Daybreak:Alpha Chapter
Chapter 14 - Breaking Point
"Are you serious?"
"Yes." Pascal nodded as he faced the stern gazes of Colonel von Mackensen and his two sub-commanders in the middle of the wooded Weichsel encampment.
The Colonel and Major Ariadne exchange incredulous glances as soldiers rushed all around them, dissembling the camp in haste as the army prepared to resume march.
"We have sent all of the urban militia voulgiers, plus most of the Lotharin archer militias and any detached logistical units into Roazhon. That totals about seven thousand men. But it will not be enough."
The final tally had arrived this morning, and Lotharin losses in the Battle of Gwilen River had amounted to around fifteen out of twenty-seven thousand men. Despite inflicting staggering losses on the opponent and retreating in good order, the defeat still hurt morale as desertion rates were on the rise. To help curb this, Pascal sent most of the unreliable militia troops, especially the devastated units, into the Avorican Capital of Roazhon. With the city on lockdown and about to be besieged, all citizens would be pressed into active service; there would be nowhere for deserters to run.
However, those mauled formations also need rest and reorganization, again, before they could fight effectively. This meant they desperately needed time -- time before the Caliphate forces could encircle the city, grind its wards and walls down with magic and artillery, then storm the breach to finish the job.
"We need someone experienced to aid the city's defenses..." Pascal explained. But this time, the Colonel did not wait patiently for him to finish.
"General Clermont is leading the defense, is he not?"
"Yes, but I do not believe Sylv... Her Highness has much confidence in Clermont," Pascal puzzled. "Perhaps his appointment to lead the Capital Garrison was mostly a political one."
"I think Her Highness dislikes the General for other reasons," interjected Major Hans, the intelligence officer who stood by Pascal's side. "Still, Clermont is an infantry veteran -- brave, stoic, unyielding, but not the most flexible tactician. He'll make the Cataliyans pay in blood, but he simply doesn't have the numbers to win a battle of attrition."
Pascal nodded as his gaze returned to Colonel von Mackensen:
"We all noticed at the Gwilen River that the Caliphate has limited air forces. They will not be able to protect the entire siege ring without spreading themselves thin. This will give you complete initiative in the air to harry their besieging units: pull their drakes out of position and then hammer their diminished artillery forces. Keep them off-balance and delay their assault for as long as you can."
As the besieged, the defenders would have the benefit of interior lines. The highly mobile Knights Phantom would be able to strike any part of the siege line with ease, while Cataliyan air cavalry would have to fly the long way -- around the city -- to reinforce any position without being harried by hostile anti-air.
"That is all well and good from a tactical perspective," the Colonel replied, his hardened countenance less impressed than ever. "But Your Grace clearly does not realize the dire political situation..."
"We know we're on borrowed time," Hans stressed.
"That is like losing an arm and calling it a flesh wound," came the dry response. "The Lotharins..."
"Colonel, please," Sylviane's soft voice interrupted, having entered the confines of Pascal's anti-eavesdropping wards just seconds ago. "I realize that my legitimacy among the army's commanders is plummeting after the recent defeat. But I can still buy some time. However, if Roazhon's defenses are breached, then no amount of political maneuvering will salvage the collapse of this entire front."
Colonel von Mackensen pursed his lips. His stony gaze reluctant.
"Please, I implore you--"
Sylviane had only began to bow before the Colonel's pupils swelled upon seeing a royal scion humble herself in his presence. Overwhelmed, he swiftly knelt down on one knee like a knight before his princess:
"Your Highness, please say no more," he swallowed. "I understand your determination and will accept the charge. I swear in Holy Father's name that Roazhon shall never fall so long as I live to draw breath."
The other officers never noticed, but Pascal didn't miss the faint smile that gleamed across Sylviane's lips.
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"...How is the city supposed to hold with just a handful of ragtag units and half-shattered battalions?" challenged the Duke of Helveteu, amidst nodding by several other enraged Lotharin nobles. "Even by the most optimistic casualty estimates, the Caliphate army would still field nearly fifty thousand men!"
It was only the second night after the Battle of Gwilen River, and the nobles already stood in the command cabin in open defiance. Pascal's decision and Sylviane's order this morning to break camp from the Hafren riverbanks and march west into the forests of Ceredigion had been met with cold disgruntlement from the start. But as the distance to Roazhon rose over the course of the day, so did the discontent from the troops and the nobility who led them.
However, Duke Lionel was no agitator like the last challenger. Despite his lanky build and flamboyant doublet, he was a veteran of four campaigns and respected by common soldiers and nobles alike.
"Your Highness has sent General Clermont and even Colonel von Mackensen into a hopeless final stand, and for what? So we could flee west with tails between our legs? Well I refuse to disgrace myself with such cowardice!"
"Nor I!" shouted several nobles who followed him.
That is because you are imbeciles, Pascal felt his arm pulled back as Sylviane calmly explained:
"We are not fleeing. Had we been, we would have left yesterday morning instead of making camp just west of the Hafren River. We stayed within support range of Roazhon for an extra day to make sure the Caliphate has no choice but to seek us out for battle, as they could hardly besiege a city with roaming foes at their back."
"So you have said," Lionel brushed aside what he clearly saw as a feeble excuse. "But we are fleeing west into the forests now, are we not? How can we come to the city's aid if it is assaulted tomorrow!?"
"We have no choice but to head west!" Pascal pointed at the map table, where a broad arrow marked the movement of the Caliphate army detachment that crossed the Hafren earlier today in pursuit. "The infidels are throwing most of their Ghulam cavalry and compound archers after us -- over fifteen thousand professional troops! With less than five thousand men at our disposal, we cannot face that army and win...!"
"With an attitude like that, of course you cannot!" Lionel slammed back with gauntlet fingers pointing. "Who was it that boasted he was sent by the Holy Father to bring us victory!? Now you propose we abandon Roazhon behind us with no chance of relief!?"
"It is blasphemy, to claim guidance from the Holy Father yet act in direct contradiction to Trinitian teachings," Lady Anne added from the other side of the room, attending in place of Lady Estelle who was leading a night ambush with several rear-guard companies.
The Mother Abbess' composure stayed poised, but her serene tone held no less accusation: "where were you when the Gwilen's northern banks ran red with martyrs' blood?"
Pascal's returning glare was venomous:
"I was making sure all of you had enough reinforcements to hold those banks!"
"Tell me, You Grace, what kind of man knows only to send others into harm's way?"
The Landgrave gritted his teeth as he endured the low blow.
If you Lotharins had any competent tacticians of your own, I would not have to be the one burdened with commanding you rabble!
Before he could blurt such impulsive thoughts out loud, Sylviane stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Your Grace," she calmly addressed Duke Lionel, "we have no intention of abandoning Roazhon. This..."
"Yet it is precisely what you are doing!" another nobleman shouted over her, incensed.
"Your actions speak for themselves!"
"Oh SHUT THE HELL UP, all of you!"
The eruption of fury came from King Alistair, as his armored bulk began pushing through the crowded nobles harrying Pascal and Sylviane.
"For Father's sake, have you learned nothing from your retreat across Avorica!? It is all good to fight for honor and principle, but what good does it do if you cannot actually save the people by winning!?"
"Your Majesty that is..."
Lionel looked insulted, but this time it was Alistair's turn to talk over him:
"You blame the Landgrave for not delivering an outright victory!? Then tell me, over the past few weeks, which one of you have managed to stand your ground until sundown when outnumbered three to one on the battlefield? Which one of you have organized an orderly retreat that saved the lives of thousands from pursuing cavalry? Which one of YOU have succeeded in inflicting a favorable exchange ratio on the Caliphate despite their professional soldiery!?"
The King of the Glens glared about the fuming nobles, as though daring them to refute him.
"None of you could have organized the defense of the Gwilen River with such results, and you know it well!" He bellowed. "Yet like craven malingerers, you would point accusatory fingers at those who managed what you could not, blame them for imperfection when you could do no better! He is the problem! He screwed it up! -- you would say, paying absolutely zero regard to your own responsibilities!"
Alistair gnashed his teeth as his words spat on those around him. He might be a King these days, but sometimes old habits died hard.
"We did everything we could! It is..."
"Oh have you?" the King turned to the speaker, Duchess Jeanette. "Who was it that abandoned the riverfront in the second hour? Who threatened to break ranks unless she received fresh reserves when her companies finished the battle more intact than her neighbors!? Everything you could? Does this face know no shame!?"
The Duchess was swollen with anger by the time Alistair finished spitting at her.
"The Princess has a plan in mind, which is better than any of you could say," he continued without a break. "She is trying to explain it, yet you wouldn't even let her speak? That, my ladies and lords, is cowardice of the highest order!"
By the time King Alistair finished with a table slam, he had drawn anger from across the entire room upon himself.
"Do not speak to me of responsibility, Your Majesty!" Lionel growled. "You! Who abandoned your duty, your country for two decades! To go on some foolish New World adventure as a mercenary for the Northmen!"
"And yet, I am King!" Alistair leered back with bared teeth.
"Your Majesty! Milords! Please!" the Princess beckoned. "Let us stay on the subject. King Alistair is correct that I have a plan in mind."
She turned her Duke Lionel, her voice amazingly calm despite the crackling atmosphere:
"Tell me, Your Grace. If you were to storm a city, would you not lead the charge with your bravest men?"
"Of course!" he snapped.
"Then whom do you suppose the Cataliyans shall use, when their best troops are led away from the city, chasing us into the depth of the Ceredigion Forest?"
For a moment, the Duke only stared back, as though not comprehending. Then, his eyes swelled.
"You're using us as bait?" he spoke, taken aback. "But then... with what trap? We have no other forces to use."
"No. There is another," Pascal pointed at the map, to the forest green realm labeled 'Kingdom of Ceredigion'.
"King Elisedd has dishonored his vows and done nothing to support us this entire time," Sylviane explained. "My plan, our plan, is to force his hand. Draw the Caliphate's armies into his kingdom, and he will have no choice but to fight!"
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