“Now, if we are done preaching…” She began, meeting Ignatius’ eyes, who did not look away, “…or fighting like animals, I would like to hear the news that brought this young man before us.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Jeffers uncomfortably. His eyes darted from Fenrir to Tilner to Perod, who was pulling himself to a chair, still in obvious pain and with his bloodied face dripping onto his shirt. One of the other captains was tending to him, wiping his face and whispering something. The two left the room, Perod supported by his former peer.
“My fath… Sir Evan Reband was tasked with delivering this message from Lord Erik Malless, Duke of Florens. We were made to memorize the message, lest we be captured and a letter be stolen.” He cleared his throat and began reciting a message in a well-rehearsed tone. “Lady Escamilla, I am pleased that you have returned safely.” Malless must have sent these messengers within a couple of days of receiving Escamilla’s pigeon-borne note, and Jeffers, at least, must have ridden hard. “As we had expected, Penton has crossed the border into Florens with his advance forces, and several large towns, including Ferne, have already been sacked. Our military forces are scattered around the duchy, currently regrouping in Florens. I have word from our mutual friends in Rostane that a large scale conscription is underway, and thousands have been conscripted or volunteered. We will need reinforcement immediately, as the full force of the Rostanian military will be at our bridges in scant weeks, while the forward forces work to cut Florens off from the outside. Of course, we shall continue to meet their forces in battle wherever possible, but cannot match them. We have reached out to allies in Jecusta, and hope for assistance from there, as well. For now, send your forces as we agreed. We will continue to be in communication to develop strategy. We shall avenge my father and protect Ardia together. Yours, Lord Duke Erik Malless.”
Jeffers deflated after his speech, nodding to Escamilla before collapsing into a hard wooden chair, putting his head in his hands. Emma felt an unusual need to comfort the boy, but her feet stayed planted. This wasn’t the time or place for comfort. She glanced back at Fenrir, who had resumed his easy lean against the wall, arms folded, his eyes focused on the stones in front of him. Taking another pull from that damnable silver flask.
“This is consistent with our own intelligence,” offered Guy Empton. “We were aware that the advance forces had moved across the border.” Nice contribution from the general. Emma resisted rolling her eyes.
“Indeed, General,” the younger man with the broken nose wheezed. “Our intelligence also shows that the conscriptions have yielded nearly twenty thousand, in addition to the fourteen thousand military regulars. If they mobilize this full force, they would number thirty-four thousand and still have approximately six thousand troops, as well as citizen reserves, in Rostane.”
The number of troops was a physical pressure in the room. Rostane was the military power in Ardia. There had never been any doubt of that. However, thirty-four thousand soldiers, marching on Florens... After seeing the five or six thousand troops amassed in Brockmore, Emma could not even imagine the sight of that number. Escamilla’s forces had seemed strong at first sight, had brought her hope, but now her stomach was a sour pit.
“We cannot march yet,” said one of the captains. “Many of our forces have not yet arrived. By our estimates, we are still waiting on approximately two thousand, two hundred soldiers.”
“Agreed. There is little that we can do against such numbers, even with our full forces.” Another one of the captains—the bushy-bearded Braston.
After a moment, while the gathered officers continued to digest the unwelcome news, Trina Almark, the Silver Lady, spoke for the first time, her voice much hoarser than Emma would have expected based on her delicate, feminine features. A goddess of war with the voice of a man.
“I do not know your experience with war and battle…” she said with a sneer, her full lips curled upwards, “…but towns have been sacked. Penton did not stroll into these villages, politely requesting that any defenders lay down their arms and that civilians relinquish their possessions. No, men were slaughtered in a one-sided battle. Tortured, disemboweled, dismembered, and so on. Women and even children were raped and killed and discarded like trash. I have seen many towns sacked by armies anxious to fight, worked into a frenzy. Delaying our involvement, like cowards, will accomplish nothing other than allowing the bodies to pile up.”
“What would you have us do? Add to the pile of the dead by throwing a much smaller force against such numbers?” demanded Tilner, his voice still carrying some of the heat from earlier.
“I would expect you to act like men and protect your country,” she spat, literally. Several of the officers, including Tilner, took clear offense and surged to their feet, shouting at the brash female mercenary.
“Enough of this! Do I need an entire new command staff?” Escamilla was nearly shaking with rage. “All of you will sit down. Now! Or you will be removed from this council!”
Everyone complied, save for Fenrir, who kept his place by the wall. He hadn’t moved in response to the Silver Lady’s taunts, and Escamilla didn’t point him out. Emma would have enjoyed seeing him tossed from the room, but it was not to be.
“Now, if we can have a civil discussion… Danby, what of Fraunt and Proan?”
The young man with the broken nose must have been Danby. “When we received word of your imprisonment, I sent pigeons and runners in your name to Fraunt and Proan, as well as to many of the lesser nobles across the duchies. Fraunt outright refused to speak with us.”
“Not surprising, as Penton has her son,” said Escamilla, rubbing her eyes. Her anger appeared to have spent her dwindling supply of energy.
“Indeed. We were able to make contact with Proan, who offered funds but no men. Several of the lesser nobles offered conscripts once there is evidence of aggression. We sent more runners out yesterday. I expect we can raise another fifteen hundred men in the next week. With our estimates of Florens’ own strength, we would still be outmanned by approximately two-and-a-half to one.”
“What of the armies of Florens?” asked Escamilla.
“They have approximately eight thousand soldiers, though a third of that would be conscripts. More would likely rise to defend the city. Combining our forces with theirs would yield close to two to one odds.”
“Bah. Most of the enemy is just untrained rabble,” scoffed Trina, tossing her silver braids.
“We aren’t exactly well-trained ourselves,” mumbled one of the captains. Quentin, unless Emma missed her guess.
“Big talk gets us nothing,” said Braston, leaning forward, eyes on the Silver Lady. “This isn’t a tavern story, here. Historically, the bigger force tends to win the day. Peasants and farmers can be taught to drive spears and lances into the ground, enough to stop a cavalry charge. Even if they break, which is likely, the charge will be halted. Peasants and farmers often have some skill with a bow, too, and anyone can aim a bow forty-five degrees into the air and release. Supported by professionally trained soldiers, a smaller force would be consumed.”
“There have been many cases where that was not true.” Surprisingly, Ignatius filled the silence left by Braston’s hopeless words. “There are cases in The Book where men, armed with their faith, prevailed against more powerful forces.”
“Aye, we are aware of those stories. But, Yetranian though most of us are, we all recognize that The Book occasionally embellishes to teach important lessons. I apologize, Chaplain,” Braston added, with a measure of respect.
“No need to apologize, my brother. I have studied the great Book all of my life, and I know, probably more than anyone, that embellishments are present. But also that many of the stories are based in historical fact, and several of those are well-documented facts corroborated with other sources. The Battle of Tiernum, for instance, where Amorum the Martyr led the forces of good himself. Several historical writings have shown that they were outnumbered by thousands. Tens of tho
usands. And yet they prevailed.” Ignatius spread his arms.
“Even so, they were defending Tiernum, supposedly a great, walled city, fortified against all manners of assault. Our forces… we’ve no choice but to go on the offensive. And when, Ignatius, did you start supporting the thought of war?” General Empton brows furrowed, perhaps not trusting this sudden change of heart within the chaplain. Emma certainly didn’t.
“I will never support war, or the loss of hundreds and thousands of lives. But, if we must fight, which it sounds like we must…” Ignatius glanced at Escamilla, who nodded. “…then I would prefer that we win.” He’d finished with a grin. Emma noticed that her mouth was hanging open at his words. She shook her head; the world seemed upside down.
“What would you recommend, Ignatius?” asked Escamilla, gesturing absently for Emma to fill her wine glass. Emma complied, falling right back into the role of handmaiden.
“The key factor in these battles was faith. Men of faith fight harder, even against difficult odds. Especially against difficult odds.” His eyes were shining, but his voice remained calm.
“Ignatius, most of our men are Yetranian, but so are the men of the Rostanian army.” Escamilla sipped at her wine.
“Aye, but we must instill within our men a great faith and passion. I ask for your permission to begin teaching the men what they truly fight for, that we are Yetra’s chosen. That Penton has broken the sacred laws spoken by Yetra, documented in The Book of Amorum. I have several Taneos who would be excellent for this task. Men of passion, themselves.”
To Emma, this sounded like the start of a holy war. Religious zealots leading men into battle. And in the histories, that never worked out particularly well.
“Ignatius, this is a dangerous path. As you know, men with too much passion can become as dangerous to those who lead them as to those who oppose them,” said Escamilla, echoing Emma’s thoughts as she leaned backward and placed her fingers in a steeple. “I would not mind some proselytizing, but do not overdo things. I will not have my men become fanatics.”
“One can never believe too much. But, I shall practice moderation, my lady.” Ignatius inclined his head. General Empton cleared his throat.
“With respect, even with such… faith… our forces are still outmatched by a significant number, and these soldiers are not used to fighting in formations.”
“Yes, we need additional forces in order to have any chance,” said one of captains in a subservient tone. Ezram, maybe.
Escamilla glanced at Danby, who was staring at his stomach and rubbing it gently. Apparently paying no attention to the proceedings. Indigestion?
“Danby!” she said, sharply.
He startled, but kept one hand on his generous gut. “Yes, my lady?”
“You mentioned earlier to me, some options for more soldiers?”
“Well, yes. There is really only one option, to be true.” He attempted to hold back a small, wet belch. “In Hunesa. A large mercenary company called Ferl’s Company, newly returned from campaign season in Sestra. They fluctuate, but may number approximately two thousand and–”
“Those fuckers are not fit to lick our assholes. Ferl is untrustworthy scum!” spat the Silver Lady, sloshing her own wine as she slammed down her mug.
“Perhaps the same could be said of all mercenaries. Trust can never truly be purchased, as one never knows when a bigger purse might come along.” Tilner obviously had little rapport with the beautiful, hoarse-voiced mercenary captain, his mustaches quivering as he glowered at her.
“Tilner. I have an assignment for you.” Escamilla stood, her tone imperious. “You are to ride to Hunesa at first light, tomorrow, and secure funds from Proan to hire this Ferl’s Company for the coming engagement.”
“My lady…” he stammered, rising to his feet as well, but with his mouth gaping like a fish.
“And, given that you do not trust soldiers of fortune, you will be accompanied by one yourself. Fenrir, you will be leading negotiations with this Ferl.”
Fenrir’s drooping eyelids suddenly flickered open, the big man as astonished as Tilner. Tilner, meanwhile, was somewhere between broken and furious.
“Lady Escamilla, my orders were to stay close to you and protect you. Though the company would be pleasing…” He nodded to Tilner with a twisted smirk. “…I believe it is in your best interests to keep me nearby.”
“Do you believe that you can protect me better than the thousands of armed men camped outside? With your dented sword and your limp? Besides, my agreement with our… mutual acquaintance… was that you will be following my orders. And, this I order. Besides, would I not be even safer with two thousand more soldiers?”
Fenrir smirked, but instead of insolent, it came across as charming.
“I suppose I cannot argue with your impeccable logic, my lady. At first light.”
Chapter 23
“…and fucking bread! Why can’t we get enough fucking bread?” demanded General Lucius, his doughy walrus cheeks jiggling as he bristled with anger.
“It takes weeks, months, to plan for and supply a campaign, my lord! You have given me two weeks! Two weeks to find food and provisions for thousands of men, not to mention transportation for such provisions. And, arming these men, as well? This is an impossible task,” argued Quartermaster Polk, his voice very nearly reaching a state of outright pleading.
It was not the first discussion of bread since Hafgan had begun attending these meetings a couple of days ago. Upon his arrival at that first meeting at sundown, Captain Fitra had relegated Hafgan to a corner, which perfectly suited his purposes. To become a common sight, an ornament in a room where people forgot that you were even present: that was the goal of anyone seeking to gather information, and usually a challenge for a six and a half foot tall, hairy-faced Wasmer. But, thanks to his unexpectedly successful and rapid rise through the ranks, that was exactly what had happened.
The Wasmer were an advanced race in so many ways. They studied astrology, and understood the tides and fluctuations in weather. All castes were taught to read and write from a young age, as well as how to both listen and orate. They had even discovered ways to utilize mountain icecaps to proxy the running water systems seen in advanced human cities. At least the mountain-dwelling Wasmer in the Tulanques had done so. However, in all things related to war, they were still so very primitive.
Leadership was for the powerful. The fastest, the most skilled, and the strongest Wasmer became warleaders, with leadership changing on a frequent basis depending on the outcomes of challenges. Challengers were allowed to vie for power at any time, although the warleader could also refuse any challenge. Refuse too many, however, and one might be seen as weak and risk getting deposed anyhow—usually in a less savory way. These contests were only allowed during times of peace, so many warleaders, and particularly those who got lucky in battle, forced battles among other Wasmer clans, or even the humans. Over the past thirty years, there had been a number of border incursions into Ardia, with Wasmer raiding mountain towns and villages in the Rostanian duchy, as well as some of the vassal counties and baronies, under the guise of a border dispute. The loss of life in an already sparsely-populated race had caused many of the Wasmer clans to rethink this ancient tradition, but in a roundabout way.
Most clans were ostensibly guided (and actually ruled) by the Dyn Doethas, groups of so-called wise men and women who were most typically priests and leaders of faith. Before Hafgan had been born, just after the border battles with Rostane had started, Taern Llegyn, a wise man of his own clan—Carreg Da, Black Stones—had concocted a rather ingenious plan.
Just like humans, the Wasmer were resistant to change. The warlike members of the tribe, generally the lower castes, would never abide by following a lesser warrior into battle, no matter how strategic and intelligent that leader could be. Intellect was not a prerequisite of the job, but strength and individual battle acumen were. Taern posited that such warriors could be created, trained by the Dyn
Doethas to be both ideal warriors and excellent scholars. They would be trained in all styles of battle and the practice of numberless weapons. They would be trained in war and strategy, studying historical works related to these topics, both written by human and Wasmer. They would learn of faith, of the many gods of the Wasmer people, of the parables and the stories that formed the framework for their society.
With this training, the Haearn Doethas, as they were to be called, would guide the people’s proverbial hearts, heads, and hammers. That was after they challenged and handily defeated the current warleaders, taking their place as the visible leaders of the clan.
All of this with oversight from the Dyn Doethas, of course, who would continue pull the strings.
Hafgan had been among the first drafted into this experimental program within the Carreg Da, along with several other boys of his age. Each boy had been offered by their parents in return for wealth—the shiny gems used as money among the Wasmer. Under the harsh tutelage of the Dyn Doethas and Taern, Hafgan had learned all manner of things, including how to fight the standard Wasmer warleader, who tended to be fast, strong, and predictable. It had been Hafgan’s plan, not Tennyson’s, for the Hafgan to infiltrate the Rostanian army by rising in the ranks of the Wasmer unit through challenging their warleader. Although, Hafgan had to admit that Siarl was more skilled than he’d expected. Or perhaps Hafgan’s four years in Rostane had made him soft.
Hafgan was brought back into the present by the shouting officers, still arguing about bread. As a Haearn Doethas, Hafgan also learned the intricacies of provisioning an army, and he agreed with Quartermaster Polk: the situation was nearly impossible.
“You dare raise you voice to me, Polk?” General Amos Lucius sputtered, obviously unused to such treatment. “I could have you lashed!”
There came a universal sigh in the room. Lucius had threated to lash nearly every one of the twenty or so officers in the huge command pavilion, but his well-known fury was only matched by his well-known lack of action. Only during peacetime could a man like this rise to the rank of general in a military.
Solace Lost Page 31
