Chapter 2
Heedless of their Fate
With the ample provision by the town's Mayor, the General’s Quarters in the town hall were neatly furbished with all the comforts becoming of a gentleman. Fine upholstery, and sturdy desks arrayed the office from wall to wall, while silver, fine linen, and requisite accommodations and accoutrements added form to function in every room. To complete the touch of gentlemanly ease, portraits of the good Monseiur Mayor and his esteemed predecessors lined the hallway leading to the office. Here, between the odd stack of paperwork and the necessary map, the general was to entertain his guest to discuss beforehand the terms they were to bargain with the enemy commander. While waiting, the general took out a file that sat on his desk and moved a chair toward the balcony.
Of all his field offices, this was the best. Being within Dacian borders, supplies were easy to move and for once they got the general’s wishes right. But it was here, by the balcony on the upper floor of the Town Hall, where he could get a full view of the town and the outlying terrain, that the general spent his evenings.
He looked down onto the streets and admired its peace. It was empty save for a lone street sweeper. Though inwardly joyous, the people of Sargasso celebrated the victory with a good night’s sleep, the tension and fear having been lifted after days of waiting. Tired from his work, the man stretched his arms, looked up, and saw the general. The man saluted and smiled. The General smiled back.
Pulling up the chair, he sat at the balcony window. The moon had colored the hills and forests a soft purple and grey while the wind carried the rustling of the trees. Mayhew looked out to the hills to the north where the battle raged and ended. He could only imagine it: the field strewn with corpses where the odd lantern lingered like a spirit among the dead. Inwardly, he saluted the men who had died protecting his homeland and thought yes some things are worth dying for. He was proud to be a Dacian.
He opened up the file and realized that it was a digest from the week before. One of the things he demanded be part of the transport detail was the latest copy of the Times. The general insisted on being updated on the news and every week a packet of broadsheets was delivered to his office as soon as the detail arrived. Upon reaching there it was sifted by Major Albright for news on major headings to be presented in a file for the general's consumption at seven the following day. He had originally decided to read the news for the latest but decided to review the events of the week before. Of this selection, two headlines stood out: the re-capture of a province once occupied by the Silmerian Empire and the transfer of five Rosalian Divisions in anticipation of an attack from the Parnasses.
General Mayhew looked out the balcony again. A little to the west of there, hugging the forest was the Rosalian camp. There, just outside the town, they made do with what little shelter was available to them, there being no further room for the soldiers but only offices for files and rooms for officers, this offered as a courtesy and this courtesy politely refused. Instead, they requested to turn these buildings into sanatoriums for their wounded and for Dacian doctors to attend to them. The request was promptly effected.
A minor outpost to the north, Sargasso was one of many interlocking towns through which reserves were passed and deployed. The town itself lay at the at the very center of a road network straddling the length of the Parnassus, a mountain range stretching across the Northern border of Rosalia and thereby central to the movement of any army wishing to traverse the Peninsula. As a Military District, the Sargasso valley was manned by recruits drawn from the nearby provinces. In time of war the garrison towns of Sargasso, Arda and Aretino served as rallying points for both militia and army stationed in the region. Though by no means small, with only four regiments of the line and two regiments of the reserve--in all four of infantry, two of horse--with neither group at full strength, and about forty guns in varying weights not counting the town’s own gun placements, the garrison was meagre considering that they were at war--a notion preposterous to the General.
Thanks to a treaty with the Duke of Montferrat that secured his Estate's neutrality, Alliance command determined that the town was of low priority far from the fighting and was manned only so that it could defend itself long enough for reinforcements to arrive. The defense of the north was to be left, as mission command insisted, to the “concentration of reserves upon their conjunction in predetermined areas through strategic withdrawal from non-key locations." In other words, in the event that said reinforcements do not arrive, the towns were to be abandoned.
"Madness!” cried Mayhew to his colleagues at the Arletine, the nerve center of the Alliance military. “One does not solve such problems by burying one’s head in the sand!” Lord Mayhew knew well the enemy they were dealing with. In the last war a decade ago he saw first-hand the ferocity with which the dread irregulars prosecuted their campaigns. Of them all the most terrifying were the Ayavskayan riders. Though merely irregulars, roughly cloaked and armed with old rifles and rusted sabres, they were the terror of the Silmerian military. They were hardened, treacherous and could move through difficult terrain with such speed as was beyond the imagination of a civilized man. Meagre garrisons, he argued, would simply fall to them. We must defend the north, the general insisted, “they will make an attack there, I am sure of it. They have taken to fort just north of the Western Gate of Parnassus. This suggests that they are planning an attack through the wastelands and would likely move south to target the alliance command center there and threaten the capital.”
On the table was a raised sheet of glass from which a scale topographical display composed entirely of light hung in low relief upon the air, depicting the Rosalian Peninsula. At attendance were the leaders of the Rosalian Alliance, and having met early without breaking fast were ill-disposed toward one another. They were arranged around the table as they argued, their voices a shrill cacophony against the early moring calm, with some standing, some sitting, some smoking cigars, the air a dyspeptic constipant punctuated by the occasional cough.
Counters made of arcane light hovered slightly above the sheet, navigating the terrain according to the presenter's instructions. On order the map would shift noiselessly as the display conformed to the topography.
"The general sees danger everywhere", Sibelius Anatole, Field Marshal of the Creoniste forces, replied, “the Western Gate is a well-guarded pass protected by forts and several, well-known, patrol routes. Need I remind you as well that we are protected in that direction by our agreement with the Duke of Montferrat? No less by their pledge of neutrality to the international community?" He was confident in the scheme: it was a commitment of his own devising and the issue was a matter of pride. The Montanistes, the citizens of Montferrat, would never countenance a violation of their rights, much less betrayal. It was Fides he said. His Lordship would be damned to have a sacred agreement fall through.
"Unconvincing," Mayhew retorted. Mayhew took note of the Marshal's grave theatrical air as he described his straightforward but unimaginative policy. He stated his distaste out loud, to the great consternation of the assembly, "the forces of war recognize no higher power than the temple of Force. If not through the Gate,” he asserted, sneering pointedly at the gilded Marshal sneering back in his chestful of medals, then through the mountains.
The Marshal scoffed, "The Parnassus is a cold, desolate land littered with sheer cliffs, bandits and Maker knows what else! Any enemy meaning to pass there is merely courting suicide. Communications will be stretched, supply will be nearly impossible, security along poorly mapped mountain passes alone are a logistical nightmare--it is devoid of sense! Better to focus on the palpable than to worry about ghosts." The Court was only interested in the rich Silmerian mining towns to the east than it was about illusory threats. This, they said, is the key, their hallowed center of gravity.
Marshal Collins, Mayhew's elder and superior in the Dacian military raised an aged hand and beckoned the assembly to silence. He was seated at the head of the table alongside the other venerables, smoking a pipe. Hearing his voice, the attendees fell quiet. Holding his pipe in one hand he signaled the operator to start the machine. It was better, he said, if they began at the beginning.
Ponderous Silmeria, with its armies arrayed all around them, lay far across the forbidding Parnassus, a mountain range running along the Peninsula's northern border. At either end lay the Parnassus Corridors, known popularly as the Gates, which guarded the two main entries to the Viceroyalty. To the west, neutral nations created a corridor that barred entry to the province, while the East was barred by the Vasa, rivals of the Dacians and leader of the Rosalian Dukes still loyal to Silmeria.
As this was being said, the light shifted tone and high mountains arose from the void, creating a barrier at the head of the table. Two valleys punctuated the wall, lined with fortifications and two roads on each side. A rail passed through the center, the train billowing holographic steam into the air.
The Gates have always been the focus of Rosalian foreign policy--and Dacia more so than others. Of the many powers guarding Her independence, it fell on Dacia to guard the Rosalias the most, straddling as the province did both corridors and therefore the great landward thoroughfares of les Rosalias Vieux. The most sensible strategy, the Marshal insisted, involved knocking the Vasas out of the war as quickly as possible before linking up through the Eastern Gate with Latia.
“What is at stake here is not whether the fight will take place at the Western or the Eastern Gate but whether our alliance will stay taut.” What was needed was for an envelopment of all Vasa positions by the collected Resistance forces in a rapid march toward their Capital. “Nothing less than the total mobilization of the Rosalian Peninsula would work and to organize it, and total control of the Military must be placed beneath the Banners of Creon due to their seniority. The alliance commitments would be based on that fact alone, the Gates be damned.”
The generals of the minor Houses demurred. Yes, they said, total mobilization of the Peninsula was beyond doubt but placing the control of the military machine beneath Creon command was out of the question. It was a question of Prestige. They would not surrender control to the Creons at any cost.
"It is unbecoming of Rosalian officers", Collins replied, "to argue against the basic principle of unity of command. Creon can have the presidency of the effort but the Generals will have the command." It was not a fight, he said, for bitter spoils but the liberty of the Estates. How would, he argued, the war be remembered by posterity were it to bog down before it was fought? "Not very well, surely."
It was his age and esteem that had an effect on the audience but it was also that was also the muted applause of the Minister Plenipotentiary of Rosalia that did them in. "Bravo," the Rosalian Minister said, "it doesn't pay to fight against principles." With three of the four Grand Estates supporting Creon, the minor Estates had to toe the line. There was not much question of resistance to begin with.
"Are we agreed, then, that Creon will have the presidency?" Collins asked. There was a General murmur of assent.
There was something else, however, Mayhew noticed, a quick wavering of the Marshal's expression, which had softened from granite to a mild chisel, that caught his attention. It occurred to him that the greatest difficulty was not so much the planning as the plea for cooperation amongst squabbling minds. Catching the hint, he turned to their guests.
The civilian representatives were seated on a raised platform arranged in two rows around the table, all silent and at attention. The debate had subtly become hostile as the Generals then negotiated their respective commitments to the war effort. There was the inevitable tension between men of power unaccustomed to cooperation but for the tacit acknowledgement that they were fighting for a war, first for for survival and then for liberation. They were all smiles and blank faces--Dacia, as always, will take up the brunt. They would have no presidency now and their prestige would not be satisfied but they need not fight the war so strenouously. They’ll do what’s right, nevermind the young General. That’s the ticket, Old Dacia will save us--It is tradition. Mayhew almost spat before he caught himself.
The air was thick with smoke, and agitated whispers punctuated the discussion. Several were in favor of full deployment and used their influence to pressure their colleagues into commitment, while others were concerned about allotment for homeland defense. The debate centered around two men, Marshal Anatole and General Mayhew, the latter having the silent approval of the Particularistes.
Fools, Mayhew told himself. He was no hero to these men. Although fully aware of the need for a unified policy, his argument was grounded in his knowledge of his homeland's important role in the war policy. He wanted no part in the selfish aspirations of his Allies. Had it not been so, he would have argued otherwise.
Anatole led the discussion. Nodding to the operator, he began his presentation. “The plan that had been agreed upon is to make two successive strikes in the east: first to quash the threat presented by the Vasas and then to link up with Latia.”
The counters depicted a cloud of counters meeting along the eastern valley, with one cloud disappearing to depict the defeat of the Vasa forces
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“The Vasas, as you all very well know, are the leaders of the Dissenters,” The Dissenters were the Rosalian dukedoms that had rejected the Declaration of Independence and joined forces with Silmeria, “crushing them will provide us an outlet for the army to move through while in the second phase our goal to link up their forces with the Latians north of the eastern Gate in order to make a North-by-Northwest swing into the SIlmerian heartland and toward the Silmerian capital, hinging upon the crook of the mountain range's eastern Gate.”
The counters moved into position according to Anatole’s instructions. A cloud of counters appeared east of the mountain as the topography telescoped to conform to widening of the terrain. Two clouds of counters met East of the ridge and began to crash into one another, depicting a heated battle. Meanwhile another set of counters south of the ridge floated across the mountain and began to release smaller counters, depicting an aerial transport.
“As the operation develops, the Rosalians will move their Airship Flotilla across the mountains in order to secure their communications and supply via a crucial aerial route. They will land their army due west of our line of operations and link up with us for a flanking attack. We expect Aerial resistance en route but with enough speed, we should be able to force the battle North of the Parnassus.”
Anatole led them further into the web, “Once we develop the attack on their center, the Latians will swing North to threaten their capital while another army, led by the Rosalians, are to attack in concert to join their forces there and engage the enemy. Silmeria must and will defend this in order to prevent their Capital's annexation"
The counters glided into place, depicting a surrounded Silmerian Army.
“At this point, we expect to bring the Silmerians to battle on one of these points and then throw their armies upon the Parnassus towards the waiting Rosalians.” Addressing Mayhew, Anatole sneered, "The problem of the Western Gate thus solves itself. Through a durable threat to their capital, we can draw troops away from the West into our lines. We cannot devote units elsewhere."
Mayhew differed, "And what of their fortifications? Without a sizable force defending the Western Gate we may very well expect an attack from that direction, troops drawn or no. No less that unguarded routes present a greater temptation to those who have the means to take it."
“Preposterous!” the Marshal scoffed, “Do you also mean to say that they would break convention and make war with Lorraine in the North? An attack on Aetolia and Montferrat will open up a second front! I would not daresay the enemy weak but another front in the middle of the war is something even they cannot afford."
The Marshal amplified on his observations. "Nevertheless, should the alliance fail to take the eastern gate, no attack would be possible. Not for Creon, not for the Rosalians, with or without their ships, and certainly not for the Dacians." Anatole patted off sweat and straightened his medals, “to achieve the speed and security that the camapign needs, all forces must be devoted to a single offensive and a single policy. When we have secured the first phase of operations, then we can consider separate fronts. The Alliance cannot devote more units elsewhere.”
"And yet the possibility is anything but benign." Mayhew paused for effect “There are reports,” he continued, "that the Silmerians are beginning to put up earthworks along the western edge of the SIlmerian heartland. The visible build-up of field fortifications indicate an increase in troop concentrations and an increase in movement to and from the frontier.” This buildup, he asserted, suggested one of two things: either the Silmerians had an interest in either the relocation of their own troops or the prevention of Alliance troops from massing in that direction. Taking either case implies that interest in this region is justified. "An attack through the western gate would catch us by surprise and a successful attack from this region could threaten our rear at the moment we've completed any attack on the eastern gate."
"A bromide, as you very well know." The Marshal was only acutely aware of this and took offence that he had to be apprised of what he already knew, "the Court is aware of these facts, however our security is dictated by the terms we have concluded with our neighbors. Unless both Silmeria and Montferrat intend to open a multi-pronged war in the area there is no sense expecting an attack from that direction."
Diplomatic spirits cautioned parsimony. “Perhaps they mean to secure it in case of an incursion on our account? The fact that they have taken to fort so easily despite our own effort only proves the difficulty of serving in that terrain. No argument is necessary. All that needs to be done is for us to wait it out. If ever they do attempt a pass, forces already in the area should be sufficient to take them in detail.”
"Our alliances do not eliminate the possibility of an attack originating from the Gate," Mayhew began, "The Gates have long been and remain a key vulnerability of the Peninsula. At the very least we must provide for the contingency that our Allies may be swept away before we would have any time to respond." Historically, control of the gates had been an important part of Rosalian policy in the days before the Silmerian conquest. “Neglecting their defense is a failure to understand its historical importance.”
“Its historical importance is beside the point. Forces in the area should be sufficient to respond to the Silmerians and the violation of the neutrality of Montferrat will only throw another hundred-thousand strong in their wake."
The Marshal paused, "I tire of this argument especially when we have aught but danced upon a familiar point." Anatole rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Mayhew, listen, if our intelligence is correct--and the good Rosalian gentleman sitting at the dais can vouch for me--there are nearly eight hundred-thousand strong Silmerians waiting to receive our attack. In total we have five hundred-thousand, maybe, not including the Latians. That gives us five more. We must have a unified offensive if any of this will matter and we must throw our weight where the fight hurts the most. We need to accept an exposed rear in order to develop a strong attack. You know this better than most"
The audience was solemn at the thought. They all knew they were outnumbered but instead of throwing their weight upon the attack, they feared they would lose the defense. It wasn't, as it was often said, simply a matter merely of liberation but of survival. It was an admission of weakness to be sure, but the moment's sincerity had its effect. If Rosalia was to be free, they would all have to work together, like it or not--and they hated it as much as they needed it.
But the young general refused to be placed. He spoke slowly. “It has been done before and can be done again. Treaties are only so much paper. A well-suited defensive force of about twenty divisions will be necessary in order to respond to a possible threat. They are well aware of our vulnerability here and this they will exploit. The northerners are not to be underestimated lest they rob us blind! The costs of losing this region are too great and the sanctity of treaties can be ignored!"
"As the man said our neighbors have already expressed their solidarity." Marshal Collins, until then wrapped in a grave silence, intervened to cool Mayhew's nerves. "It would be unthinkable that they would abrogate their pledge when it is the only thing keeping their state intact!"
"And for heaven’s sake," interjected Anatole, "my lord the Duke has pledged to mount a resistance on our behalf in the event that Dissenters do attack us, Maker knows you’re about to argue it. The Court applauds the general’s vast capacity for imagination but we deal in facts not Fantasy.“
“And I applaud the lack in yours!" Mayhew retorted. "A strong defense is the only deterrent to our Allies defecting. A durable threat by the Silmerians North of the western Gate will be a good reason for the Lorraignes and their puppets to bandwagon. This Court was established to address threats and direct offensives wherever necessary. If we ignore the threat in the North we're risk giving the Silmerians a foothold in the region. It will be the first of many waves. With our gate open and the League in their pocket we will be forced into a separate peace or worse! We have more to lose, dammit. And we alone among others!"
Yet there was little discussion thereafter even with all the theatrics. Between the dignitaries present, Mayhew looked for support. He found only disapproval in their eyes, and in some a jaundiced sort of mirth approving the flow but not the substance of the debate. Mayhew could only accept defeat. Concluding thus, the argument ended. But the greater powers at the Court prevailed and Mayhew was consigned to silence.
Almost a year into hostilities, the initial phases of the attack on Silmeria had, for the most part, prospered. The Vasas, seeing no choice for their survival, acquiesced before the alliance and turned coat. What was expected but not believed was that the attack would grind to a halt a few hundred miles into Silmeria. The Silmerian populace, galvanized by what they saw as twilight of their esteemed Empire rose as one against the invaders. Though they would not push the Alliance, their fight would always see resistance come from every direction. A stalemate was, thus, unforseen but inevitable.
No less crucial was the advantage in materiel the Empire possessed. With a half-centuries' lead in Aerodyne Technology the result should have been unsurprising. The Battle of the Central Plains, as it would then be called, would be remembered as a battle for the supremacy of the air no less than of land. With the full panoply of Silmerian industry on show, there was no question of defeat.
As it turns out, the Northerners proved to be the wily, elusive enemies the general considered them to be. Instead of striking the Alliance force directly, they would goad the juggernaut into difficult land then out of nowhere would unleash a swift and brutal attack on their rear or their flanks. They would take little bites out of the whole. Not at all as damaging as one can imagine, but deathly terrifying. Whenever the enemy would respond to their strikes with precision, they scattered. When the enemy scattered in order to expand their control over the field, they concentrated, executing precision strikes at the edges of the battle. They struck at irregular times and irregular places that defied the expectations of field planers. Then, their prey demoralized and terrified, the Silmerians would step in, guns blazing, to claim the day
To be truthful, battle with the Silmerians was not always as one-sided. But as all accounts go, there was a measure of truth in this portrayal of events, and, all things considered, it only goes to show how little the Alliance planners understood the Northerner’s means of making war, combining the treachery of the Ayavskayan riders with the discipline and sheer weight of the Silmerian military. In fact, the “Grand Center”, as the main army was called, had successfully seized the mining towns it set out to obtain. In a mere three weeks, the first of these towns fell with surprising ease. The Dacian military arranged a grand entrance into one of the towns in full dress as a show of force, with trumpets blaring and muskets at the ready. To their great surprise however the town was empty. And not simply vacated either. The entire town was devoid of anything of value, grain, arms and all. Most importantly, the coal they had fought for was missing.
The first response of the commander was one of exhilaration. "If they are retreating with this many supplies then they must be encumbered on the roads! Finally, we shall give the enemy the taste of their own medicine." In the months to follow, the Center was to learn that this would not be the case as arsenals and magazines turned from prize to bait. The Grand Center was soon to fight an intense struggle that would end in stalemate, both sides having sufficient forces to prolong the battle but insufficient ability to throw the other.
***
Lord Mayhew sat in silence as he waited for his guest to arrive. Tea had been served but neither it nor the biscuits were touched. Thoughts lay heavily on him as he reflected back on that day and the victory they had gained. Had it not been for the Rosalians all would have been lost, Dacian discipline or no. They would have been routed and forced to retreat or worse. Thanks to His allies' initiative (not to mention the all too flagrant insubordination), the north had been saved. And by a hair’s breadth no less! "Then again perhaps I’m being too hard on my enemies", Mayhew thought. If they had retreated, who knows what might have happened? It was equally likely that they could have alerted garrisons en route to concentrate sufficient force to at least pin the enemy short of Arda. But that would have meant the forts to the north would have been taken--not that any did fall--no, that’s not right. The general rubbed the bridge of his nose then sighed.
War was a matter of probabilities, not syllogisms. One can’t be sure until after the action. Fortunately all turned out well. For all his fastidiousness, Mayhew was not inclined to view war as an orderly prosecution of affairs like some who profess that it can be fought by some kind of algebra of arms. And yet he would have liked to believe that this victory was the product of the mind of a brilliant officer who had come to the same insight as he. But how we grasp at straws! Perhaps his rivals at the Arletine were right and the North could have been secured according to their recommendations. It was at Altair’s insistence wasn't it--was it? Or had he convinced himself of this?--that they had fought and won. He thought about victory, about defeat, about destiny, his nation’s destiny, this aged ailing thing.
His thoughts were curdling in the mind of the weary general when he spied out of the corner of his eye the dossier of young Colonel Clairaut lying upon his desk. It was he who made this entire thing possible yet he has claimed only responsibility and none of the glory. Strange lad. In the world of politics--and the higher-ranks in the military were for all intents and purposes political positions--self-effacement, very unlike flattery, got you nowhere. Either you fought for your position or you earned it one way or another, sometimes in the shortest time through the most circuitous route. He opened the file.
“Altair Clairaut. Colonel, age 34 Assigned as Military Attache in Paresh, and known to have served the Dey in an unofficial capacity. Assigned to Ayseri, known to have served as an adviser to the Prince as Minister Plenipotentiary of the Rosalian Crown.” known to have, known to have, known to have. What the devil does the boy do? “Some desk jockey, no doubt,” the general mumbled to himself. Ah, here we are, “served as Charge d'Affaires to the Rosalian Delegation the end of the Eastern Crisis. Honored with the Citizen's Cross and the Medaille de la Rose.”
Mayhew smiled knowingly. Having said thus, he drew himself to such a height, then immediately adopted a pose of sublimity. Aside from the numerous known-to-haves, the boy had hardly any military qualifications, let alone any personal history. Anything prior to the list was as good as blank save for a few entries. Graduated with honors from the École Superiure, administrative corps. Promoted to the rank of Captain in the Fin de Siecle war. Served as a clerk in the Ministry of Revenues for about a year and then transferred to the Foreign Ministry. One last entry: “Known to have served in the Gendarmerie as chief intelligence officer." The general would say that sums it up but these were tolerant times he reminded himself.
“Very strange.” the General smiled.
Destiny. Was it destiny that this young upstart arrived in time to rescue Dacia from defeat? No. A man writes his own destiny for a destiny that is by others is a mere resignation to the inevitable. War was about control. Control amidst the changing fortunes of a battle that was at best tenuous. Anything could have happened, convince themselves of their own correctness as they may. Defeat could have happened.
His thoughts fell silent for a moment as he mused upon the caprices of the Shaper. That shouldn’t blind us to the facts. The world is inherently chaotic and war much so, for all the art, science, and strategy we employ. That war or politics or some such should be rational is a mere aversion on our part to be sunk in this horror we’re born in.
The general grinned. “Why, Mayhew, old fox, you’re a philosopher!” He chuckled. While he'd rather have other things in mind, the victory had afforded him some time to reflect and for that he was thankful. "Tomorrow we bargain." Destiny was not written yet!