Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
"We must go forward without him," you breathe. "The Highlanders will need to be reinforced, and we cannot spare the time to look for a single man, even if that man is a lieutenant-colonel. I shall take command."
It is not a decision which will make you much-loved among your fellow officers, least of all your superiors. To seize the initiative in the heat of battle is one thing, but to usurp the command of a superior shall make you look like the most brazen of opportunists.
At the moment, though, your reputation is a secondary concern. Someone must lead the regiment, and with Cazarosta leading the Forlorn Hope, you are the senior officer present.
Your officers and the Colour-sergeant offer no objection, so you press on. "Lieutenant Sandoral, you are to inform Lieutenant Hawkins and Third Squadron of the change in command." The bespectacled officer throws a quick salute and runs off. Next, you turn to the senior enlisted man. "Colour-sergeant Wagar, might I ask who is in charge of First Squadron in Keane's absence?"
"That would be Lieutenant Butler, sir," the Colour-sergeant replies. "I'll have a word with him."
You nod. A 'word' from the Colour-sergeant to a callow lieutenant might well have all the force of an order. "Make note to inform Butler that the new marching order is as follows: Sixth Squadron, Third Squadron, then First Squadron," you add. "Carry on."
A few moments later, both Wagar and Sandoral return with the message that the commanders of both squadrons report themselves ready to advance into battle…
…under your command.
-
Commands are given and relayed by runners to the other columns. The background cacophony of war is broken up by the shouting voices of non-commissioned officers setting the men to attention, then to order, then to movement.
Slowly, you see the shadowy outlines of the columns to your left and right shuffle into action. You hear the rattle of your own squadron as it begins to move out. You feel the earth tremble under the boots of four hundred men, even as the bugles call out and your feet begin to move to the sound of the drums, which out of all the regiments of horse in the King's Army, only the Dragoons possess.
The bubbling, churning shadows of First and Third Squadrons fall behind you as your own men march forward into the open, smoke-clogged ground before Kharangia's walls. They will slot their own columns behind yours, so that any flying eye which might be able to peer through the powder-fog would see a long serpent of grey-green, split into three sections, working its way towards the angular stone mass of the city's fortifications at the steady, slow speed of sixty paces a minute.
You can see the gentle upward curve of the glacis up ahead. The stone bulk of the walls themselves coalesce before you, rising from the powder-smoke in their grim solidity, looking for all the world as if they were invincible, save for the immense breach outlined against the grey-shrouded sun.
They are not the only things you see.
You pass barely two paces from the sprawled ruin of a man, still wrapped in his parti-coloured Highlander cloak. The left side of his face lies shattered by a musket ball, broken open like an overripe melon, grey and red oozing out from the glistening white bone, the vestige of his face wide-eyed, slacked-jawed, powder-smeared, still shocked at the reality of his own sudden death.
He is not the only one. The field before you is littered with them, some dead, some still moaning for help or weakly pawing at the sky. Most are Highlanders, but you see one or two still forms in grey-green among them; the first losses of Cazarosta's Forlorn Hope, you must surmise.
Your eyes cannot help but linger on them as you pass. There is some cold part of you which says that there cannot be more than three or four dozen wounded and dead, barely a rounding error in the grand scheme of a war involving tens of thousands. Yet as your column advances past body after body, you cannot help but think for the shortest moment that any number would be too many.
-
The sound of a musket ball cracking past you pulls your attention away from the Tierran dead around you. More follow. The Highlanders must be past the breach, for now the Antari on the walls are setting their focus upon you and your dragoons.
Soon, the full weight of the defenders' fire will be upon your men, and arrayed as you are in tight-packed columns, the regiment would present the perfect target as it traverses the glacis and the ditch.
Another ball snaps past you, close enough for you to feel the wind of its passage against your cheek. The Antari have not hit any of your men yet, you can thank the still-long range and the grey haze of the powder for that, but with every moment the distance closes, your men present a closer and larger target.
You go through your options quickly, as every second now brings two or three fresh musket balls flying your way.
The most obvious option would be to make your men spread out into extended order, something which would put two or three paces of empty air between each man. It is the sort of formation which your men are trained to fight in whilst on foot, and men in such a formation would certainly be more difficult to hit than close-ordered columns.
You could even go a step further. Ordering skirmish order would give your men the freedom to spread out even further, so that an Antari on the walls would have to fire at individual soldiers to have a chance at striking home.
Yet Keane did not order the regiment to advance in column without reason. In the smoke and noise of battle, it would be so very easy for a man to lose sight of the fellow next to him. He might become lost or lose his nerve, thinking that his comrades had abandoned him. That is not to mention the problems of re-ordering the men once they are through the breach.
Will you dare take the risk?
1) Keane had the right of it; I will keep my men in column.
2) I'll have the men spread out into extended order.
3) I'll risk the confusion if it means keeping my men alive; skirmish order!
It is not a decision which will make you much-loved among your fellow officers, least of all your superiors. To seize the initiative in the heat of battle is one thing, but to usurp the command of a superior shall make you look like the most brazen of opportunists.
At the moment, though, your reputation is a secondary concern. Someone must lead the regiment, and with Cazarosta leading the Forlorn Hope, you are the senior officer present.
Your officers and the Colour-sergeant offer no objection, so you press on. "Lieutenant Sandoral, you are to inform Lieutenant Hawkins and Third Squadron of the change in command." The bespectacled officer throws a quick salute and runs off. Next, you turn to the senior enlisted man. "Colour-sergeant Wagar, might I ask who is in charge of First Squadron in Keane's absence?"
"That would be Lieutenant Butler, sir," the Colour-sergeant replies. "I'll have a word with him."
You nod. A 'word' from the Colour-sergeant to a callow lieutenant might well have all the force of an order. "Make note to inform Butler that the new marching order is as follows: Sixth Squadron, Third Squadron, then First Squadron," you add. "Carry on."
A few moments later, both Wagar and Sandoral return with the message that the commanders of both squadrons report themselves ready to advance into battle…
…under your command.
-
Commands are given and relayed by runners to the other columns. The background cacophony of war is broken up by the shouting voices of non-commissioned officers setting the men to attention, then to order, then to movement.
Slowly, you see the shadowy outlines of the columns to your left and right shuffle into action. You hear the rattle of your own squadron as it begins to move out. You feel the earth tremble under the boots of four hundred men, even as the bugles call out and your feet begin to move to the sound of the drums, which out of all the regiments of horse in the King's Army, only the Dragoons possess.
The bubbling, churning shadows of First and Third Squadrons fall behind you as your own men march forward into the open, smoke-clogged ground before Kharangia's walls. They will slot their own columns behind yours, so that any flying eye which might be able to peer through the powder-fog would see a long serpent of grey-green, split into three sections, working its way towards the angular stone mass of the city's fortifications at the steady, slow speed of sixty paces a minute.
You can see the gentle upward curve of the glacis up ahead. The stone bulk of the walls themselves coalesce before you, rising from the powder-smoke in their grim solidity, looking for all the world as if they were invincible, save for the immense breach outlined against the grey-shrouded sun.
They are not the only things you see.
You pass barely two paces from the sprawled ruin of a man, still wrapped in his parti-coloured Highlander cloak. The left side of his face lies shattered by a musket ball, broken open like an overripe melon, grey and red oozing out from the glistening white bone, the vestige of his face wide-eyed, slacked-jawed, powder-smeared, still shocked at the reality of his own sudden death.
He is not the only one. The field before you is littered with them, some dead, some still moaning for help or weakly pawing at the sky. Most are Highlanders, but you see one or two still forms in grey-green among them; the first losses of Cazarosta's Forlorn Hope, you must surmise.
Your eyes cannot help but linger on them as you pass. There is some cold part of you which says that there cannot be more than three or four dozen wounded and dead, barely a rounding error in the grand scheme of a war involving tens of thousands. Yet as your column advances past body after body, you cannot help but think for the shortest moment that any number would be too many.
-
The sound of a musket ball cracking past you pulls your attention away from the Tierran dead around you. More follow. The Highlanders must be past the breach, for now the Antari on the walls are setting their focus upon you and your dragoons.
Soon, the full weight of the defenders' fire will be upon your men, and arrayed as you are in tight-packed columns, the regiment would present the perfect target as it traverses the glacis and the ditch.
Another ball snaps past you, close enough for you to feel the wind of its passage against your cheek. The Antari have not hit any of your men yet, you can thank the still-long range and the grey haze of the powder for that, but with every moment the distance closes, your men present a closer and larger target.
You go through your options quickly, as every second now brings two or three fresh musket balls flying your way.
The most obvious option would be to make your men spread out into extended order, something which would put two or three paces of empty air between each man. It is the sort of formation which your men are trained to fight in whilst on foot, and men in such a formation would certainly be more difficult to hit than close-ordered columns.
You could even go a step further. Ordering skirmish order would give your men the freedom to spread out even further, so that an Antari on the walls would have to fire at individual soldiers to have a chance at striking home.
Yet Keane did not order the regiment to advance in column without reason. In the smoke and noise of battle, it would be so very easy for a man to lose sight of the fellow next to him. He might become lost or lose his nerve, thinking that his comrades had abandoned him. That is not to mention the problems of re-ordering the men once they are through the breach.
Will you dare take the risk?
1) Keane had the right of it; I will keep my men in column.
2) I'll have the men spread out into extended order.
3) I'll risk the confusion if it means keeping my men alive; skirmish order!
As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 383
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 23%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 81% Cynicism: 19%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
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.
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 383
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 23%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 81% Cynicism: 19%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
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.
Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 54%
Morale: 54%
Loyalty: 39%
Strength: 99%
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 54%
Morale: 54%
Loyalty: 39%
Strength: 99%
