Topic: On The March

Lord Ayreg · Date: 2008-06-09 13:39 EST

Author's Note: This began roughly in December, and has continued to this day almost in real time.

There were certain things associated with an army on the march.

Captain-General Dreadon Serik had arrived two days ago from his operations in K'Thayne, a place left more or less utterly annihilated. Before, it was a desert of dusty and dried earth. Now, it was little more than scorched char; a single stroke of black by any mapmaker to show what had once been a province of the Empire. Upon his arrival, he was briefed by the Master of Assassins, Javan Ratt, following lines of rumor and disturbing reports from Shayltan provided by any number of eyes and ears belonging to any number of persons within the Fortress, including the desicated little man, Banedal.

Clerks hastily scribbled orders which he had hastily signed, and within hours the first elements of the 3rd Banner had begun to assemble outside of the Imperial Fortress in what could only have been called a parade ground. Perhaps at one time it served as a plaza in front of what used to be a temple, but now the even, smooth paving stones rung with the clatter of horseshoes. There was a kind of energy in the air, too, an almost-living, crackling sensation of wonder as the Companies formed into Battalions, and as those Battalions became the Banner. From nearby homes and shops, citizens peered out through drapery to view the massing formation of armored soldiers.

Not everyone in the great square were soldiers, of course. An army of any size had any number of associated hanger-ons. The army could not be on the march and fight for long were there no fletchers for making arrows, no wheelwrights to work on wagons, no farriers to reshoe horses, no laundresses to stir boiling kettles of clothing. Great numbers of people always followed an army, sometimes as many as the soldiers themselves.

Orders passed out, Captains speaking with Lieutenants, speaking with Bannermen, speaking with individual Hearts of Legionnaires to inform them of what they were to do, where they were to go, and in what disposition they were to go in.

It took the whole of the day and most of the next morning, but the Banner had assembled. Salutes were given, more orders passed out, and Dreadon Serik could be seen in the distance standing atop a balcony on one of the lower levels of the Imperial Fortress, watching the Banner moving out.

Jodiah Ayreg was on the edge of the great plaza, resplendent in his high-collared red coat when a familiar face approached him with a salute. He returned it with a quick arm across his chest and a curt nod. "Al'Caer."

"My Lord Ayreg," the man said, pulling his mount out of the formation. Four columns of mounted soldiers snaked through the main thoroughfare of Aeshelm, stretching from the plaza itself out of sight around a four-storied inn. In the distance, the massive iron-strapped gates of the city were open above the rooftops, suggesting that the line of men extended out of the city itself.

"Where are you off to, Lieutenant?"

"Shayltan, my Lord," Davlon Al'Caer said, turning his head to watch the line of moving soldiers, "We've been sent to investigate reports of separatists among the elves. The Baroness of Mynw cut the head off the snake, but it seems that the nobility has decided to carry on what that Prince had started."

"I expect to hear of their crushing defeats soon then. Good hunting to you, Lieutenant."

"The Dragon shelter you, my Lord," he snapped his arm over his chest again, his gauntleted fist banging against his breastplate. Ayreg returned the salute, and Davlon al'Caer reined his mount around and heeled it forward to a quick canter, catching up back to his Company.

Folding his hands behind his back, Jodiah Ayreg stood on the side of the road listening to the ring of the horse shoes on the paving stones, and the well-wishing of citizens assembling on the side of the streets, the occasional woman throwing flowers out to the soldiers of the Legion.

Lord Ayreg · Date: 2008-06-09 13:40 EST

From the front gate of Aeshelm, a rider set forth into the city itself. Horseshoes ringing loudly on the smooth, flat gray paving stones, the rider whipped her mount furiously, digging her heels into the horse's flanks, urging every last ounce of speed. She was even standing in the stirrups, leaning forward far over the horse's neck. It was an easy way to kill yourself, especially at this time of day?threatening clouds promised rain later on in the evening, but it was still just past midday.

Barrel-handlers and pedestrians had to leap from her path, shaking fists and shouting curses at her back as she rode like a bolt of lightning. The rider veered around wagons and carts, leaving their drivers bewildered and stunned, scratching their heads over what the emergency had to have been.

She left a vendor behind, shouting curses and trying to pick up his wares. He had been hawking fruit from a tray strapped around his neck, but now they lay in a sprawled pile out in the street, already being trampled by the flow of the passing citizens of Aeshelm.

The woman, dressed in the light, mobility-minded armor of the Legion, ignored all of the curses and shaking fists, ignored everything except the message she was to deliver. She was one of three riders sent out?another was to fetch one of the medics from the Legion barracks, and the other was to find General Serik.

Shouts rose ahead of her. Not the cries of alarm or shock or fright from startled citizenry, though; these were from other members of the Legion, shouting that a rider was approaching the Fortress. A path was cleared by one Legionnaire pushing a man out of the way, and the broad, iron-strapped double-gates leading into the Fortress stable yard. Throwing herself out of the saddle, she pitched the reins to a groom who ran out to the horse from the stables. Her mount was breathing heavy and hard, having been run too fast for too long, but she had no choice now. She turned and ran herself toward the simple colonnade that marked the entrance into the Fortress itself, and already she was shouting an order.

"Run tell Lord Ayreg to meet Lieutenant Belarc in the stable, and have two horses saddled," she yelled without breaking stride. She didn't bother to turn around to see if they were doing what she had told them to do. She knew they would.

The only confirmation she had of that was two voices, one atop the other, one from a Legionnaire standing guard at the entrance of the colonnade, and the other from the groom who had taken her horse, but the two voices both spoke the same words, "Yes, Lieutenant!"

Her boots thudded heavily in the corridors of the Fortress' ground floor, but her sprint didn't stop. Her chest burned?even made light and designed for mobility, the Legionnaire armor was still made of good steel, and steel was, by its very nature, heavy. She was also running almost as hard as she had pushed her horse, though, naturally, not as fast?but she pushed on, rounding a corner as a black and red livery-clad servant leaped out of her way.

The guard room on the first floor was her destination, and once she got in, she bolted to the clerk's desk, gasping for air and clutching the side of his small writing table. Pulling the pen free from his clutches, she dipped it once in the inkwell and scrawled out a few hastily written instructions, then slid the page across to the clerk, who sanded the ink and gave them to waiting couriers who would take them out to their own destinations. Another piece of paper was taken and she wrote longer, writing out the summary of what she would tell the Captain of later.

And then it was time to run again.

By the time she got back into the stable's courtyard, Lord Ayreg had already arrived and had just finished climbing awkwardly into the saddle of one of the horses. He seemed to favor his leg a bit sometimes, she saw, when he was cold?an old battle injury, perhaps? Her heart was beating so hard in her own ears, her breathing so loud, she was sure he said something, but couldn't make it out. Something about a "her" - likely the black-skinned woman he was often seen with.

"Lord Ayreg," Belarc said with a gasp, slapping her fist to her chest sloppily, tiredly. He didn't seem to notice, simply returned a languid salute of his own, "if you'll follow me, my Lord, time is of the essence."

His voice was gravely and throaty, but then it always was from the few times she heard the man speak, "Lead on, Lieutenant."

Thankful to be back in the saddle again, she pushed her heels into the horse's flanks, clutching the reins and leaning forward sharply when the mount reared up into the air first, and then she and Jodiah Ayreg were off again at a flash, heading back toward the city gates.

Lord Ayreg · Date: 2008-06-09 13:40 EST

It had been some time since Jodiah Ayreg knew what it was like to be busy.

Over the course of the past month, he had things he had to look into: the vineyards he had ordered constructed at Taiva, back in Rhy'Din, had taken a hard frost over the winter, and his Seneschal, Dulmor, a normally capable man in most respects despite his unique flavor on life, was overswamped with work to do. It turns out that, in addition to the hard frost of the grapes, two of the servants had frozen to death in their sleep, and another had died of food poisoning after a stock of meat that was believed to have been salted turned out not to have been. Procuring replacements for them, as well as contacting their closest family?most of which lived in Rhilshen, still?would have been trouble enough in that he had to make frequent trips back and forth from Rhy'Din to Rhilshen, but then there were supply problems of every kind on top of it: food shortages, transport mishaps, as well as old fashioned banditry.

All in all, it had been a miserable winter, made worse only by the fact that nearly every step he took he wanted to have someone tear his leg from his body and replace it with a gnomish replacement prosthetic. The cold never fared well for him and his arthritic knee.

And now... this.

"Lead on, Lieutenant," he said, not questioning her yet. He felt no danger in the presence of the Legion?he had trained them himself, after all, and while he no longer handled recruitment screening personally, he knew the people who had trained the people who were doing it now, and he was confident in their ability to root out any form of disloyalty.

It was a dangerous prospect, their loyalty?by and large, it was to the Emperess herself, not to Rhilshen?but at the time he had created the Imperial Legion, it had also been a necessary requirement.

The trip across the city of Aeshelm made him raise his eyebrows up along his forehead the farther they went, though mostly it was nothing but shock at the pure speed that Lieutenant Belarc had wanted. He saw the handiwork of her previous trip from the city wall in the form of overturned street vendor stalls, toppled merchandise, one man with a bandage pressed to his bleeding forehead, but at least now most of the civilians were moved out of the way. Whoever the gate captain had been, he had been fast on his feet to send a contingent of Legionnaires to make a pathway for their quick return from the Fortress.

Drawing rein on the horse that had been provided for him, Ayreg dismounted and gave a nod to General Serik, who seems to have been here already for at least a few minutes; another Legionnaire was holding the reins of what had to have been his horse.

Striding over to the Captain-General, Lord Ayreg offered a polite salute, which was returned just as politely by Serik, and then formality was done. The two had grown to be respectful of each other during the formation of the Legion, and outside of Ayreg himself or her own family or the Baroness of Mynw, the Emperess had no stronger supporter than Dreadon Serik.

"What's this about, Dreadon?" Ayreg asked.

Clasping his hands behind his back, the grizzle-faced man shook his head and turned to fall in at Jodiah's flank, speaking low, "Bloody business, my friend. Bloody business."

"What do you...?" Ayreg trailed off as one of the Legionnaire medics, so designated because of the sleeveless white tabard he wore over his breastplate, stood and took a step away. The man on the ground was Davlon Al'Caer, and he was laying on the ground bleeding. Bandages were crudely wrapped up around his arm, his chest, but it was the faulty stuff of battlefields, or perhaps on the hard ride; he would need a healer's attention soon before infection set in.

"My Lords," Al'Caer said, trying to lean up.

General Serik put a hand on the man's shoulder and eased him back against the barrel he had been leaning up against.

"Rest easy, man," Serik said and, once the medic returned and started seeing to his wounds, Serik continued, "What happened? Where is the rest of your Company? What of your Banner?"

Legion-Lieutenant Davlon Al'Caer recounted his story, then, in remarkable detail.

Lord Ayreg · Date: 2008-06-09 13:41 EST

"You're going to make him want to shoot you in the face," Davlon said, only half-joking. Koda had long handed the standard of their unit to another Bannerman, and had ridden up to talk to a man that Davlon himself knew only as Jac. Jac was not all that handsome as men go, but he carried himself with a self-assuredness that surely would demand attention from any lady in a common room, despite that great mustache on his upper lip. More, Jac wore the strange armor of the Mynwans, and held across his saddle girth one of the rifles that were nearly as long as a man was tall.

Ignoring Davlon al'Caer, Koda kept poking questions at the Shooter from Mynw, "But how does it work? When you pull the trigger, how does it make that fire? Is it some kind of magic?"

Koda was dazzled with the Mynwans, with their technology and capabilities, and ever since Jac had joined the column on their march north Koda had pushed his nose into everything they did. Davlon would have called him down for it if there had been any trouble, but on the long march out of the city of Aeshelm and toward Shayltan, there was none, and nothing to do else but to march.

The hard-packed dirt road was broad, their number filling the snaking trail through dense forests in the mountain pass between Shayltan and the Central Province. Rumor had a way of being carried by the wind, by merchants, by everything with a tongue, by merchant's wagon train and man on foot, and every whisper that came out of Shayltan said that the nobility among the elves, following the Baroness of Mynw's arrival and forced restructuring of the governorship, had gathered in the eastern part of the province away from the capital, at the foothills of the mountains of Kaul, and stood ready to spit defiance into the eye of the Emperess.

That was unacceptable. The Banner had been assembled and dispatched to investigate the matter, and if they found rebels in the province, to put them down and bring them back in line.

Forcefully.

"Well you see, lad, the way of it is..." Jac was talking now, gesturing to Koda about what appeared to be some kind of sliding mechanism on the side of the rifle he had. The Shooter was proud to his toenails, and he seemed to strut as he spoke, even while sitting his saddle and keeping his horse at a paced walk, and Koda was eating all of it up.

Abruptly, there was an all-too-familiar sound. The sound of steel mounted on the tip of a shaft that cut the air; arrows had their own unique sound, especially when those arrows were elvishmake. At almost the same time, there came a shattered outburst ahead of him, and Legion-Lieutenant Davlon al'Caer heeled his horse forward, forcing his way forward in the column.

The Banner-General made a very dull thud as she struck the hard packed earth of the road, an arrow jutting out cruelly from her throat. Al'Caer pulled his horse around, but even as he was shouting orders he heard the same orders being shouted by other officers across the column.

"On the left!"
"Form ranks!"
"Return fire!"
"Medic!"
"To the right!"
"With me!"
"Advance!"

Chaos erupted like a volcano exploding in the Dragonspine. The air was filled with the sound of zipping arrows, fired from close enough to cut through breastplates and helmets like good knives through soft cheese. Blood coursed down more than one Legionnaire's armor, and every second more and more saddles were cleared. The unseen bowmen - there had to be three hundred of them or better to put out that kind of volume so quickly - started at the top of the ranks and began working their way down, which is why Banner-General Kilian was the first to fall. Pity that. She had a good head on her shoulders.

Men fell, some with arrows thrusting out from eye sockets, some with arrows from their throats, some with arrows from the chinks of their armor, or even sticking out straight from the armor. A handful here or there managed to leave the road, charging with steel out and bared and charged for the treeline, but the unending hail of arrows cut them down before they made it past the first big oak. Davlon heeled his horse forward, sawing the reins to keep the animal moving.

Jac hefted his rifle, one hand supporting the weight of the great weapon while keeping a tight fist on the reins of his horse at the same time. The light seemed to be sucked into the tip of the weapon, and then everything shimmered, wavered, shivered as a great blast of what could surely have been nothing else but pure hellfire itself burst from the end of the Shooter's weapon, accompanied with the sound of thunder. The burst of energy roiled, twisting, and shot into the trees, exploding with a deafening explosion that toppled two trees. Jac was rewarded for his efforts with the tinny, pitched voice of elven screams. He was preparing for another shot when he was pincushioned with arrows, dead before he and his weapon even hit the ground.

Something struck Davlon al'Caer hard in the chest, slicing a line of fire across his middle and punched him in the arm. He looked down, shocked to see an arrow thrust up through his arm, laced elegantly beneath a breastplate that started to pour blood. It had to have been a one-in-a-million shot, but he was fortunate for it. Had he not pulled to the left at that exact moment, that arrow would have went through his side and clean through his heart.

With his left arm pinned against his torso, Davlon reared his mount around and heeled his horse to a gallop. The screams of men and horses filled the air behind him, in front of him, all around him, man and animal bleeding their blood out into the soil of Rhilshen. The formation of a marching column was only good on the march, and they had fallen straight into an ambush from both sides. Though the Legionnaires had to have outnumbered their attackers, they were at a distinct tactical disadvantage.

Al'Caer did the only thing he could; he ran. He ran hard, he ran fast, and as he approached the ragtag leavings of what was left of his unit, he saw Bannerman Koda laying on the ground, three arrows extending out of his body, his eyes staring at him. Staring through the glaze of death.

"Ride!" al'Caer shouted, not bothering to stop heeling his horse forward. He rode at a gallop, arrows zipped around him, cut through the air, clanged against his steel breastplate from a glancing blow, "Ride!"

His orders were unneeded. What few pockets of resistance that rose were cut down. The Banner had been routed, men scattering everywhere in a mad dash for survival, fleeing in every direction that didn't have arrows coming from it.

"Ride like fire!" Davlon called, aware of only a dozen or so Legionnaires around him, with him.

And behind them, back in the charnal heaps of corpses pincushioned with arrows, some still twitching, but most of them lying dead in a pool of blood, a cacophony rose from the forest. The arrows stopped; that was the important part. The voices, hundreds of them, cheering, shouting, cursing, and all with the same message repeated over and over again, shouted atop one another and at the same time:

"Leave Shayltan!"
"Leave Shayltan!"
"Leave Shayltan!"

Lord Ayreg · Date: 2008-06-09 13:45 EST

"This is a nightmare."

Ayreg's voice was low, a guttural growl deep from his throat that sounded like a snake writhing in dead leaves.

Jodiah Ayreg and Dreadon Serik stood on opposite sides of a broad, heavy-timbered table. The table itself was covered in gilted carvings, with dragons spiraling up the thick legs, and the star of the Skye clan large in the middle. They were hidden from sight just at the moment, though; a large map of Shayltan lay spread out on the table between the two men, held flat and illuminated by four burning oil lamps situated at the corners. Markers covered it, red wedges for Imperial forces on the move and red discs for forces holding in place, each supporting a small paper banner inked with their numbers and composition, seemed mostly centralized around the capital city of Shayltan. A cluster of black discs marked the southern pass from Shayltan to the Central province where al'Caer had been ambushed with the rest of his Banner, and a number of white discs to mark the location of enemy forces. The known enemy forces at any rate, and only a handful of those supported little flags marking their own numbers. Scattered across the map were a number of other black discs, mostly centered around the capital city where most of the Legion's activity was, to mark battles and engagements, but very few white discs.

"It could be worse," Serik observed, his thin lips turning with a wry smile beneath his mustache.

Ignoring the man, Ayreg kept his eyes on the map.

"The ambush that took Banner-General Gorian in the pass here," he put his finger down near the cluster of black and white discs, "happened near a week gone, and it was just the opening volley. She lost four Companies of horse and five of foot almost to the last man. Not all dead, but most of the wounded are the next thing to it. Pincushioned with arrows. Had to be a thousand or better bowmen to put out that volume, even if they are elves."

When Ayreg said nothing, Serik continued, almost in a conversational tone, "Scouts began arriving with reports from Shayltan about three hours ago. They aren't complete, but what I've seen runs this way. Since dawn four days ago, one major supply camp was overrun and burned, along with more than half a dozen smaller camps. Three supply trains attacked, the wagons and their contents put to the torch. Two small outposts have been wiped out, eleven patrols have failed to report in, and there have been an additional six skirmishes between forces on the move that stumbled into each other. And the same message delivered everywhere: 'Leave Shayltan.'"

He finished casually, "All this was done by bands of between two and perhaps five hundred. Estimates are a minimum of ten thousand and perhaps twice that, nearly all elves by any best guess."

"And that estimate doesn't even include the reports of the elven nobility summoning mercenaries from across the Multiverse to their flags either," Ayreg said, more statement than question.

Captain-General Serik nodded, "Not a nightmare, Ayreg. It is a world gone mad. The Morning Realm was walking the dagger's edge of another Twilight War, and the elves can't see down their big noses long enough to know that they would be swept up in the tide of blood, too. Well, no matter," absently, Serik's eyes turned to the lower edge of the map, where the remnants of K'thayne stood. The map itself was of Shayltan, but it also included its surrounding provinces perhaps fifty miles in past the provincial borders. He finished, grimly, "The Emperess has dealt with that little problem."

"She has." Jodiah pressed his first two fingers into the map just on the southern side of the border at the pass between Shayltan and the Central province. "Banner-General Gorian was a fool not fit to wear the colors of her rank. The fact that she didn't have scouts and flankers out proves it. How could she just let her entire Banner march into an ambush?"

"She took precautions," Serik said, holding his hands wide.

"They were riding in their armor, Dreadon," Jodiah said disgustedly, shaking his head. "A minimal safeguard against an attack."

"I'd fault her if she were still alive, man, but she's dead and that's that. You know most of the leadership of the Legion doesn't have much in the way of combat experience. The ones that do should be sitting in a chair in front of their grand-children's fireplaces warming their bones."

"Like us," Serik said with a mirthless smile.

Ignoring the sally, Jodiah shook his head and said, with a contemptuous twist to his voice, "And the rest are beardless boys."

The standard rank and file member of the Legion was a strong-hearted warrior, proud and true, but their commanders had started to very clearly leave something to be desired. There was only so much one could learn in drill and training. Eventually, you would have to be anointed to your rank in blood.

Banner-General Isal Gorian had learned many valuable lessons from the ambush on her troops. A pity she had to die to learn it.

"Who's next?" Jodiah asked.

"I've sent out riders with dispatches, browbeat a few of the Spellswords to take some as well to the more hard-to-reach places where the Legion maintains a presence in K'thayne. Things there seem quiet enough, and our forces need to be redeployed to deal with this... rebellion. All told, pending approval from the Imperial court, we will have three Banners converging into Shayltan." He set his finger onto the lower edge of the map nearest Ayreg. The first imaginary mark he made was to drag his finger from the blackened husk of K'Thayne up through the mountain passes into south-western Shayltan. The second was through the wider pass between Shayltan and the Central province, where Gorian was ambushed.

"And we'll be ready this time," Serik said, confidently.

"I will relay this information to the Emperess, Dreadon," Ayreg said, snapping his arm crisply across his chest in a salute. Serik returned it, just as sharply, and Jodiah Ayreg turned to leave the room.

Lord Ayreg · Date: 2008-06-09 13:46 EST

Things take time.

True, most of the Spellswords had the capability to translocate themselves great distances, but to open gateways for as many men as the dispatches mobilized would have made the Spellswords... ill-tempered.

A few days for the dispatches to be received, a few more days for the Banners to be assembled, and the long march north. An army in the field was slow, covering only a few leagues a day, and it had taken nearly three weeks for the three Banners to converge in the central region of Shayltan. Plenty of time for Ayreg to catch up.

His return from Taiva in Rhy'Din was a quiet one, stopping in the Fortress only long enough to gather up his armor and draw a few Legionnaires for an escort. Ayreg's eccentric seneschal, Dulmor, had presented him with two interesting... gifts. The man seemed quite content to see Ayreg as something of a nephew to spoil at times, coming up with outrageous things without prompt. Whether that's some kind of new dish that he was just sure would make Jodiah's taste buds dance and sing, to a new dressing on his bed, most of the time those ideas usually found a dispassionate audience. The two most recent ones were of far more practical value.

The main part of the camp was located on a grassy knoll that, previously, had all been lush forested terrain. The commander of the camp had settled in for a long stay, clearing away a great swath of the trees and using them to create a defilade. Men wearing the armor of the Legion stood at intervals, their shields resting on their backs, their heads moving side to side. The vast bulk of them were positioned to watch to the east, but the Lieutenant-General in command of the army was no fool. There were also men assigned to the flanks and to the rear, if not so many.

Inside the low wooden wall, it's hoardings seeming primarily to defend against arrows fired from afar, rows of tents in perfect alignment stretched over the crest of the hill and half-way down either side. A few men, not in their armor, moved about while others sat and took their ease. It was almost a tranquil scene, but Jodiah Ayreg had no time to take in the grandeur of a military encampment. He and Dreadon Serik had argued the point back and forth, but in the end even the Captain-General agreed that it would likely be in the best interests to settle the situation quickly, and to do that, they'd have to send an experienced and qualified strategist to oversee the operation of putting down the elven rebellion.

It was a campaign that had, thus far, been over two months in the making, and in the skirmishes of the past the elves had outmaneuvered the Legion to strike crippling hit-and-run blows despite having an obvious disadvantage in numbers. Superior strategy could best all but the most horrendous situations.

Heeling his horse, Bloodlance, forward, he rode toward the closed gate on the south side of the low wall, a double-row of Legionnaires riding at his back.

Lord Ayreg · Date: 2008-06-10 23:43 EST

Ayreg's arrival at the camp had not been unremarked. A few members of the Imperial Legion, sitting at fires turning spits with small animals set upon them, looked up at his passing. He had created the Legion, and if he had not actually met every member of the Legion itself, then at least they knew of him. Smiles bloomed on some faces, others lifted their fists in salute - he raised his own hand to return it, but didn't pull rein for any of them. Some of the Legionnaires turned to their compatriots, asking whispered questions, wondering if he was who they thought he was.

Satisfaction swelled in Ayreg's breast. Satisfaction and pride.

The double-column of Legionnaires that Ayreg had brought with him turned to either side as he approached the command tent. Three flagstaffs marked it out, a tall, walled affair of pale canvas with air vents along the peak that doubled as smoke holes. No smoke issued from them now, for the morning was only a little cool, though the sun hung not far above the horizon. On one flagstaff the red-bordered Imperial Banner hung in limp folds, hiding the eight-pointed star. Some commanders hung it from a horizontal staff so it was always visible in full, but clearly this commander thought that was ostentatious. It didn't bode well for his own personal opinion of the commander - one should not be ashamed of displaying the banner of the Empire. The other two flags, on shorter flanking staves, would be of the Banners that these men belonged to, and their associated Companies.

Ayreg dismounted in front of that tent and removed the Legion helmet he had picked up in Aenshelm. Helmet under his arm, he ducked into the tent to find what must have been most of the camp's officers gathered around a large map spread out on a folding camp table. They straightened and looked up when he walked in, men from Kaul, stoutly built and ruddy-colored, pale-skinned men from Destil, dark-haired men from Sethil, Lledren elves native from Shayltan, Mynwans bearing the silver lightning flashes on their shoulder pauldrons, whip-slender men from K'Talar and Ahrevath. Men from every corner of the Empire. Their stares held a touch of wariness tinged with admiration - he had been known to be a bit of a temper when it came to drilling, accepting no excuses, and offering no quarter to those who slacked.

"Gentlemen," he said cooly, "I wish to speak to the man in command of this campaign."

"I am your man, my Lord," a tall, lean man said in the sharp accents of Sethil, and introduced himself as Adamus Gamilin. Missing the very tip of his right ear, he had a slash of solid white there through his tight black curls and flecks of white elsewhere. Ayreg could see that he was a hard man, self-controlled and confident in himself. He would have had to be to earn the two short silver plumes on his ridged helmet atop the sword-rack, and the embroidered silver dragons across his uniform coat's shoulder-boards. Weak men without mastery of themselves did not rise to Lieutenant-General.

"I've come to ensure a smooth transition of control of the province of Shayltan, Lieutenant-General," Ayreg said, his voice as it ever was - almost a growl, low and gravely, "from open rebellion to peaceful and productive. I understand there have been... difficulties toward that end?"

Gamilin said nothing at first, and the silence began to stretch before he finally barked, "Everybody out." The others saluted, gathered their effects from another table, and filed out. As they passed, they all offered Ayreg a salute, which he returned with a fist to his chest.

When they were all gone, Ayreg approached the table, and the Lieutenant-General leaned on his fists over it. He grunted, "'Difficulties.' Well, that's one word for it."

Lord Ayreg · Date: 2008-06-15 23:30 EST

Ayreg doffed his steel-backed gauntlets and set them one upon the other onto the table beside the map, then leaned forward onto his knuckles. The sinew pulled, cracking as his weight shifted onto them; he didn't seem to notice.

"What is happening, Lieutenant-General?"

Gamilin's face twisted into a sneer as he examined the maps. Like the one he had surveyed with Serik, this map was spread with red discs and wedges to mark Legion troops holding position or on the move - more discs than wedges, it seemed - with their little paper banners noting numbers and compositions. This one did actually have several white discs to mark known enemy positions, though spread in between them all long the line were little clusters of black discs to mark engagements.

"Our troops are spread, my Lord, but we've managed to hem the elves and their sellswords in against the mountains," he gestured across the map of Shayltan, "the battleline is some three hundred miles long, with skirmishes and raids happening almost daily."

Ayreg gave the map a hard eye, but said nothing. Taking his silence as a cue to continue, he did, "They are crafty, these elves; they hit and they run, fading into the trees before we can maneuver to catch them."

Nodding, Jodiah looked up from the map. "Casualties, Lieutenant-General?"

"Some," he said, shaking his head, "They don't hit hard when they do hit, but it's enough to keep the whole Legion off-balance. Their archers pick off a few skirmishers and scouts and then vanish like ghosts. I sent a squadron of lancers after them once when they were trying to make away. These elves, they fight like cornered badgers, my Lord. Lost the cavalry almost to the man, but we did gain some ground. Here," with a point to the map on the north-western edge of the battleline. "Fifty miles, plus or minus, with prisoners to match."

Ayreg turned his gaze back to the map again, studying the lay of the land intently, noting the little lines inked into it to show elevation - the terrain was far from being ideal, forested foothills that grew in intensity right up to the base of the mountains on the eastern border. A thousand hiding spots from which to launch their little pecks.

Gamilin continued, "I said that they were clever, and I do mean it. Whoever's in command knows his business. I've had two Banner-Generals and a number of Captains fought completely off his feet. If only we could close for a decisive engagement, I know we can break them. Until that happens, though, we might as well be scratching at rocks for all the good we're doing."

"Your men don't seem very ready to move," Jodiah observed, glancing over his shoulder to the closed flap of the tent, "and that wall strikes me more as defensive than offensive."

In truth, Ayreg hadn't come to interfere with the Lieutenant-General's command of the Legion, though he would not sit idly by while bad decisions were being made. Bad decisions are what got them into this mess in the first place. It was a gentle reminder though, even so.

"And what would you have me do, my Lord? We're holding on by our fingernails here."

It did not have to be that way - Ayreg saw it in an instant when he examined the red and white discs on the map. The noose was already around the elves' throats; Gamilin just had to tighten it and Shayltan would suffocate under the lances and the boots of the Imperial Legion. If only the man would not be so timid.

Instead, he decided to change the subject - for now. "You mentioned prisoners. Did you learn anything from them?"

"Why, my Lord Ayreg, that would have made this all too easy, now wouldn't it?" There was a sarcastic twist to his lips that made Jodiah want to strike the man. "Come."

Turning, he scooped up his sword and belted it around his waist as he made his way toward the entry flap of the tent. Ayreg donned his own gauntlets again, and tucked the helmet back under his arm. With the Lieutenant-General leading the way, the pair of them left the tent.

Lord Ayreg · Date: 2008-07-15 22:05 EST

Lieutenant-General Gamilin had taken him across the camp to a fenced-in enclosure. The slates of the fence were stout, though not wide, and spaced closely together. Two Legionnaires stood by the gated entrance, their grim duty of watching prisoners not reflected in their demeanor - one of them was gesturing to the other, explaining some story or another with his hands, and the other man was laughing heartily, his head thrown back to where Ayreg doubted he could even have seen the gestures the first one was making.

"So there I was, trying to get on the horse, when..."

The man trailed off when he saw Ayreg and the Lieutenant-General. At their approach, the one telling the story rapped the other man's breastplate with the backs of his knuckles, and they got back to their positions, standing as rigid as stone. Gamilin looked annoyed, eying each men in turn, but Jodiah Ayreg knew the ways of soldiering, and so long as the prisoners remained prisoners, he personally saw no fault in however way they spent their time.

Opening the gate, he, followed closely by Gamilin, stepped inside. The interior of the pen was sparse, most of the grass long having been trod to death by booted feet until it was barely more than a broad pit of almost-dried mud.

"Prisoners," Gamilin said, his voice hard and edged, "on your feet."

The elves, most of them male save for two, did not stand except for the ones who were already standing. In fact, almost all of them industriously paid no attention at all to the two men who entered. One of them did, though. His eyes were ringed in black circles, and his face was lined with age - a formidable age, given that he was an elf. Likely he could have known Gamilin's grandfather in his youth, and Gamilin himself was not young.

"We do not follow the orders of humans who go wrist-licking to demonspawn," the elf spat through his teeth, glaring up at the two men with unhidden contempt.

Gamilin opened his mouth again, but Ayreg silenced him with a hand on his arm. Stepping forward, he was careful where he put his boots - almost-dried was not dry, and it would not do to fall on his face in front of these elves.

"Your name?" he asked, his voice soft the way a sword sliding out of its sheath is soft. The elf only stared at him, his lips compressing into a thin line. "Your name?" A sword that might be used soon.

"Tal'riem," he said, and no more.

"You do not wish me to know your name?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because," the elf said, his chin rising defiantly, "I have family elsewhere in Shayltan that I would not see harmed by my actions of what I know is right."

Ayreg nodded, "You are wise."

He questioned them, one by one, with Gamilin standing there near the gate. Almost all of them were just as helpful as Tal'riem was, which is, to say, not at all. A few of them, younger elves most likely, were even fairly invective as well in their responses. To all of them he asked what their names were, where they hailed from, where the rest of their kith and kin were at, what sort of organization they had in this rebellion. And to each and every question he asked, Ayreg never received a single answer of any consequence.

Satisfied at last that none of them would provide any sort of meaningful intelligence, he stood and turned, marching rigidly past Gamilin. When he was past the gate, the Legionnaires outside stiffened back to positions of attention, but he didn't even bother to look at them this time.

"Kill them," he said, simply.

"A moment," Gamilin protested, reaching up and taking Ayreg by the shoulder. When he turned, the Lieutenant-General's face was contorted into a grim frown, deepening lines on his face that needed no deepening. "Your pardon, my Lord, but I am in command here."

"So you are, Lieutenant-General."

Gamilin blinked, then shook his head, "What you want is a direct violation of laws settled by years of warfare. You--"

"The laws of war?" Ayreg cut him off, taking half a step closer so that their noses were almost touching. "There are no laws in war, Lieutenant-General. There are victors, and there are the defeated. This lot have given no reason for their lives to be spared, and they are a drag upon the Legion's efficiency. They must be guarded, they must be fed. Kill them and be done with it."

"My Lord," Gamilin said slowly, shaking his head. Ayreg could see that his cheeks were starting to redden, and there was a subtle twitch at the corner of his eye. He was a man in mastery of himself, but he was clearly enraged now. "Why have you come?"

"Because the Empress expects a certain degree of progress to be made by the Legion of Rhilshen. Because this situation should have already been dealt with, if it were not for the bumbling of blind fools. Because you yourself have made a mockery of your command, and I am here to put you back onto the path of reestablishing order. Should I continue, Lieutenant-General?"

Gamilin's back stiffened, and his shoulders rolled. He was a man in mastery of himself, a hard man; a man unaccustomed to being called down in general, much less in full view of the men he commands. "No continuance is necessary, my Lord."

"Good," Ayreg's gaze lifted over the Lieutenant-General's shoulder back to the two Legionnaires at the gate of the prisoner's pen. "Kill them." And, with that, he turned and stalked away, adjusting the bracer around his left wrist.

The Legionnaires looked at each other, then at Lieutenant-General Gamilin. He turned, staring at the two men in turn, then nodded, and left back toward the command tent after Ayreg. The guards drew their swords and turned to enter the gate.

One of them spoke, "So, as I was saying, there I was trying to get on the horse..."