* * *
“Onward! Stay in formation!”
The cilliarch in charge of the Thorax battalion was on horseback, running up and down behind the double line of his men, repeatedly shouting orders for them to advance with cohesion and order. His breastplate was polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting wildly the terrible forms of his men clad in their huge plate armor, like moving unyielding hulks of metal. A few hundred feet separated them from the walls of Pyr now and they where already under attack from the few defenders manning the walls, sparsely throwing arrows against them to no real effect. They were advancing slowly but steadily, sacrificing speed for protection and the ability to withstand almost any attack against them with impunity.
The man known as Castigator Olorius Menamon the IVth was dressed in his most resplendent war gear, the very same he had worn on the day of Zaelin’s pacification, the last time he had gone to war, the last time he had seen bloody combat. He seemed engrossed in thought, as if musing vaguely rather than thinking about any specifics about the battle at hand.
General Tyrpledge was riding his warhorse wearing a common light bronze cuirass above his uniform, only his rank insignia marking him as different than the common light swordsman. The General seemed nevertheless in a shape and form that belied his years of service. He was surveying the battlefield with bare eyes, his attention fixed on the selected breach site on the walls.
It was an uncommonly hot day for that time of the year: there was barely a cloud in the sky, the blinding light of the suns falling upon spear, sword and armor alike. It made them shine with a dazzling force, turning the field of battle into a shimmering sea of metal and men. The General thought this could almost have passed for some ridiculously extravagant parade, though it was not meant to be one.
It would turn bloody soon enough, and he could only hope deep inside him that somehow this would all end quickly and painlessly, his duty accomplished. A rebuilding would be needed, but perhaps that could spur some innovation, a much needed air of change. He could almost understand the feelings of the rebels: stagnancy often leads to death, as had the battlefields proven throughout the course of history. Tyrpledge still debated with himself though, whose deaths would it lead to in the end?
The Castigator stood impassively on his own mount, his sight intently set on the far reach of the city, on the Disciplinarium itself. His eyes looked glazed and it was as if he was hoping to burn holes on the city walls by sight alone. He seemed then for a moment to breathe in the air roughly, sniffing it audibly, as if searching for a specific scent or perhaps simply enjoying the breeze’s more tangible qualities: burnt wood and ash from the city caught in a blaze, the brushings of steel from sharpened weapons and the slick oil of polished, well-maintained armor.
Suddenly, as if the question had been withheld for too long, the Castigator turned his head and asked Tyrpledge:
“Why haven’t they surrendered, General? Hmm? What makes them hope they’ll live to see another day?”
Tyrpledge was somehow caught by surprise at the Castigator’s questions. It was an incisive, straightforward question, very much unlike the Castigator who had hardly spoken since the march to Pyr. He had been quite reclusive appearing only once, to stir the army into upholding their oaths and taking up arms against their fellow men. The act of committing the amassed forces of the Outer Territories to quench an uprising in the making did not fit in everyone’s mind as yet another order. The atmosphere was tense surely, and everyone felt the heaviness of these moments, from the brigadier general to the lowly soldier.
As such thoughts troubled Tyrpledge his mind had wandered and he had not answered the Castigator’s question. The General believed it would be better to leave it at that. The motives and thoughts of the traitorous rebels should be left to their own. The only thing that mattered was that they were violating Law, and duty called for him to stop them. That was where his concerns on the issues of the uprising started, and that was where they ended. He suspected many things which he thought would be extremely unwise to voice and would only serve to fog his mind.
Perhaps this was what the Castigator was trying to do; lure him into a treacherous terrain, bring him into a vulnerable position to sense if he was still committed. A dangerously cunning man. Perhaps he had already entered in a complex scheme of machinations that would make the mind numb if they were to be revealed. It was just as well, he cared not about such things. He trusted his mentor’s motto: ‘A plague leaves survivors in its wake, politics does not’.
The Castigator’s face was wearing a knowing grin, when he asked the General with a mocking tone, as if there was a competition going on between them and the General seemed to be losing it:
“Cat ate your tongue, General? Or have you been thinking too hard?”
The General remained calm at the face of an attitude bordering the ridiculous, intent only to aggravate him and test his limits as a person and an officer for reasons that probably the Castigator found pertinent. Instead of indignantly falling so low as to disgrace himself in the middle of an ongoing battle, he simply waved his adjutant to come closer.
Major Guighan came crisply by his side and saluted with vigor, standing to attention. He asked the General:
“Orders, sir?”
“Would you please explain our analysis of the strategic situation to his piousness the Castigator, as well as reiterate the battle plan?”
Major Guighan exchanged a quick glance of apprehension with Tyrpledge, but quickly resumed his professional tone and stance. In the background, large blocks of stones were starting to chip off the walls, and the smoke from the fires spreading throughout the city was getting thicker by the hour. He responded with a nod and a salute before adding:
“Certainly, sir. May I be at rest, sir?”
“Please do so Major. Enlighten us now, if you will?”
“Of course, sir. Initial reports based on informants within the Ministry and the Disciplinarium seem to agree that for an unfathomable reason the Patriarch ordered that the Arch-minister be purged of his office, as well as denouncing his piousness the Castigator a traitor ex absentia. Indeed the Noble Representative Lord Ursempyre Remis has been appointed and blessed as the new Castigator by the Patriarch in a formal ceremony.
The most helpful piece of information comes from a trickle of fleeing civilians that seemed to have fought for their lives to escape Pyr. It seems that the Patriarch has been forcing men of all ages to take arms against our forces. A campaign of terror is under way to force submission to roaming squads of procrastinators whose sole mission is to prevent anyone from leaving the city as well as press-ganging them into service. Physical violence, the use of families as hostages, as well as public executions are already in effect. There are unconfirmed reports of a cluster of people taking up arms around the city with no clear allegiance or purpose. As that remains to be seen whether it’s true or not, we did not take it into account while planning, but we have notified the first wave commanders accordingly. ”
The Castigator tried not to show it but he looked impressed by the quality and thoroughness of the information, as well as by the crisp, clean manner it was delivered with. Tyrpledge on the other hand did not hide it at all and had been nodding briskly all throughout the Major’s report. He then urged him to continue with a nod in his direction, seeing that he had been waiting for a signal to conclude his briefing, his brief pause merely an element of style:
“The order of battle is as follows, sir: The two Thorax battalions are attached to the main bulk of the infantry leading the assault, laid out in a thin double line of troops forming the absolute front line.
The swordsmen, spear-men and bowmen are marching right behind the Thorax in that exact order, holding standard line formations and keeping their distances from each according to specific orders to each commanding brigadier. Orders were also issued to prefer men with no relatives in the City of Pyr, at least for the first wave. Once the siege engines manage to breach the walls, the steamers will rush forward t
hrough the formations of men which will split in two to make way for the machines. The steamers will create a safe bridgehead for the swordsmen and pike-men to follow close behind, while the bowmen will harass any enemy within their range to provide additional cover to the assault force.
That force will proceed to clear the city of enemy resistance, house by house and street by street, with the objective being to create a safe corridor to the Disciplinarium as well as the Patriarch and the Castigator themselves. The specific part of the walls to assault was chosen based on the proximity to the Disciplinarium, a factor which will hopefully keep casualties among the citizenry as low as possible, and lead to a quick and decisive victory. The logic behind such a strategy which is corroborated by our confirmed information, is that should these two prominent figures be neutralized, any amount of effective resistance will cease to be.”
When the Major was done, he stood to attention once more and saluted crisply. The Castigator nodded, reminding the General of what could only impossibly be a disgruntled but impressed man. The Major had been as usually, excellent in his appointed task. While the siege engines continued their slow barrage of fire and stone and every battalion maneuvered continually so as not to disclose the final position of the assault, the General’s mind turned inward again.
He was thinking morosely, his heart heavy from the reality of such a civil war. If it came to a fight between brothers or father and son, who could blame one for turning against his fellow soldiers, or idly stay his hand and cost him his life at the hands of men less sentimental? Battle was no place for the soft of heart: it only spared those with a mind empty of doubt, bearing cold steel in their hearts as well as their hands.
He had taken on a strangely serene look. He had known this would not be an easy fight to carry through, but he had not anticipated it would feel this ugly. Perhaps in the end, he could not avoid the politics of a troubled conscience that was about to add more lives to its blood toll.
His thoughts were broken and his senses became the focus of total attention from his mind: A booming voice seemed to echo from the city of Pyr itself as if the air above it had been turned into a giant cone of voice, radiating words for everyone to here. It seemed impossible that it could be so, though everyone seemed to stop in his tracks as if he had been rooted there. Everyone had been transfixed by what felt like the voice of the Patriarch, sounding as clear as when enunciating the holy words of Law from the Ministry’s tower. What he was now saying though as if he spoke directly to their minds, sounded totally different; his voice abrasive beyond human measure, as if razors sharpened against coarse stone:
“Kneel before me and release your free will. Or face eradication and the sweet nothingness of a light-less, uncaring void. It is your choice. Be humbled now before my true might, and despair, as you have always done so before.”
When the unearthly voice had spoken and its echoes had died out, intense light seemed to blossom from a part of the city, as if a small sun had been brought down and was struggling to find its place among the skies again. Behind the glaring blaze of light the Disciplinarium could be seen rising above the rest of the city and below it, nothing but huge tongues of flames. As the Disciplinarium rose along with most of the hill still attached to it, everyone’s heads turned to face it and marvel at it, wonder at the astounding unreality they were seeing. Not a word could be heard; the only moments ago bustling battlefield was entombed in silence. Only a brooding, deeply rumbling sound like stones carrying the echoes of thunder could be heard, and it could only be coming from the ascending mass of the Disciplinarium.
Suddenly, the huge blue and white flames flickered on and off before finally being extinguished. A moment passed when everything seemed to remain still. The Disciplinarium started falling now and it was about to meet the ground it had so majestically parted with only moments ago. Everyone cowered before its falling shadow, as if it was coming down on their own heads. They heard the voice of the Patriarch no more, and felt the earth below their feet tremble uneasily. The General did not conceal his thoughts when he said: “The end of days is nigh.”
Forge of Stones Page 41
