of their dives. The earth surrounding their ridge erupted in a series of explosions as the blast-powder-filled tubes slammed into the ground and their flint triggers sparked. Hundreds of men who had been climbing up the shallow slopes to aid their false emperor were blasted apart as staccatos of explosions tore through their ranks.

Blood and limbs were torn asunder as most of the Belgae officers never had a chance to cast defensive wards. After all, they were not facing mages or archers in a stand-off exchange, but assaulting an Oriflamme Paladin whose phoenix fire ignored such spells.

Within seconds, the tide of battle had turned once more. The hundreds of infantrymen who were rushing up to reinforce the false emperor were now in full rout as they fled from the air cavalry circling above him. Dozens more threw away their weapons and knelt down to surrender as they looked up to the cavalrymen who hovered above. Only a handful of them continued to fight and were quickly dispatched by Sylviane’s men.

— And as the Belgae soldiers surrounding them either died or surrendered, the cloud of glowing crucifixes that surrounded Gabriel also began to vanish.

Seizing the opportunity, Sylviane released Gabriel’s blade and spun her hammer around her forearm before slamming it into his hand. There was no floating crucifix to stop it this time as the cylindrical weight smashed into the steel gauntlet.

“GAaaahhh!”

The Sword of Fortitude fell from Gabriel’s grasp as he withdrew and cradled his armored hand. His pained cry hinted that the impact must have broken several fingers within. Sylviane’s bodyguard Elspeth then struck him on the knees with another meteor hammer blow. The false emperor fell onto the ground in a half-kneeling pose before the Princess whose burning hair and piercing gaze glowed with blue-white flames.

Sylviane picked up the sword and pointed it at Gabriel’s face while one of her armigers pulled the crowned helmet off his head.

“I… forfeit.” Her uncle spoke between gritted teeth as he half-straightened his back for one moment before collapsing into the dirt in pain.

Forfeit? Did you give my father a chance? Sylviane’s fuming thoughts objected as she clenched her sword’s handle in both hands and pointed its tip down towards his neck.

With her father’s killer kneeling helpless before her, the Princess desired nothing more than to drive the ‘holy sword’ in her hands through his throat. She wanted to see his blood ignominiously spilt, to repay that of her father’s.

It would be a moment of ironic retribution, for the man entitled ‘Defender of the Faith’ to be killed by one of the Trinitian Church’s seven righteous swords.

This isn’t right.

The Princess realized as the pointed blade trembled slightly in her hands. Her emotions cycled from anger to sadness to hatred to loss as she stared at her father’s murderer who lay pitiably on the ground before her.

Nobody could accuse her of killing him unjustly on the field of battle. However, she also wasn’t the only one needed closure for the death of her father. The Empire of Rhin-Lotharingie also needed an end to its civil war. And while it might be easier to kill Gabriel on the battlefield, what the country truly needed was a trial for treason to expose his allies and an execution to conclusively end this chaotic and dark chapter in the Empire’s history.

“Giselle,” Sylviane called to one of her armigers as she lowered her sword. “Give my uncle first aid so that the bleeding stops.” She requested despite the acid dripping from her voice.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

And after that… the Princess thought as she looked around the battlefield where thousands of men still clashed.

“It’s time to put an end to this wasteful butchery of Lotharin lives.”

 

 

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