Completed [LP] Bleed for your Kingdom, officer! Codex plays Guns of Infinity

[Major_Blackhart]

1

 

[Reinhardt]

2. Never liked him.

 

[LordTryhard]

2. Never liked him.

Found the heretic.

 

[Lithium Flower]

You turn to Lord Renard. "Convey to Captain Garret that it is my will that he take his squadron and ride to the assistance of First Battalion, 5th of Foot," you command.

Your Lieutenant only pauses long enough to snap off a quick salute before putting spurs to his horse, closing the few dozen paces to where Garret and Fourth Squadron await with an almost over-hasty enthusiasm. With the immediate matter taken care of, you turn back to find the younger of the two brothers still waiting next to you, his reins grasped in white-knuckled hands.

"If there is to be nothing else, Cornet, you may return to brigade headquarters," you tell him. Send my regards to His Grace."

The young man—a boy, really—bobs his head up and down with a frantic desperation to escape your gaze. "Yes sir! Of course, sir!" He begins to turn his horse, a task made substantially harder by the way that his hands shake with nerves.

"Oh, and Cornet?" you call out with as much friendliness as you can. Despite your efforts, the young subaltern freezes as if he had been speared in the back.

He turns towards you again, his lip practically trembling. "Yes sir?"

"There's no need to be frightened of me. I was in your place not so long ago, and I do not think I have grown any more terrible since then," you confide. "Though I did remember to salute superior officers, even then," you add, with a quick grin to soften the blow.

"Yes sir! Of course, sir!" he all but blurts out, his hand snapping to the brim of his helmet in a brittle salute.

You return it with an intentional languidness. "Carry on."

The Cornet barely waits until the words are out of your mouth before bolting, a look of stark terror on his face. You could not imagine that you had ever been that jittery, though perhaps that is only because your memories have been edited to a more pleasing shape by hindsight.

-

"Gentlemen! The Antari have offered us a dance!" announces a voice from your left, carefully pitched to carry over the background noise of the battle. You turn in time to see Captain Garret drawing his sabre. "It would be damned rude to refuse, would it not?"

His squadron replies with a round of laughter of that strange sort driven half by nerves and half by genuine amusement. "Damned rude, sir!" one man shouts back with an informality that few other officers would have tolerated.

"Then it's time to show 'em what we can do!" Garret declares with a jovial ease. "Squadron! At the trot! Advance!"

With that, Fourth Squadron begins to lurch forward, settling into the trot by fits and starts as the inexperienced riders jostle their mounts into motion. They are not the best-drilled of men, but within a few seconds, they manage to get themselves all going in the same direction, into the powder-fog.

You watch your men disappear into the smoke with a head full of errant thoughts.

For so much of your career, you have fought at the head of your men, leading them into a battle where you would share their risks and their victories. As the commander of a patrol, a troop, even a squadron, you were where your men were. Even when you stormed Kharangia, you had fought alongside a part of your command.

Now, you are to simply look on as dragoons under your command ride off on your orders, while you are left behind, perched upon your unmoving saddle.

1) It's not right; I should be going myself.
2) I suppose this is the price of high command.
3) I actually prefer this; it puts my neck in rather less danger.

Personal Information

As of the Spring of the 611th year of the Old Imperial Era.

Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 23
Rank: Lieutenant-colonel (Brevet)

Wealth: 304
Income: 15

Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 20%
Health: 65%

Idealism: 67%; Cynicism: 33%
Ruthlessness: 39%; Mercy: 61%

You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.

You have no decorations as of yet.

Unit Information

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes

Discipline: 39%
Morale: 44%
Loyalty: 46%
Strength: 82%

 

[Tigranes]

3. As we become promoted, it is high time we became more corrupt and self-serving. Tis the way of the world.

 

[Kalarion]

2

 

[Grimgravy]

2

 

[ERYFKRAD]

1

 

[Major_Blackhart]

1. We crave the action, the violence. This is truly boring.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

3. As we become promoted, it is high time we became more corrupt and self-serving. Tis the way of the world.

This is how you get a desk job. Do you want a desk job, sir?

 

[Reinhardt]

1. We have cool armor.

 

[baud]

2

 

[Lithium Flower]

You know that it is what the service requires of you. Lieutenant-colonels cannot follow the movements of every detachment under their command. You must remain behind and coordinate the rest of your command, not hare off at the head of single squadrons.

Still, there is a hollowness, a certain wrongness to it. For all of your career as an officer, you have been able to justify your authority based on the fact that ordering your men into danger meant ordering yourself into danger. Yet now?

Now things have changed; you might well send men to their deaths while remaining in perfect safety—no, not might, must, for it seems to you the very essence of high command, to give orders and wait in near-complete security, knowing that even as you sit, your men are dying for the sake of your decisions.

So this is what Cunaris must feel like every day.

No wonder he always seems so full of melancholy.

-

There is no sign of Garret's squadron now. Even the dark outlines of its men and horses have been swallowed up by the battle, the sound of their hooves and the jangling of their equipment drowned out by the dull cacophony.

For a second, you think you hear the distinct rattle of Dragoon carbines firing in volley far ahead, but for all you know, it could have simply been the rifles of the Experimentals or a trick of your mind; your brain letting you hear what you want to hear over the background noise of battle.

You strain your ears to see if you can hear it again, in the hopes that the source of the sound was something more tangible, but you get nothing but the dull pops of musketry and the throaty booms of cannon, sounds which have long since gotten used to.

It is not until the thought crosses your mind that you realise that you have gotten used to it; the crack of musketry, the boom of cannon, so terrifying to most, to you as mundane as the rattle of a waggon wheel. You have been at war for a substantial portion of your life, and you have gotten used to a great many things: the sounds of battle, long spells on horseback, sleeping in the cold, the comforting weight of your helmet and sabre…

When you first began your service in the King's Army, all of those things had been so foreign to you. When the war ends, will you find your old life just as strange?

That is a thought you ponder for some time as you tune out the sounds of battle to which you have grown so accustomed.

You are not sure you come to a satisfactory answer.

-

It is the sound of fresh hoofbeats that brings you back to the here and now, not from ahead but from behind you; another young galloper from brigade headquarters.

Only this officer is obviously not a member of Cunaris's staff. His horse rides up lathered and blown, its grey flanks splattered with mud. Its rider is in no less ragged a state, his face stained with black splotches, two bullet holes showing prominently upon his parti-coloured Highlander cloak, and carrying with him the reek of death and spent powder.

"Begging your pardon, sir, I come from the young Havenport by way of brigade headquarters," he reports hurriedly, greeting you with only the most cursory of salutes.

Not 'His Grace' but 'the young Havenport.' That could only mean one man. "Is there trouble?" you ask, concern for your friend lending your voice no small urgency. "Is Lord Marcus all right?"

The young Highlander officer nods wearily. "Aye, but 'tis hard going; the Antari have gotten some of their light horse across and are now using them to harass our flank companies. Young Havenport requests a squadron of Dragoons to drive them off."

1) I'll send Garret and Fourth Squadron to the Highlanders' aid.
2) Cazarosta and Third Squadron should suffice to give the Highlanders a hand.
3) The Highlanders will have to make do; nobody can be spared.
4) I'll lead my own squadron in.

Personal Information

As of the Spring of the 611th year of the Old Imperial Era.

Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 23
Rank: Lieutenant-colonel (Brevet)

Wealth: 304
Income: 15

Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 20%
Health: 65%

Idealism: 68%; Cynicism: 32%
Ruthlessness: 39%; Mercy: 61%

You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.

You have no decorations as of yet.

Unit Information

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes

Discipline: 39%
Morale: 44%
Loyalty: 46%
Strength: 82%

 

[ERYFKRAD]

4

 

[Reinhardt]

2. I'm still hoping he will die.

 

[Grimgravy]

2

 

[Kalarion]

3. We're spreading ourselves thin and we still haven't hit the main effort of the fight. Need to be ready.

 

[baud]

4 Let's get some exercise!

 

[Major_Blackhart]

2

 

[LordTryhard]

2

 

[Lithium Flower]

Probably shouldn't slow down this close to the end, huh? Kind of anti-climactic.

Cazarosta and Third Squadron should suffice to give the Highlanders a hand.

You turn to your senior Lieutenant. "Sandoral, you are to go to Lieutenant Cazarosta and tell him to take his squadron forward, make contact with Lieutenant-colonel Havenport of the Highlanders, and render what aid he sees fit," you command. "Having done so, you are to return directly to me, understood?"

Your subordinate nods eagerly in reply. "Of course, sir."

Without wasting a second, you turn to the battered Highlander officer. "Sir, I must oblige you to accompany Third Squadron, so that you may show them the way to your battalion's opposition."

The Kentauri officer cannot hide the weariness of his countenance as he is faced with the prospect of riding back into the fray, but he is not without enthusiasm, either. "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."

You nod back in acknowledgement. "Saints go with you, gentlemen!"

Without further delay, the two junior officers give parting salutes and turn their horses away, spurring them towards the position to your left where Cazarosta sits at the head of his band of veterans, great in ability but small in number.

You can only hope that they will be numerous enough.

-

"Squadron!" comes a command from your right. You see Cazarosta as he sits in his horse next to the Highlander officer. The deathborn draws his curious guardless sabre and raises it high over his head. "You know what is expected of you?" he shouts.

"Sir! Yes sir!" comes the shouted reply from the assembled ranks of his men, without hesitation, half a hundred voices chorusing in perfect unison.

"Very good!" comes the reply. "Squadron!" The deathborn twirls his blade over his head so that it catches silver in the grey light. "At the trot! Advance!"

With that, Third Squadron leaps into movement, the entire assemblage of men and horses snapping forward at a pace halfway between walk and gallop, riding forth with perfect discipline into the powder-fog.

-

You watch for a short eternity as your dragoons disappear into the grey haze. For seconds stretched out into hours, your eyes follow the retreating shapes of men and horses as they fade into dark outlines, then into nothing.

For long moments afterwards, you peer into the battle fog, eyes and ears desperate for some sound that is not the now-ubiquitous rattle of musketry and boom of cannon, some sight that is not the dirty veil of the powder-smoke and the dark shapes of the guns before you. Shouts of victory, shapes of men in retreat, a rider from brigade, anything that might enlighten you as to the state of the battle.

For what seems like half a day, you wait. Your watch tells you it is not yet nine o'clock.

It is that piece of intelligence which sends a surge of fresh worry through your head; the morning is not yet half done, and already you have committed two-thirds of your regiment.

You try to reassure yourself: perhaps the battle's course is nearly run already. Perhaps even at this moment, the Antari foot are faltering under the weight of Tierran musketry, their horse already scattered by your guns. Perhaps the hour of crisis has already passed, and in committing your men when they were needed, you have done your work already, the positive result of your eagerness to send forward your dragoons, hidden to you only by the obscuring veil of the powder-fog.

Yet it is that same powder-fog that might hide a rather different picture: two armies locked in an endurance match, pummelling each other, refusing to yield, each prepared to contest the field until nightfall demands disengagement, only hoping that the other side shall run out of reserves before they.

What then? Have you so rashly squandered your men by sending them out this early? Will some moment of crisis hours hence find you without men to meet it? Has your rashness already brought your brigade and the whole of the Tierran force on the course to destruction?

Have you already doomed the King's Army?

You peer into the fog with a renewed vigour, looking for some sign, any sign of the tides of battle, willing to the Saints that the wind would rise and the smoky veil shift.

-

It is not a moment later that you feel a fresh gust of spring air upon your neck, that the wool of your tunic begins to pull and billow, that the powder-smoke begins to bestir itself, lifted by the blustering howl of a rising wind.

Perhaps the Saints were listening.

Bit by bit, the grey haze is torn away by the sudden wind, its smoky tendrils receding like an army of fog being driven into the sea, revealing more and more of the field in its wake.

Before long, you can see all the way to the masts of the fleet anchored in Kharangia's harbour, to the tops of HMS Rendower, where the King's banner flies from the mainmast, lifted into its full glory by the rippling wind.

That is not to say that the wind has rendered the field entirely clear. Great columns of haze still rise from the gun batteries and the entrenchments at the river crossings, where the shadowy outlines of infantry battalions spit volleys into the enemy infantry, a rippling storm of fire and lead birthing fresh masses of powder-smoke like the burning edge of some immense thundercloud, lit not by lightning but the fire of ten thousand infantry muskets.

Yet for all of the awe-inspiring fury of the Tierran infantry's defence, it does not seem to be enough. Beyond the smouldering blocks of line infantry, you see fresh columns of Antari advancing in ever-greater numbers. With them are mixed companies of Church Hussars, bane-runed sabres gleaming in the filthy sunlight as they splash across the river, piling in with the enthusiasm of men on the verge of victory.

And they are; at two points along the centre, you can already see the ranks of powder-stained orange begin to give way. One distant company of men fall back out of the smoke in good order, bayonets fixed as they are beset by a pursuing swarm of enemy horse. Closer to your position, you see the whole of the 13th of Foot being pushed out of their entrenchments bit by bit by an immense mob of Antari peasantry.

A dire sight, but all is not yet lost. Havenport's reserve brigades are already springing forward to close up the gaps. In the distance, you see the rag-tag array of sailors and marines that is Havoc Matheson's Naval Brigade rush into the fray. Closer to your position, Viscount Weir's five battalions of Line Infantry march at the double-time towards the beleaguered crossings.

Within minutes, the Antari are pushed back to the river, but that is no excuse to breathe easy. Now, the King's Army has no more brigades in reserve. Should Prince Khorobirit manage to break through again, then Havenport will have no fresh regiments with which to stop them. The Tierran infantry teeters on the brink of collapse.

Yet for all the precariousness of the situation on your left, it is nothing compared to what you see when you look to your right. It is a sight fit to send a bolt of fear rattling down your spine, for at the very far side of the shallow river bend that anchors the Tierran flank, a column of Antari light horse are making their way across the river, along a crossing not on any of the maps, a crossing whose defence was not assigned to any unit of the Tierran Army.

The Antari light horse splash across the River Kharan. No musketry meets them, no cannon fire, no resistance whatsoever. Within a minute, they will be on the near bank of the Kharan and in a position to outflank the whole Tierran line.

-

Through your field glass, you watch the first of the Antari horsemen splash out of the water and onto the muddy riverbank. Even from the distance of a kilometre and a half away, you can see him raise his sabre in triumph as he spurs his mount forward, his comrades close behind, towards the low ridge that is the only thing separating him from Cunaris's brigade headquarters.

It is not until he tumbles from the saddle and strikes the ground that you hear the first sharp crack of rifle fire.

Suddenly, the brush-covered slopes of the ridge erupt in smoke as the dark shapes of the Experimental Corps, almost invisible in their green jackets, let loose in a precisely aimed fusillade. The leading parties of the Antari horse tumble to the ground in rapid succession, leaving their panicking mounts fleeing in all directions.

You find yourself smiling despite yourself as you watch the two hundred Experimentals pour fire into the enemy horse from their concealed positions. Dishonourable as their mode of fighting might be, it may have just saved the army.

Harried and cut down by the dozens by accurate fire from men they cannot see, the Antari flanking force falter, turn, and begin to fall back across the river.

From behind, you see the rise of a bright red streak into the mottled grey sky, its passage marked by a high whistle, a sharp addition to the rattle of muskets and the beat of field guns.

Then, it is all drowned out, rocket, musketry, and field artillery alike, by a thunder that seems to shake the very essence of creation.

-

Your ears begin ringing as the rolling thunder grows only stronger. The very air seems to tremble and waver before your eyes as you turn your field telescope towards the source.

You find it anchored in long rows along the sheltered waters of Kharangia's harbour: the massed floating fortresses of the Northern Fleet's line of battle, their broadsides wreathed in billowing rows of smoke as their heavy naval guns spit fire and fury and heavy shot at the Antari flank.

The spectacle cannot help but leave you slack-jawed. You have seen and heard cannon fire before in your decade as a soldier, but even the grandest batteries of land-based artillery are nothing compared to the terrific volleys of shot which now roar across the battlefield. The HMS Rendower alone carries more guns than the Duke of Wulfram had even brought to Blogia, each heavier than any field piece in the King's Army.

Now, no less than half of them are firing in unison, not as a lone battery but in concert with no less than a dozen other heavy warships of the battle-line, with each ship down the line unleashing the full might of their broadsides upon the far flank of the Antari, one after the other.

Even from nearly ten kilometres away, you can see quite well that the effect upon the enemy is terrible. Firing from unsteady floating gundecks, the Northern Fleet's broadsides land without precision or accuracy, but against a target as large as Prince Khorobirit's army, neither are hardly needed. No matter where they fly, every shot seems to find its mark, ploughing into the distant masses of Antari peasantry and sending up showers of dirt, stone, and broken bodies as they strike home.

By the time the last ship in the line fires, the ringing in your ears is so loud that the report of its guns come to you only as a dull pain. The Antari flank is in shreds, those of its number not dead or dying already milling about in confusion and terror or rushing away from the coast, fleeing from the pitiless mouths of the killing guns.

Then, from the brush-obscured shadow of the coast, they ride up out of the smoke and onto the field. Even from so far away, you can pick them out as they form up in their triangular formations, squadron after squadron of white-coated lancers, cuirassiers resplendent in breastplate and helmet, line cavalry with their straight-bladed broadswords on their shoulders. All of them press forward, lances couched and blades held high as they push their mounts first into a trot, then into full gallop as they charge home into Prince Khorobirit's disorganised flank.

Your heart lifts at the sight. At Blogia, it had been the defeat of the Tierran cavalry which had signalled the loss of the battle. Here at Kharangia, it shall be the charge of that same Tierran cavalry which is to bring victory.

-

When the leading squadrons of the cavalry brigade reach the Antari flank, they do not so much make contact with it as they simply overrun it. The forward formations of onrushing men and horses plough into the mass of enemy foot with ease. Surprised and disordered, the mob of peasant infantrymen offer little more resistance than a field of wheat, more concerned with escaping the path of the charging regiments of horse than offering any resistance.

Far in the distance, you see the Antari cannon fire at the new threat, a desperate attempt to stem the tide. It does little good; more of Khorobirit's hastily aimed shot plunges into the retreating streams of his own men than the fast-advancing formations of your fellow Tierran cavalrymen.

Within moments, the far flank of the Antari army is in the process of disintegration. Masses of poorly drilled peasant soldiers fling their weapons away and flee in all directions, animated by a panick that even seems to infect Khorobirit's better-ordered line infantry. Only the Church Hussars and the enemy foot still engaged at the river crossings do not begin to flee, concerned more by the enemy before them than the enemy that now drives hard from their rear.

The enemy's centre is little better ordered, for even here do the homespun-clad levies begin to follow the cues of their fellows on the far flank, falling back. Only the handful of Khorobirit's line infantry hold the centre now, but unlike their already-fleeing counterparts, they seem to be wheeling about to make a fight of it, interposing themselves between the quickly advancing regiments of Palliser's brigade and the men still engaged at the central river crossings.

It is only on the near flank, directly in front of your own position and furthest away from the cavalry brigade, that the Antari seem to react with any kind of real vigour, for instead of falling back, the nearest portion of Khorobirit's army presses forward, in one last glorious grasp at victory. The peasant levies press into the Highlanders with renewed vigour, but a far greater threat comes from further to the right. There, the three remaining line infantry battalions have formed up into a gigantic column, two companies wide and nine deep. They march across the Kharan with muskets shouldered and colours fluttering in the blustering wind, their boots splashing into shallow water to the beat of rattling kettle drums, every step bringing them closer to the shore where the exhausted Second Battalion of the 5th of Foot awaits them.

Yet that is not the worst of it.

For even further to the right, at the crossing where the Experimentals had first repulsed the enemy's flanking attack, the Antari have returned. This time it is not light cavalry which bears down upon the scattered contingent of green-jacketed skirmishers, but hundreds of Church Hussars, their armour glittering in the morning sun.

-

You hear from behind you the rising sound of hooves drumming rapidly against the packed turf. You turn in time to almost find yourself bowled over by the rearing horse of a Dragoon subaltern: Lord Renard's younger brother Laurent, his face as pale as a Takaran's in stark terror.

"Sir!" he exclaims, his hand shaking as he forms a hasty salute. No time for 'His Grace's compliments' now. Now, he points frantically to the front, where two thousand expertly drilled Antari infantry are about to collide with the Second battalion of the 5th. "Sir! Do you—"

"I see it, sir!" you reply.

The adolescent Cornet nods shakily before shifting his hand to where a solid column of Church Hussars now splashes across the Kharan towards Reyes's Experimentals. "And the oth—"

"I see it, sir," you reply, trying your best to keep your impatience down. "What is to be done?"

"It is His Grace's will that you commit all forces under your command to reinforce the threatened crossings," replies Cunaris's younger son, voice quavering. "He gives you full discretion over the deployment of your forces."

1) "Excellent! I have sat here uselessly long enough!"
2) "Am I to deploy all of my forces? Are things so dire?"
3) "I had hoped it would not come to this."


Personal Information

As of the Spring of the 611th year of the Old Imperial Era.

Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 23
Rank: Lieutenant-colonel (Brevet)

Wealth: 304
Income: 15

Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 20%
Health: 65%

Idealism: 68%; Cynicism: 32%
Ruthlessness: 39%; Mercy: 61%

You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.

You have no decorations as of yet.

Unit Information

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes

Discipline: 39%
Morale: 44%
Loyalty: 46%
Strength: 82%

 

[ERYFKRAD]

1

 

[Grimgravy]

1

 

[Major_Blackhart]

1

 

[Reinhardt]

1.