The Marshal of the Twelfth Phalanx is a meter seventy in height and lean of stature, he has brown eyes, and black hair. Those features couldn't be more average and his traits don't vary much from the norm either.
The bridge of his nose is straight but it is slightly large in the middle, his chin is neither pointy nor pronounced, his cheekbones are strong but the arc of his eyebrows is plain.
What distinguishes him from the norm, makes it so that none mistakes him, is his relaxed attitude and utter disdain for any kind of armor. At the moment, he is slouched in a wood and cloth chair in the large command tent.
He is lazily holding his white cape embroidered with a roaring golden lion and the symbol 'XII' over his shoulder with two fingers while eating a small round sugary pastry.
Around him, his aides are running around a table with a large map set upon it depicting the city ruins and its surroundings. Half are reading scouting reports and making appropriate changes to the map using charcoal that can be erased.
Others are double-checking their work or moving wooden pawns to represent Rykz scout sightings, round tokens to represent tunnel entrances, and wooden towers to represent defensive lines.
There are few of the tokens despite the Templar Order spending two weeks scouring the area, even worse is that they can't figure out if these are part of an old network that used the Empire's leylines or a new one.
The Marshal took note of the fact that there should be more tunnels if the Rykz faked a retreat to pour out of the ground and surround his position but, far from reassuring him, it convinces him that their position isn't a good one.
Yet, there is no better strategical position to hold in a fifty-kilometer radius which may very well be why the trap is such a good one, it isn't as if the Phalanxes cannot build their own camp but failing to occupy these ruins means the Rykz will and dislodging them would be a headache.
There used to be a city holding twenty thousand people here a century ago but it was evacuated and turned into a fortress as the Rykz pushed the Empire's borders back.
While most buildings were destroyed, they weren't dismantled so there are enough stone walls remaining to encompass streets the Phalanx can use to its advantage and plenty of locations to use to store food or set up temporary smithies.
The issue is that transforming a city in a fortress has never been an easy task, especially when it also served as a resupply point for the region, so the result is an imbroglio of streets surrounded by lots of open ground with half-destroyed walls where there used to be houses.
Still, he was ordered to advance with his Phalanx and establish a resupply base for further pushes if the Rykz don't stop him. He reaches out to the bowl he left on the table for another pastry but he hears hooves striking pavement and decides to seize his entire reserve to keep it safe.
“Stop!” A Duke's guards cry out.
An Exemplar wearing plate armor stained by brown blood and mounted on a steed covered in scale armor uses a long charging lance to rip the command tent's cloth so as to ride in.
Behind the figure are auxiliary soldiers and officers rolling on their backs from having foolishly stuck to their protocol in the face of a zealous temple guard on a mission.
The Exemplar pulls on the warhorse's reins at the last moment before crashing. The animals neighs and rises on its hind legs only to drop its hooves atop the table.
It directly snaps in half at the middle but a few officers had the presence of mind and reflexes to pull the map away beforehand. The warhorse messed up all the pieces they used to mark positions but at least the important parts are safe.
“Are you insane?!” Duke Fallone, General of Steso, bellows from behind the Exemplar. “I should have put your damn mount down!” He seethes as he steps in from the hole in the tent.
Both are ignoring the Marshal who finds the situation rather interesting, if amusing because he's never seen anything like this happen before. He snags a pastry from the bowl he protected from harm in the pit of his elbow.
“I have urgent business with Marshal Ciervo, Fallone, get lost.” The large figure answers as it hops down from the horse. “All of you get lost!”
The voice coming out of the Exemplar's helmet is somber and resonates, making it difficult to tell whether a man or a woman is behind the thick plate engraved with a golden lion head.
None of the officers present care whether they serve in the Phalanxes or Steso's army, when faced with a raging Exemplar, one quickly learns to make themselves scarce or prepare to make a visit to the field hospital.
As people start scampering out of the huge tent, Duke Fallone snags the map and waves away those that serve in his auxiliary army to make the dismissal official. The Phalanx Marshal swiftly swallows his pastry.
“Wait!” Ciervo calls out.
The Exemplar glares at him but can't help the fact that everyone present freezes because the man is the ultimate authority in this camp. Officers turn and bow to receive the Marshal's words.
“Tell the cooks to make another batch of pastries with some of that tree syrup thing.” Ciervo tells them.
Those of the Twelfth Phalanx, eminently used to the man's quirks, stiffen and give the man a serious salute before stepping out while the auxiliaries and the Duke blink as if they can't believe that's all a Marshal of ten thousand phalangites and twenty thousand auxiliaries has to say.
“Go on now.” Ciervo waves them all aside while plunging his hand in the bowl.
“You too, Fallone.” The Exemplar utters coldly, having heard enough about this Marshal to know the demand means that the man is, contrary to appearances, taking the event very seriously.
“It's General Fallone in this tent, Exemplar.” The Duke utters angrily. “And I have every right to be here to hear your report.”
“No!” Marshal Ciervo erupts with a voice full of dismay.
The two others present turn and find him glaring down at the bowl with his fingers around another delicacy. The problem is that there's only a single one left and that is a terrible thing for the Marshal. Not only because he can't fill his stomach but also because it means he's been more nervous than he thought if he finished so quickly.
“General, this is terrible.” Ciervo tells the man with a very serious voice. “I only have a single pastry left, I must hear the Exemplar now. If you would please entertain the request.”
Fallone stares speechlessly, he is very worried for Steso if this is the man supposed to build and organize a supply base for half the Empire's eastern front-line for the push that is being planned in summer. Yet, his duty to his Kingdom requires him to have patience and only come to a decision once he has enough elements to make a judgment.
“Very well.” Fallone says, giving both Exemplar and Marshal a stiff salute.
Ciervo extends his right hand out for the map, dropping the white cape he held on his shoulder. The former action reassures the Duke but the latter confuses him even more because any other officer in the Phalanx would have been lashed for such a slight to the uniform.
Even the Exemplar who knows much more about this sloppy man can't help but grunt in disapproval. Ciervo snags the map from Fallone's hands and throws it out on the ground in front of him, over the table's rubble.
As soon as the Duke has stepped out, the Marshal activates isolation runes, covering the tent in a golden curtain that blocks sight and hearing. The Exemplar immediately takes her helmet off, showing rough traits and cheeks covered in soot. Her jaw-height blond hairs were bleached by the sun.
“I grew up in a cheap bakery just outside Grastle, Temp... uh, Exemplar.” Ciervo speaks up a bit hesitantly, as if his mind isn't on his words. “I learned young to carefully measure ingredients so as not to put too much or too little and spoil bread. It surprises me a distinguished one such as you would treat a general in this way.” He tells her without a hint of irony despite the fact he is technically closer to the Emperor in rank than she is because he leads the Twelfth Phalanx on His behalf.
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“I just lost six of my brethren because their ilk can't keep secrets or promises made to our Emperor.” The woman utters with a dark tone.
“I'm aware the events in Caeviel have caused some distrust but it is hardly fair to blame a Noble from Steso.” Ciervo comments as he nibbles on his pastry.
“Who can tell which of them spilled to the Rykz?” The Exemplar dismisses impatiently. “I'm here to report...”
“Ah! I got it!” Ciervo interrupts her. “With your mind filled with such resentment, riding such a steed, and being blocked I probably would have acted as Elizabeth Vil would as well!” He beams, causing the woman's back to stiffen. “The protocol can be such a bore, and a hindrance in emergencies.” He tells her with a sympathetic look.
“Marshal!” The Exemplar exclaims to call for his attention.
“Oh, right. Yes, indeed. Losses, six you say?” He blinks dazedly. “My condolences.” He tells her with a sad expression.
“That is not the point!” She erupts, finding that the rumors don't do the man justice, he is much more scatter-minded than she thought.
“Don't give me that look.” Ciervo tells her while biting down on the last bit of his pastry. “I'm thinking about this army you found bearing down on us up north, and the missing patrols down south.”
“... How did you?” The woman asks while blinking.
“You went further north than our southern patrols because there's a series of hills down there, which means they should have returned by now.” He replies easily. “That the Rykz would show up in the south is no surprise, the Eleventh should already be in position to pierce into their backs, but the Thirteenth's scouts in the north should have found those you did so tell me why they did not.”
“A prairie fire propelled by flow has cut the lines from east to west like a spear, the Rykz are guarding the southern flank of it with close to a hundred thousand scouts and ten Princesses, they're moving straight for us.” She replies, finding relief in finally making her report.
“Hm, scouts are troubling.” Ciervo comments.
“Why? The Phalanx can slaughter this many from this position, I've seen the half-walls you've erected and the spikes you've set to break their ranks.” The Exemplar asks, puzzled. “There have rarely ever been ten Princesses showing themselves like this, that is much more worrying news.”
“We would be in more trouble if they had managed to move the same number of warriors, or even workers with atlatls, with such speed but I would be less worried.” Ciervo replies. He taps the map with his boot. “You see, the fact they don't seem to have the forces to break through our position from the north and that their army south is going to be engaged by the Eleventh, preventing them from attacking us frontally, means that they either have a trick or want to besiege us to lock the supplies we've gathered here.”
“Any news about the east?” The Exemplar asks worriedly.
“Probably, I would normally expect to be told about another hundred thousand drones today with at least half that number in fully equipped warriors and the same from the south when the scouts manage to circumvent their advanced lines and return.” Ciervo replies unconcernedly.
“This many Rykz means they may be planning to exterminate us.” The woman says with a dark but resolved tone.
“I have no doubt that's in their plans.” The Marshal waves his hand dismissively. “But, those reports will only arrive from the south because this isn't a normal situation. The Rykz are much more motivated than usual this Spring which means the south will have warriors in large numbers to slow down our reinforcements and make an almost impenetrable wall of Vuskyt shields but I predict our eastern flank will be assaulted by harvesters with workers carrying atlatls spread in their ranks.”
“Harvesters.” The Exemplar swallows her saliva. “They're slow but they can break past the fortifications even without Princesses.”
“Oh, they will have Princesses, likely ten as well.” Ciervo shakes his hand. “They'll gather enough energy in one place to deplete our reserves and then overwhelm us with superior regeneration before we can reestablish the leyline.”
“My contingent is ready to ride out north and threaten the Princesses whose general locations we know of to force the Rykz to retreat and redeploy east, freeing the Thirteenth to reinforce us.” The Exemplar proposes with an intense but quiet voice in spite of the sound-proof construct surrounding them.
“Ah.” The Marshal says, understanding why the Exemplar insisted on secrecy.
The raid itself would be a very risky task without adding complications like Nobles spilling out information to eventual traitors, civilian or other, or within hearing range of a Rykz creation carrying a spying construct.
The former scenario is very unlikely but difficult to defend against while the latter becomes more and more likely as the Rykz grow near but isn't difficult to prevent since all that has to be done is kill the creature before it returns to a Princess with information.
“That won't be necessary, Exemplar.” Ciervo refuses, omitting to say that it would in fact be very detrimental. “I expect that, once these armies arrive, our western flank will be flooded by warriors from the south and scouts from the north. It'll prevent my Twelfth from easily retreating but there won't be Princesses in position there to stop the Order from piercing through and wreaking havoc so that they cannot completely focus on breaking into the ruins.”
“But, then you'll be encircled with harvesters on your eastern flank.” The Exemplar protests but then pauses. “If any of your speculations about their army compositions are even on point.”
“Oh, they are.” Ciervo replies without a shred of doubt. “Your contingent and the Eleventh's positions will be important to prevent the Rykz from pressuring our flank too much, allowing us to focus on the harvesters and push them back.”
“Then why are you worried?” The woman asks.
“I'm worried because the Rykz have so far retreated while exchanging scouts with us and we now find ourselves with scarce information to work with as armies are advancing on us. It does not feel like a coincidence. That is why I need your contingent of Templars to hold the west so that you can work both the Eleventh and the Thirteenth to open our path of retreat if it becomes necessary rather than attempting a plan to reinforce us.”
“But... will the auxiliaries on the edges hold long enough if it comes to that?” The Exemplar asks, expressing her doubts towards Nobility's competence and perhaps courage. “Reinforcements would be...”
“Predicted by the Rykz.” Ciervo utters with a cold voice for the first time in the conversation. “If their plan isn't to besiege us or to crush us under a multi-pronged attack, then it relies on a surprise I've not yet seen through. There is a danger that their trick could function even if we are reinforced and only harvesters attack from the east. If the ruin were to turn into a death-trap, then it is of paramount importance the Templar Order's contingent remains mobile to react to unexpected circumstances.”
With these words Ciervo waves away the Exemplar so that she may return to her troops and organize her regiment of a thousand Templars for departure by nightfall.
He deactivates the isolation runes and his eyes fall down on the tip of his boot that he placed on the map he casually threw on the ground. His foot fell exactly on the single straight avenue in the ruins that runs from west to east.
It was built for carriages to easily travel through the city towards the front-lines about sixty years ago. The pavement is too damaged to be suitable for the task even though much of the rubble has been cleared on his order but the avenue remains the fastest way to both invade and evacuate the city.
Ciervo's concern is that the Rykz know this as well so the first thing he ordered the half-dozen flow-smiths attached to the Twelfth when he arrived was to send them to scan the entire avenue for traps and then set some of their own.
The fact that no hidden runes were found reassures him but, as clearly shown by the currently empty bowl of pastries, his nerves remained on edge which means that he is missing something.
Auxiliary and Phalanx officers with reports in their hands, ready to put the fallen wooden pieces back on the map but finding that their Marshal's foot is set on the precious piece of parchment.
Merely damaging an empty corner would have cost most of them their ranks yet the man is putting dust and maybe mud on the paper, not to mention risking to rip it on the broken table rubble he threw it on.
A sergeant rushes in with a bowl of syrupy pastries held in his joined hands, the frivolous task he was given clashes with the deathly seriousness with which he is accomplishing it.
Every officer, every phalangite, knows that the more sugar their Marshal consumes, the closer the battle. If the enemy army is still hours away and Ciervo is gobbling pastries like nuts, then they know that the fight will be deadly.
“Tell your general to get me a precise map of the outskirts, specifically measurements of the streets in the south-western quarter as well as the old water reservoir.” The man orders while pointing his hand at random towards an auxiliary because his eyes are focused on the pastries in the bowl. He picks one and raises his chin. “Lord Thomas, is it?” He asks.
“Yes?” The Lieutenant nods with a quick salute and a puzzled expression because he never introduced himself.
“Relate to General Fallone that the Exemplar had very important news to bring me but that, even if that wasn't the case, my Phalanx does not function with the same protocol as a Kingdom's army does but that won't prevent his auxiliaries from distinguishing themselves in defense of our southern and western flanks.” Ciervo says with a thin smile.
“Thank you, Marshal!” Thomas exclaims with a wide grin, no doubt reassured by the man's assurance they won't be sidelined from the more glorious battlefields.
Many of the veteran officers shake their heads at the naivety of these Nobles who haven't served as auxiliaries before and been assembled into an army specifically for this campaign.
Phalanxes would never have been able to keep the Empire's borders safe if they sidelined qualified personnel because of politics or differences of opinion as long as they follow orders.
“Kh, Marshal! Twenty-thousand harvesters, kh, have been sighted with two wings of twenty-thousand warriors and, kh, kh, forty-thousand workers carrying atlatls spread out across the entire formation!” A scout wearing a light steel cuirass with a long projectile piercing his right side yells as he stops his horse next to the entrance to the command tent.