Chapter 9: Chapter 9: Draw

Vanian Year 1105

 

To win a war, one must target the enemy’s will for battle, rather than their capacity to do so.

 

Most generals consider morale of a secondary import, when in truth it was morale that has always been the pivot of any conflict. Empress Nike reasoned that a conflict could only be won when the enemy considered themselves vanquished - thus all effort must be placed in that purpose. When you impoverish your foe’s capacity for war, you naturally impoverish their willingness to fight as well - and if that was the case, what of targeting the enemies’ morale directly, instead of spending valuable blood and steel against fortified positions?

 

The greatest general in the world, Nike Aessetos had written, would be one that has never won a single battle, and yet has won every war he ever fought.

 

Just flipping through the pages of the Strategikon, Marianne could sense the ancient empress’ love for indirect combat - ambushes, ruses, nocturnal raids, and skirmishing. She wrote of every enemy she had ever fought, and detailed their characteristics and military culture - and wrote solutions of how to thoroughly break them apart. Every man has a mind, the empress wrote, and once you discover how your foe thinks, you will never lose a battle against them.

 

The Carolines of Requindent are a proud and honourable folk, and they will band together to defeat a common threat. But they are a greedy folk, and they are easily bribable. They cannot stand the heat as they can the cold, and they can be easily ambushed. A large weakness of theirs is their unorganised camps.

 

The Reichers of Mittelvania were similar to the Carolines, but also obedient to their masters. They value their freedom as they do their lives, and are fearless and bold in battle. But they are an inflexible folk, and are not used to fighting on difficult terrain due to the nature of their homeland. They are also heavily reliant on their armoured cavalry to win battles, for their footmen are largely levies and ineffective.

 

The Slava of Planina are a hardy folk, and easily bear extreme weather conditions and a shortage of food; they are good at crossing rivers and fighting on difficult ground. But they are easily bribed, they are discordant, and they cannot stand each other. The Slava are skilled with arms and nimble in tight and wooded areas, but unorganised in more open battles.

 

If only the empress had written of her experiences with the demons… but alas, it wasn’t to be. She had landed on Gehenna’s shores with twelve legions at her back, and Empress Nike was never seen again. Of all the legions the empress brought with her, only two returned to Vania, half-crazed and jumping at every sound. Even now there are still stories of Victoria’s lost armies.

 

Marianne was shaken from her thoughts by a knock on her door. 

 

“My lady, your presence is needed in the great hall,” a servant informed.

 

“Of course, allow me a moment,” she answered, inserting a wooden chip between the pages of the Strategikon and closing the book.

 

Marianne pushed her chair back and stood up, before reaching for the linen bandages. As she bound her breasts firmly, Marianne glanced out the window. The Quraysh Marches was the description of a hellscape; there was nary a cloud in the hazy red skies, and the sun was shone down with a blood red light. It was baking hot, and Edelhardt Castle was a stone oven.

 

She wiped her sweat away for what seemed like the thousandth time that day, and she could imagine that she was melting from the heat. At first, Marianne attempted to stay dignified, but after spying some fellow women joining the men in taking off their tops to cool down, Marianne decided that not being baked alive was preferable to saving what little noble dignity she still had.

 

Humorously, she realised that Empress Nike was decidedly correct in determining that they northerners did not fare well in the heat.

 

With a final tug, she bound her chest and secured the wrapping. Marianne threw on her tunic and left her chambers, tying up her hair into a high ponytail as she clambered down the stairs. Saintess Elisabeth had taught her that tying up her hair would allow her to cool down faster, for the nape was easy to overheat. Marianne found the advice increasingly valuable as summer swept across the land.

 

“-march at once!” she heard as she discreetly stepped into the hall through a side passage.

 

The great hall was filled to the mezzanines with men and women. There were men leaning against the window sills and glancing upwards, she could see the shadowy figures of onlookers leaning over the railings. Marianne noticed a group of men at a table waving at her to join them, to which she gratefully accepted. One of them shifted over to grant her some space, but the bench was so crowded that even then, half of Marianne’s bottom was still hanging off the ledge.

 

“Are the demons finally moving?” she asked.

 

“Outriders saw a host crossing the River Sirhan twenty leagues north of here,” Karl von Epp, a landsknecht captain, told her, “At least seventy-thousand strong, they say.”

 

“Awfully early,” she noted, “Do they not fear getting caught in a summer sandstorm?”

 

“That’s why we’re here, Maria,” Eitel, another landsknecht, clapped her back, “The horselords want to catch ‘em in the open, but the routiers think that the demons know something we don’t. None of us want to piss ‘em off, see? Because they might decide to just up and leave too.”

 

“We’re bloody sitting ducks ‘ere,” Karl grumbled, “We have what, half their number? If we just wait, the damned demons will just march right up to us. We should let the horselords do what they do best, and harry them down all the way.”

 

“What do the Quraysh think?” Marianne asked, glancing at the Quraysh men near the back of the hall.

 

The Quraysh are ancient foes of the Reichers, savage tribesmen of the northern deserts who would intermittently raid southwards in the summer when food was scarce. They were an existential threat to the south - enough so that four Reicher kings were forced to band together and build Nordenstein to hold them back.

 

One infamous Quraysh emir - Sabir al-Mansur - nearly brought the end of the Reicher kingdoms altogether when he marched south after unifying the Quraysh tribes. Only an odd twist of fate - or some believe timely divine intervention - saved Mittelvania from the wrath of the northerners.

 

For at the same time, Empress Nike III launched her own conquest of Mittelvania, and had days prior crossed the River Reitzen. The chroniclers write that the empress misidentified Umar as a Reicher ally, and marched to give battle. The two titans of history met in the shadow of Mount Einsamer, and the battle that followed is said to have left over a hundred-thousand corpses on the field.

 

The chroniclers write that the Battle of Mount Einsamer is to date the largest battle ever fought, and the only battle in which Nike Aessetos suffered a defeat. In the end, however, the battle was so costly for both sides that both Sabir and Nike were forced to abandon their ambitions and retreat out of Mittelvania.

 

Alas, even the Quraysh were forced to yield under the numberless tide of demons - but not without a laudable fight. Marianne imagined there wasn’t a soul in Vania who hadn’t heard of Emir Abbas al-Eanif’s valiant defence of Ghatafan, or the Battle of Wadi al-Muaqat, where the armies of Taghlib and Hawazan fought a desperate month-long campaign in the eponymous valley. 

 

Their valiant efforts held back the tide for three whole years - enough time for the rest of Vania to form a unified front under the banner of the Solar Alliance and organise a solid defence. When the surviving Quraysh armies fled south and west, they were welcomed as heroes.

 

Even now, those driven from their homelands and fighting a seemingly endless war for nearly two decades have not lost faith. It was more than she could say of the Carolines.

 

“The desertfolk?” Karl hummed, “They’ll fight tooth and nail for any purpose, as long as there are dead demons at the end of it.”

 

“Don’t be daft, Lord Herwig!” Marianne turned her attention to the debate, “This is an obvious ruse! They are trying to lure us onto the field, where they can destroy us piecemeal!”

 

The man speaking, Robert Lesparre, turned to Lord Conrad with a dark face, “My lord, if this strategy you decide upon, then I will not commit any of my men to it! I shall not waste the lives of my command for such a daft action!”

 

The ultimatum echoed throughout the hall, sinking into the ears of all in attendance. Marianne examined the faces of all the Carolines in the hall that she could spot, and came to the conclusion that most - if not all - of them supported him.

 

Marianne leaned forward in thought; the routiers made nearly a fifth of their fighting force with the Caroline men-at-arms gone. If they would not march, neither would the entire army - it was terrible enough that the demons outnumbered them twice over.

 

Saintess Elisabeth stood up and strode to the centre of the hall, where all could see her. The armour she wore seemed to catch the firelight like a mirror, drawing all eyes onto her. 

 

“Mesdames et messieurs!” her powerful voice carried throughout, “As we speak, seventy-thousand demons march on us! Auvergne and Touraine are no longer with us, and the truth of the matter is that we cannot afford to dawdle any longer!”

 

“So you believe the best course of action is to march us all to our deaths!?” Lesparre roared.

 

“Sit down, boy,” Old Talbart grumbled, “Let the lady speak her piece.”

 

Old Talbart was a strange mercenary, for unlike his peers he was of noble birth. Because of this, he held himself and his company to a standard of honour his contemporaries did not have, and was known to never forsake or betray a contract. Considering he has seen sixty summers and has never suffered being on the losing side of a war, many recognise him as an old legend.

 

Most importantly, however, any word he spoke held weight among soldiers. Not knights, soldiers; the men-at-arms pulled from their farms and families by force, the volunteers who gave themselves to the war to earn a living for their loved ones - the soldiers who made the main body of their armies. When Old Talbart spoke, men listened - and Marianne his word was more important than even Saintess Elisabeth’s.

 

Robert Lesparre slowly sat down.

 

The saintess spun around, a fervour burning her eyes, “We stand at a crossroads! And we are faced with a dilemma that could end the war with our banners above Taghlib, or with the demons burning our cities!”

 

Marianne could hear a finger tapping on a table.

 

“If we wait here, we can turn Nordenstein into an unassailable fortress - but we will never be able to retaliate against the demons! We can prolong the war for another year, maybe three, maybe ten! We can grind them down in siege after siege, but in the end, the harsh truth is that we no longer have the men to stop them!” Saintess Elisabeth sucked in an audible breath, and continued through gritted teeth, “But- but! If we sally out and face them in the field, we can strike a decisive victory and prove to the continent we can still win! I will not deny, this is very likely a trap, and it is very likely we will suffer a most devastating loss - but this is our last chance to act!”

 

The silence was deafening. 

 

Marianne could clearly hear the saintess’ heavy breathing as she greedily swallowed for breath after her long tirade. Just glancing around, she could make out just as many agreeable faces, though just as many were pensive - and even more sceptical. 

 

“She’s right,” Eitel muttered, “But no one’s going to back her with this atmosphere.”

 

A lonely flagon on the table caught Marianne’s eye - and in a single hasty action in which she abandoned all thought, she firmly grabbed the handle and slammed the flagon down on the table. 

 

And as if the hall was a sheep-pen with a newly broken gate, the lambs flooded through. Raucous cheers of agreement overwhelmed her ears and many grabbed their own cups and flagons to bash against the tables until their handles broke. But not all had conceded, the Caroline routiers were still hesitant, though increasingly distressed at the tide turning against them. Suddenly, Old Talbart took a swig from his flagon and threw it to the ground.

 

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Marianne winced as the cheering swelled into a tidal roar - the mass forcing themself to their feet like a wave and shaking the ground with their stomps. She silently covered her ears and ducked her head until it all passed.

 

Lord Conrad thumped his fist against the armrest of his throne three times - thud, thud, thud - and the cheers abated like a retreating gale.

 

“Jan Pasha,” the Old Lion said, “Your Kurt Kolordu will be the vanguard - ride out immediately and slow them down. Act at your own discretion.”

 

The man in question stood and drew his shamshir, raising it to the air. 

 

“Efendim!” the wolf on his shoulders seemed to snarl with delight, “Divine Marchosias watch over us, we shall not fail!”

 

“AY-KURT, AY-KURT, AY-KURT!” the Kazimierzi howled their battle cries, beating their chests and waving their swords in the air.

 

The very air seemed to thrum with anticipation, as if the war drums were already pounding in her ears. Forgotten was the disputes of a moment ago, now all waited with bated breath to hear who would receive the honour of leading the main host.

 

“Maslama al-Menfi-” the man in question stepped forward and knelt, “Your tulay'a mutaharikkah shall lead the march, in front of your jaish al-zahf.”

 

“I receive this honour beneath the light of seventy-two divines,” the Maslama al-Menfi declared, “May the Red Lady witness this charge.”

 

The Quraysh were a very similar people to the Kazimierzi, Marianne had learned in her time at Nordenstein. Both trace their lineage to nomadic tribesmen who had crossed the sea from Gehenna, and adopted the ways of the people living in the lands they settled in. Similarly, both peoples refer to each other by their epithets, instead of their family names - albeit blood still matters to the Quraysh, unlike the Kazimierzi.

 

Maslama al-Menfi - Maslama the Exiled - was a soft-spoken, but hard man. He was the last prince of Taghlib, exiled from his homeland when the demons finally overran the walls of Taghlib and took the city. It was said that Maslama had five senior siblings - three brothers and two sisters - all of whom perished leading a last ditch effort to defend Taghlib after their father fell at Wadi al-Muaqat. 

 

His siblings forced him to leave the city and flee south in order to save their bloodline, and the man turned into a rallying cry for all the Quraysh survivors in Schwerin. Since then, he has been the face of the reformed Quraysh host.

 

Marianne had the pleasure of speaking with him once, and far from her expectations she found the man to be well-read and knowledgeable in many things. It appeared Maslama had been quite the erudite when he was a child, and she found it a shame that he had to abandon the book to adopt the sword in order to avenge his family and people.

 

“Lord Herwig, Lord Antoine - together you shall command the banners of Schwerin and Joyeuse in the centre,” the lord commanded, “Karl von Epp and Talbart de Roannais, your men will be tasked with protecting the baggage train.”

 

“As the lord commands,” the men echoed.

 

As Karl sat back down, he told her across the table- “You may have saved us all, or you may have sent us all to our deaths.”

 

“Lady Elisabeth and Sir Leyen, your knights shall be the rearguard.”

 

Sir Leyen shot to his feet, “Divines strike my soul should I fail my charge! Your order is heard, lord. I look forward to working with you, my lady.”

 

“The feeling is mutual,” the saintess said, “We have thrown the die, divines watch us from above.”

 

Lord Conrad slowly pushed himself to his feet, before limping forward with his cane. The entire hall rose with him in respect, and his steely gaze scanned across them.

 

“The fate of Vania rests in our hands,” he said somberly, “Do not hand the responsibility set upon us to due luck, for we are not craven. The divines look over us, but we must not expect anything of them.”

 

Marianne sobered, and she could feel grim determination set into their bones.

 

“A drink!” the Old Lion raised a cup, “Feast and be hearty, for it may be the last we have together.”

 

Nordenstein wasted no time in preparing for the campaign. The next morning, the Kurt Kolordu was already marching through the city in a vast cavalcade that stretched for blocks. The ringing metal of war preparations filled the air along with the cheers and shouts of bystanders throwing flowers unto the marching host. 

 

Marianne rode her horse up beside Markusz and Hirzyk, admiring the falling petals drifting upon the arid wind, colouring the dull sky with a vibrancy she had never seen before. She tried to speak, but her voice was immediately drowned out by the clamour of the crowds saddling the roads. Women and children waved from the verandas and roofs, tossing down scarfs and favours for the soldiers to tie to their arms.

 

It was an old tradition, usually done by a man’s loved one so that they could remember what - and who - they were fighting for. But two decades of war has a way of breaking down old traditions, and these days favours and handkerchiefs flew freely across the air. 

 

The Shadow Gate loomed over them, named so because it was built right in the shadow of Castle Edelhardt - which rose like the figure of a reclining lion on their left. 

 

The Boneyard greeted them on the other side, the hallowed land littered with the bleached remains of funeral pyres and the skeletal remains of old defences left to rot. Numerous half-buried ditches and abandoned earthen walls left the land rugged and uneven. Marianne stepped over a pothole left behind by a catapulted boulder, and glanced over her shoulder to view the discoloured walls.

 

She followed Markusz and Hirzyk into their formation as the horsemen arranged themselves in neat blocks under the walls of Nordenstein in accordance with their askeri. Marianne was not alone in doing so, as many followed their friends and loved ones in order to say what may be their final goodbyes. 

 

“Say farewell, Jadwiga,” Hirzyk said, and Jadwiga leapt off his arm.

 

Marianne extended her arm just in time to catch Jadwiga’s talons, grunting at the eagle’s deceiving weight. Marianne scratched the bird’s neck, to which Jadwiga crooned pleasedly. 

 

“I bid you good fortune,” she sincerely told the two men, “Return alive and well, do you hear me? I do not wish to have to explain anything to Marie.”

 

Markusz urged his steed closer and clasped her shoulder tightly, “We ought to say the same to you. We are only heading off a day before you, after all. When all of this is over, shall we share a drink? I can say we founded a marvellous tavern in the lower district.”

 

“They serve the best mead,” Hirzyk agreed, “And their women are just as well.”

 

“Do not be crass before the lady, man,” Markusz faux-chided.

 

“It is agreed then,” Marianne gently pulled the man’s hand off her, “I shall hold it to you.”

 

“Şanslar Askeri!” a woman’s voice shouted, “Form up, you milk-drinkers! Get in your formations!”

 

“That’s Şanslar Katarzyna Pasha for you,” Hirzyk grinned, “What a woman.”

 

“We’re up,” Markusz trotted forwards, waving back, “May we meet on the field - or under the Sacred Mountain!”

 

As the two horsemen melted into the mass of their comrades, Marianne trotted away to join the rest of the followers and watch their departure. Kurt Jan Pasha galloped up in front of the assembled troops with his bayraktarlar, one holding aloft the Kazimierzi horsehair standard and the other Jan Pasha’s personal banner. The horselord masterfully manoeuvred his steed atop a half-sunken earthen wall, using it as an offhand stage.

 

“Heed me, men!” the man roared, his booming voice bounding over the plains, “We are to be the vanguard of the combined host! Our mission is to slow down the demon army until our allies can create a battlefield of our choosing!”

 

His horse reared up, but the man flawlessly brought it back down.

 

“The eyes of our friends and enemies are upon us, and our every move leaves a lasting impression of Kazimierz!” Jan Pasha’s eyes seemed to be aflame in the morning sun, “We carry the hopes and dreams of our people! All of you impale that into your very souls!”

 

Five-thousand men roared with a single voice-

 

“EFENDIM, KURT JAN PASHA!” 

 

“A good answer!” Jan Pasha raised his blade to the sky, “Kurt Kolordu, with me! MARŞ BAŞLA!”

 

A horn bellowed throughout the open plains, rising high to the heavens where it would surely catch the attention of the divines. Five-thousand horses started forwards at once, and the ground rumbled as it was trampled under the weight of twenty-thousand hooves.

 

Marianne watched as the magnificent host faded into the hazy distance, right up until the tips of their flying banners dipped under the horizon. Jadwiga cawed in her ear, and she smiled wanly as she caressed the eagle’s feathers for a final time.

 

“Fly,” she whispered, “Jadwiga.”

 

Jadwiga released an ear-splitting screech, prompting those around her to flinch away in surprise. The eagle spread her wings, and with a little push from Marianne, she leapt off her arm and caught the updraft. 

 

Shafts of sunlight fell to the earth, cutting through the shimmering heat like knives. As Jadwiga’s soaring figure caught the morningtide, Marianne imagined the mirage of a great steppe wolf bounding across the sky alongside her.

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