Daybreak:Alpha Chapter

Chapter 13 - Twelve Thousand Men A Day

It was just after dawn when the Tauheed army finished their morning prayers and began the advance. All along the lightly wooded slopes, Caraliyyah siege engineers and soldiers pushed forth onagers and trebuchets, wheels creaking as they rolled down rails of transmuted clay.

Meanwhile on a nearby hilltop, General Salim gazed through his binoculars and scanned the opposing riverbank.

Roazhon was built near the confluence of two rivers. The River Hafren, which flowed south from southwestern end of the North Lotharingie Mountains, and the River Gwilen, which flowed west from the northwestern end of the South Lotharingie Mountains. The Avorican Capital guarded the eighty kilopace gap between these two mountain ranges, making it one of the most strategic locations on the continent. As such, the city featured an extended array of fortifications, its outermost layer stretching out to the river crossings twenty kilopaces out.

The River Gwilen served as southern flank of the city's 'fortress zone'. Upriver, it featured a sharp drop from the southern mountains, with fast-flowing waters cutting a steep valley into the rocky hills. Downriver, after absorbing the River Hafren, the banks of the Gwilen turns into a swampy marsh all the way to the sea. With all the bridges destroyed, this left only a width of twelve kilopaces where a river crossing could be forced... where the Lotharins entrenched themselves and lay waiting.

Stone redoubts four-stories high stood every two-hundred-fifty kilopaces; having quadrupled in numbers over the past weeks with the help of alchemic transmutation spells. Between them stood wooden watchtowers, elevated earthen platforms lined with archers and dug-in siege engines, even networks of trenches where thousands of voulgiers and pikemen sat waiting. These were then protected by a low stone wall, several spiked palisade walls, and no less than two rows of sharpened stakes at the riverbank.

It seemed almost impregnable.

"I fear I may have given them too much time to prepare, Hakim," the General voiced to his wazir.

"We'll manage," came the Marid's stoic reply. "We brought enough siege to conquer hell."

The General simpered as he turned to his partner. Hakim always worried about details more than he does; yet the Marid never failed to calm Salim's nerves.

Although this time Hakim also didn't meet his gaze; those clear blue eyes stayed fixated on the water.

"Something wrong with the river?"

"Perhaps," Hakim spoke plainly. "The water is much lower than what intelligence claimed."

Spies reported before the invasion that the river was two-hundred-fifty paces wide and up to twelve paces deep. But at the moment, even its widest segment wouldn't reach two-hundred.

"Isn't that a good thing?" General Hakim replied. "It is wintertime; the snow will collect in the mountains until the spring thaw."

"But a warm front swept up from the Inner Sea just last week. Our spies reported rain from most of the lower passes. It should have melted at least some snow, to normalize the flow if not expand it slightly."

Hakim examined the riverbanks once more. The muddy gravel at its edge showed signs of recent submergence; the waterline to be much lower than even a week ago.

"Lieutenant," he gestured a signal officer forward. "Order Brigadier Arslan to take his cavalry brigade upriver. Reconnaissance in force, sixty kilopaces out!"

"Yes General!"

He then stared at the battalions of Lotharin troops garrisoning the riverfront fortifications. His hand brushed and began to tug at his thick-beard again as his mind wandered into deep thought:

If the river really is blocked, then...'

The Lotharins were attempting to play dirty, and God saw it fit to reveal their treachery. But now, it also presented him with a valuable opportunity.

"Send all heavy siege forward."

"All?"

"Yes, all of them!," the General repeated. "Advance to firing positions. Order six battalions of skirmishers to screen the advance with smoke canisters. March all assault formations to maximum range of the enemy siege and then stop! Tell Brigadier Tariq we'll be using his idea today!"

He never noticed the insidious smirk that spread across his partner's normally emotionless countenance:

"Yes, Your Eminence."

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Meanwhile in the Lotharin command cabin, Pascal leaned with both arms against the map table. It looked as though he was scrutinizing the countless unit markers lined across the three-dimensional illusory-projection map. But in reality, his vision focused through his familiar's eyes, gazing across the river from the left-center redoubt on the line.

Not that there was much to see.

Half an hour ago, he could still see thousands, tens of thousands of infidel troops march on the river. Their neat columns of armor had dyed the entire countryside in lanes of green and yellow. Then, a thin screen of skirmishers broke off from the army and charged, their backpacks spraying thick white smoke into the air above.

Individual arrows soared out from the Lotharin side as rangers and militia marksmen picked apart the enemies that neared the water. They killed hundreds before the remaining infidels broke and ran. Nevertheless, those thick blankets of white smoke had enshrouded the everything across the river like a deep fog.

Pascal had sent orders for Stormcaller mages to summon a wind to the battlefield. Yet the air remained still, not even a gentle breeze.

They must be countering us with Tranquility spells, he could only surmise.

None of the Sight spells would penetrate the white haze. Through this fog of war, he could only rely on Kaede's keen ears: the stomping of iron hooves, the creaking of wooden wheels, the clinking of chainmail and armor scales.

"They should be nearing the river by now," his familiar noted through their private telepathy.

"Sir!" a signal lieutenant within the command cabin pulled Pascal's attention back to his own body. "Duchess Jeanette reports sighting of enemy bridging equipment."

Pascal checked the map. The Duchess' troops were near the extreme right flank. It was more likely that a thinner smokescreen had given her an early glimpse, and not that the Cataliyan main thrust would be there.

If I was in command of that army, he thought. I'd use my crushing numerical advantage and launch an attack across the entire front.

It would be foolish to assume that his opponent was stupid enough to use anything less than the clear, optimal strategy.

"Sir!" another officer cried out. "Count Albert reports that the dam garrison is under attack."

Pascal's eyes widened as he abandoned all previous thought, his gaze swiveling to an upriver marker. He had ordered the river dammed from twenty kilopaces upstream almost as soon as they retreated here. The reservoir had filled for days and was ringed by a wide area illusion spell. Only a thorough scouting of the area would be able to notice its presence.

"By what forces?" he demanded.

"Mixed cavalry: scout, archer, and heavy! The Count estimates..."

The signal lieutenant then broke off mid-sentence, his mouth left hanging.

"Estimates what!?"

"The Farspeak link... broke."

The caster on the other end had most likely been killed.

Pascal's fingers balled into fists. The battle had yet to begin proper, and he had already lost one of his trump cards.

No. I still have a chance.

Hidden within the sandbag and stone dam was one of his ether-storing gems, engraved with a specially prepared rune that he could remote detonate with a Farspeak communication spell. Even if the infidels captured the dam, he could still destroy it during the middle of an assault crossing to flood the river.

Pascal synchronized his senses back through Kaede's eyes and ears. He couldn't see anything through the smoky haze, not even the orchard trees they painted yew-white as rangefinding markers.

He had to do something to impede the enemy, even though the Lotharin siege would be firing blind.

"How far would you guess they are?"

"Less than a kilopace," his familiar replied, judging by the stomping shoes and creaking wheels.

"I concur. Ready incendiary barrage for 800 paces."

"Load incendiaries! Eight hundred!" Pascal heard Kaede cry on the other end.

"LOAD OIL! EIGHT HUNDRED!" the shout rang down from the redoubt to the entrenched siege crews, echoing from lieutenant to sergeant to soldier.

He could hear the sound of barrels rolling through the trenches. The combustible ammunition was housed away from the siege engines, in bunkers dug at least five paces into the ground.

Meanwhile from behind the redoubt, the sound of a slow viol reverberated in the morning mist. Vivienne's fiddle had began its prelude, a sweet and gentle adagio that conjured the nostalgia of home to Lotharins. Other instruments soon joined her from nearby, a musical trope of mandolins, flutes, drums, and even a harpsichord. Their melodic timbre rose across several kilopaces of open field, amplified by the magical aura of her phoenix Olifant.

Kaede's binoculars swiveled back in curiosity, its lens refocused just as Vivienne raised her bow into the air. With her viol still pressed against the neck, the winterborn began an aria in beautifully pitched soprano.

"Her magic... it's laced into the very song," the familiar realized at last.

"Concentrate!" Pascal berated, before her eyes returned to the front lines.

Crash cymbals resounded across the air as both instrument and song rose in tempo. The musical energy grew alongside the trickling stream of ether it carried, slowly but gradually infusing into the minds of men.

Soon, Pascal began to hear the 'READY' calls as sergeants reported their siege weapons loaded. They returned uneven and sporadic, as different crews varied in the time they took.

"Volley."

"Volley!" his familiar passed the order.

"VOLLEY!"

Hundreds of onagers and trebuchets jerked as catapult arms threw out their payload. Buckets of shrunken barrels flung into the air, returning to normal size as they passed through raised Dispel Screens.

"That's got to be a violation of every conservation law," Kaede stared as the sudden increase in mass made no difference to velocity.

Within the span of seconds, the two-hundred-and-six heavy Lotharin artillery launched over twelve hundred chest-high barrels. Oil and pitch filled each of them to the brim, capped by a burning 'ignition' lid. The massive volley flew across the river and vanished into the fog bank. Their crash signaled by the sounds of shattering wood, roaring fires, and the screams of burning men.

Even the thick white smoke could not entirely conceal the burning lake that began to consume the other bank.

"They are the enemy," Pascal reminded as he sensed Kaede's dismay and horror, as though he could feel her shaking.

"I know..." her breaths fell heavy. "Don't worry, I know."

Though to Pascal, the audio feedback seemed just the opposite:

An army was supposed to be marching down those slopes. Where were the masses of men screaming.

Even if the infidels had Legion Resistance wards raised, the burning, sticky tide should still reap a heavy toll. Yet amidst the layers of white smoke, he could hear the screams of a hundred or two at most.

Something is wrong.

As Pascal paused to ponder, he noticed that Vivienne's gentle singing had faded. The beating of drums replaced it as the rhythm escalated in a span of seconds.

Returning from vocal to instrumental, the Oriflamme bard dashed straight into heated performance. An uplifting energy streamed over the air as Vivienne's viol strummed faster than anything Pascal had ever heard. Her fiddle strings reverberated as though on fire, pitch rising steadily as the song burst into an extended crescendo.

...And with Vivienne, it never stopped at being mere music.

Through Kaede's sight, Pascal watched as the siege crew closest to his familiar loaded in perfect coordination. The soldiers seemed more energized than ever as they stashed one shrunken barrel after another onto the catapult bucket. Their every motion came efficient and harmonious; there was not a single wasted movement, a second of delayed action.

"READY!" he soon heard the sergeants' call, over two hundred of them in near perfect unison, synchronized within a margin of seconds.

Even during the heat of battle, Pascal felt his jaw drop momentarily.

The loading of ammunition always varied between crews. The massed fire of missiles always grew more incongruent. Yet somehow, none of these laws of warfare applied to the Lotharins now.

It was as though Vivienne lead a concert of war -- one performed by not instruments but massed artillery.

Am I even needed here? Pascal couldn't help but consider.

"Volley."

"Volley!"

"VOLLEY!"

Again, he sent the order for the Lotharin catapults to open fire. Again, they threw over twelve hundred burning barrels into the enemy.

Again... the returning screams failed to meet expectations.

A breeze created by the roaring flames was beginning to disperse the smoke. But before Pascal could see anything other than the burning husks of Cataliyan trebuchets, a massive explosion erupted to the east.

The earth trembled as dirt and rock debris flew high into the air, visible even from twenty kilopaces away.

Already, he could hear the distant roar of waters through Kaede's keen ears. It would take only minutes before they reached the battleground and turned the river impassable today.

Shit, he suppressed the swear to mere thought.

Not only had he just lost his best trap card, but the infidels had completely fooled him.

There was no general advance. There would be no assault crossing today. The sound of ten thousand boots and hoofs, the sight of bridging equipment -- they had to be all illusions, and nobody had noticed because the smoke had impeded all sight-based spell detection.

The enemy was rolling in for an artillery duel, pure and simple.

"Order all frontline infantry to pull back! NOW!" Pascal ordered, by both word of mouth to his signal officers and by telepathy to Kaede.

But even as he said this, he already knew that they no longer had enough time.

Soon, the Cataliyan heavy siege would be ready to return fire, and their numbers stood at more than five times greater.

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