Prologue
Chapter 1
The Longest Day
Mounted upon his horse, a spare, flaxen-haired youth descended from his lookout where seated in silence he led a nation and defeated an empire. Lost in his thoughts, he muttered to himself and was pleased. He fixed his gaze to the distance--a pair of cold eyes to meet the dying day. Making his way through the battlefield, he was sombre amidst the riot and wild cheering. Though the men would salute or doff their hats, he gave no sign of recognition but for a vague nod and a wan smile. His mind was elsewhere, formulating the next phase of operations and there far beyond the red horizon other plans were being set in motion.
Finding a secluded spot away from the battlefield, he got off his horse and sat on the grass to admire the sunset. The grass around his was cold and dry and the vast rolling hills that dotted the plains were still in spite of the conflict. The telltale tramp of a travelling army pock-marcked the land though it would take a keen eye to see it from this side: the dragging tread of rumbling atrillery trains and the dusty trail of infantry did not disturb the dry hills while the heavy fist of artillery shells did not mar the picturesque view. Straightening his cravat and his black silk cloak, the young man settled himself down to fnd his inner peace.
“Why does it always seem so far away?” He told himself, staring at the distance. He opened the lid of a silver pocket-watch and raised it just so to catch the sun. Listening to its rhythmic whirring, thoughts curdled in his mind. Though the day grew late, the victory was timely. Had events not followed their course, defeat would have been all too easy. Thumbing the rim of the watch, he fell to thought. Much had gone according to plan. But for the timely revelation of a hidden scheme, the battle had cost them nearly everything. He flipped the lid and hit a switch.
A Holographic display of a woman flickered to life. Staring at it for a moment, the young man was lost in thought as his eyes hung lazily before her. The display began to move and speak without sound, slowly moving in a pantomime of a young lady sharing her secret cares. Immediately, he snapped the thing shut and grunted, turning his gaze toward the setting sun.
The victory won that day had kept the fight--his fight as much as theirs--on course. But that was for another time. FIrst, the preliminaries. Tomorrow he and the General will take care of negotiations pending the surrender of their foes. But as much as he'd like to believe that he had crossed by reaching stride further into that retreating distance there were many steps--far too many--in between. Snapping the thing shut, he savored what sounded like a confirmation of the day's finality. All things in their time, he told himself as he pocketed the watch.
A young, red haired woman in uniform approached him, arms resting on her sides.
“You done wasting your time?” She said, smiling.
“Not quite,” he replied, smiling, “but you're welcome to join me.”
She sat beside him. The wind blew softly across the meadows as the sun sank slowly in the distance. “I wonder how it looks like at home.”
“Just the same I suppose,” he said,
"You'd think that you'd lighten up a little after winning."
"If I did you'd suspect I was an impostor."
“For being the only person not cheering? Now why would I?”
They had known each other for an age and he had always been like this. It frightened her somewhat that in spite of all the furor raging about them he always had what she told him were the "the eyes of death" a gaze cold and needless of haste--that he felt neither the wind at his back nor the grass at his feet, always chasing some far off horizon.
"I wonder if she sees it the way we do," he said.
“Now you're just being a pansy!” she laughed, giving the young man a slap on the back. “The guard's almost ready. We'll be going back in a few.”
“Perfect,” he said, getting up, “I could use a cup of tea.”
***
Seated on a bluff overlooking the battlefield, Lord Albert Mayhew watched with rapt attention as the guns of the 32nd Rosalian Infantry punched its way through enemy lines. Setting down his spyglass he fell to thought, stroking his thick beard. He was in a good mood, all things considered. The Northern contingent of the Grand Alliance was making good headway against the Silmerian invaders, this battle effectively blunting the latter’s southward campaign. With one final push, the General told himself, it will all be over: our enemies will be in rout and the Alliance victorious. Tomorrow the representatives of the Imperial 4th Army would meet to agree on terms--it was time to press home the advantage. Given the results, the enemy would be apt to accept even the harshest they have to offer, more so for the ill conduct of their irregulars and the perfidy of the Duke of Montferrat. But more on that later: there were more pressing matters at hand. Should the Alliance lax its guard any reverses will be irreparable despite the victory. But with their rear and flank secure, the enemy will more likely turn tail than risk assault his planners assure him--heaven knows they've barely made it out of this one alive!
Just a few weeks ago, two armies, one to the west and the other to the north overran the countryside around the town of Sargasso, threatening to isolate the outpost before help could arrive. Although capturing the town itself presented a major problem to the Imperials--to the West it was bordered by the Carmel river, to the East by a chain of hills, and the North by the spine of the Parnasse--at the rate the invaders were going, it was only a matter of time before they surrounded the town and starved it to death. Should it have fallen, the way would be clear for the invaders to threaten the capital city of Leonide to the south, the heart and stomach of the Dacia’s military might. An untimely attack left unchecked would have forced the League into a separate peace, dashing any hope for the campaign's success. However, with the 4th defeated, the Imperials would have to retreat behind the Carmel to regroup and prevent further losses.
The General began to rub the bridge of his nose. Recent shortages have deprived him of his morning coffee and he was fast feeling its effects. No matter, he grumbled, there were things far worse than not having his cup of black. But with their position secure, not only did that mean more supplies but more guns, more ammo, and more troops--equipment and personnel needed to arm and defend the little town of Sargasso, now in a key position to act as a gateway into the Silemrian Empire. With any luck, the bureaucrats at the Cours la Rose, the headquarters of the Joint Alliance Command, will see the town’s value and turn it into an Alliance fortress or better yet a base of operations for a future campaign further up north. Moreover, victory over the Imperials here would keep any neutral or allied states from defecting, this battle giving them renewed confidence to resist diplomatic pressure if not to support the Alliance outright. What had begun as a slow retreat and a logistical nightmare spun on its heels and turned in their favor. But for now they can rest. It was over.
As the dust settled on the plains of Sargasso, Lord Mayhew began to clamber down the hillside where a squad of horse waited for him. A bit young for a General but still in his forties, Mayhew was a large barrel-chested man with a commanding presence. Though steep in the infirmities of his profession, there was something in the wolfish eyes and jagged grin that made plain the high regard for his person and the esteem he enjoyed as a result.
Nontheless, plagued by an injury and a slight limp, his hike downhill was slow and taxing. Wearied by the climb and now by the descent, the general grumbled his way to the bottom, carefully shifting his weight in an effort to reduce his complaint as well as to prevent his making a fool out of himself--at neither of which he was wholly successful. Despite his infirmity, the old sword made it a point to refuse assistance whenever offered. It was either he got down “his way or the high-way”, whatever that meant, this disposition of his being well respected.
Despite his eccentricities, the general was well loved. “Old Cid” they called him, sometimes "the Grand Rebel", in part for his unshakable pluck, in part because of his legendary quarrels at the Court. Though by no means a man of genius, he was certainly a man of courage gifted with a certain toughness of mind and a nose for danger. Where he lacked in subtlety he made up for in audacity. This strength of character translated itself on the battlefield as a robust strength of will, one which radiated and carried those around him. It was to this man that many others were known to pledge and then to follow till the ends of the earth.
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This evening, however, they were satisfied to merely escort him back to camp. It was his practice to allow his troops to talk freely in his presence until otherwise ordered, claiming the activity did good on his nerves. Though this small liberality was greatly frowned upon by his fellow grandees in the service, he paid them no mind--after all did he ever? They thus fell to talk with two lieutenants sharing between them the better part of the conversation. At some point the topic shifted toward the recent battle, one swearing the day’s fight to be the closest run thing he ever saw, “Could’ve gone the other way hadn’t those Rosalians arrived!” the lieutenant, a bearded man named Oscar exclaimed and shook his head. There was a murmur of assent all around, each man having participated in the battle, the smell of gunpowder still fresh in their minds.
One of the lieutenants, a scarred Lancer named Serrault couldn’t agree more. “Bravest lot of bastards I ever saw--if a little on the short side.” The company let out a hearty laugh “Like little Mincio over here,” said the man accosting his friend, “I bet he could pass for a Rosalian--maybe even one of their lasses.”
“Maybe, if he put on a little perfume and took a bath for once” cried one of them.
“Or practiced his manners.”
“Mademoiselle may I have the honor of having this dance?’”
Laughter.
A scrawny young man, Mincio had always been--and, some venture, always will be--the butt of his better's worse humor. It didn't help that he was a young man too small for his boots--a fact the company made sure to remind him of. Thus, although he didn't take it against them--he was the sort of person to take such things lightly--he was dour and took to brooding.
“Oi, Mincio,” cried Oscar, “Who was that woman you were talking about earlier? The officer. What’s her name? Phoebe?”
“Chloe.”
“Chloe, that’s the one,”
“I never said anything about her,” replied Mincio
“Come now, who was the one going on and on about the pretty girl with the red hair?”
“I never said anything,” Mincio scowled.
“That's alright,” said Oscar, the bearded lieutenant who had began the joke. Clapping a large hand on Mincio's shoulder, “more for me then,” he grinned. “Red hair. Don't see that everyday!“
“Albright's still the better woman.” ventured Serrault, “Don't know about Rosalians, but a good Dacian woman's for me.”
“Not like you're ever going to have her. She's out of your league."
“You two, cease this instant,” shouted a captain who was with the company. He had had enough of the coarse banter and was eager to have it stopped. “Both are commanding officers of the allied army you will show them some respect.”
“Aye, sir,” said the hussar, “you can have Albright.” Laughter yet again.
“Guttersnipe!” the Captain drew his sword and wheeled his horse to face the men. Suddenly aware with apprehension, the Captain's heart sank and the frown on his face loosened.
“Enough!” shouted the General. “Gentlemen, this behavior is unbecoming of officers of the crown. Lieutenant, show your superior officers some respect, the man means well.”
“Aye sir, beg your pardon.”
“As for you Captain,” the General smiled, “lighten up a little, what is a victory’s worth if we cannot enjoy a little banter?”
“Sir,“ responded the Captain.
For a minute there was silence. In an effort to break the ice, Mincio ventured on another topic.
“Eerie, though, how they seem to march so silently, them Rosalians, like they’re possessed or something.” Again there was a murmur of assent. It was common for Dacians to sing as they marched shoulder to shoulder toward their enemies.
“Or daft as hell disappearing without orders just like that," said Oscar “Their commander must have been mad! What's his name?”
“Clairaut, I think” replied Mincio.
"You mean the man all in black--with the coat and everything?"
"Aye, knee-britches and all," replied Mincio.
"He wasn't even wearing a uniform!" one of the men shouted.
"And commander with the rest of them," the Serrault responded.
"Don't matter. Blighter's daft for disappearing like that."
“My friend, consider that if they hadn’t re-appeared, we would most likely be dead!” retorted the Captain
“I’m just saying that sticking out your neck on a hunch that some phantom army’s on the move hours before they show up is just plain daft, that’s all.”
“But they weren’t just a phantom army, were they?” said his companion gleefully.
“But if they were then the blighter’d be court-marshalled.”
“But they can’t do that can they?” retorted the other.
Oscar was not satisfied. “What do you think, General, sir?”
“I think that at this point the character of the Rosalians is unassailable. If Alliance Command had any sense they would decorate the man, foolhardy as his venture was.” He had only saved them from near annihilation, after all!
***
Arriving at the town square the General dismissed his entourage. Weary after the day’s excitement the men were eager to retire and left the general as he entered the marble doorway of the town hall. Makiing his way past saluting officers, he arrived at his office where he was relieved to see aide-de-camp, Major Yana Albright.
The woman who accosted him was of a slim yet sturdy build, dark-haired, slightly tanned with smart eyes and a sharp demeanor. Though she would inevitably be bested in looks by the softer specimen of her sex, she had a bright face and a comely smile and was not wanting in admirers, both in the service and out. Looks aside, her accomplishments were of considerable merit. Graduating at the top of her class of the Academy, she rose through the ranks as a staff officer and served on several major campaigns in Arvos and in Illyria before requesting to be assigned to General Mayhew. She has been described as competent, efficient and, most importantly better attuned the general’s idiosyncrasies than most. With a smart salute, she accosted the weary general. “Good evening, sir. Has the day treated you well?”
“Never been better, though my bunions say otherwise. One more push and we’ll have the ‘merians running home with their trousers down. A victory for the Alliance! And a right sound victory it certainly was. Never been this excited in years!”
“I highly doubt that, sir.”
“Well, you certainly should! I’ve been winning victories like this all my life! But a soldier’s work is never done. With this, our rear’s as good as secure and we can begin reparations. Consolidation, my dear--consolidation!" The manservant entered shortly after carrying a tray of biscuits and honey, "I say, I could use a cup of something. What do have?”
“Mint tea, sir, two sugars, boiled at three-fifty for six, courtesy of the Rosalian contingent.”
“Eh? What this you say? Tea? Why, I must have my Black or I shall have the hives! Rosalians and their colonial teas. Colonial, indeed. Doesn’t even come from a colony! They grow it in their back yard, didn’t you know? None of this Mint nonsense.”
“Perfectly fine, sir. Black in six. Anything else, sir?”
“Yes. First, I’ll need a report prepared on the current battle stating the security situation and our immediate need for troops and materiel. We’ll need the reserves in Arda to be transferred here immediately so we can begin preparations to arm the town. We’ll also be needing engineers to put up some fortifications--the western wall could use some touching up-and gun placements. Sargasso is to be a key town for a northern campaign and we’ll need all the firepower we can get to make sure it stays that way, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, sir. Shall I address it to anyone in particular?”
“Indeed. Browning’s office. Try to make it look like it’s his idea, he’s argued it before though he won’t admit it. Damned numbskulls in Arletine won’t take orders from anyone short of His Majesty’s poodle. Bureaucrats and their cliques, blackguards one and all! We must have those divisions or we won’t be able to fend off another attack when the time comes. Maker knows those bastards won’t spare us an inch.
“On second thought, produce a copy for the Home Secretary. Perhaps some added pressure will make them pliant. Impress upon him the urgency of the matter, with any luck I’m sure they’d come to their senses. Second, I’ll need logistics to secure our communications to the south and begin preparations for transport. We’ll need a telegraph running through Arda and Aretino as soon as possible so we can coordinate the construction of a depot here in Sargasso. Finally, I need a letter composed addressing General Sorrel of the Silmerian 4th so we can begin negotiations. After-”
“Sorrel is dead, sir.”
“Come again?”
“Sorrel was killed in battle, sir, or at least that is what reports have claimed. His body has not yet been identified but we have teams going through the refuse to confirm.”
“Well that’s wonderful news! Address it to whoever is the next in command. Erm, who might that be?”
“Colonel Arnaud Boussiere, decorated twice for bravery. Velvet cross, Order of St. Aletha.”
“Ah, a field man! Tough, unyielding--a born leader no doubt. Most importantly, one without experience in negotiations. Tell Mr. Boussiere we will be expecting him. Impress upon him the urgency of the matter. Oh and treat the poor chap kindly. Perhaps some of that cured meat we’ve been saving. Do we have those? Ah, very good! Maker knows some civilization will do us all some good.”
“Shall I contact the officers for a debriefing, sir?”
“No need. Not until tomorrow when negotiations have concluded.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“No, no. That will be all.”
“Requesting dismissal, sir.”
“Granted. Oh, and contact Colonel Clairaut. I would like a word with him.”