Midwich Valley
Third Week of Spring
King Sporatos sat astride his horse, resplendent in his riding armor, and waited while the bowing scout handed her report to one of his aides. It would have been simpler for the scout to speak it aloud, but the peasantry of the army were so unused to the proper protocol necessary amongst royalty that King Sporatos had forbidden it. Should any of the peasants make an error in their address, he would be forced to punish them, and such an execution would be wasteful.
Even this mercy had drawn criticism from some of the army's more reluctant nobility. They tried to paint him as weak, unwilling to discipline the peasantry. He ignored their cims, knowing they were baseless, but privately grated that they were being levied even on the warpath. Politics, he knew, had no realm it dared not enter, not even war.
His aide brought him the report, bowing their head as they handed it to him. He unfolded the parchment, and seeing how tightly pressed the writing was, stopped his horse. The marching column began to part around his entourage like a stream curving around a boulder, not ordered to halt, knowing better than to interrupt or approach the King in any fashion.
As King Sporatos parsed the peasant's barely legible handwriting, he felt his jaw tighten. The scout had already been dismissed, fleeing his royal presence, which he now intended to prevent in the future. He would have wished to interrogate the cims made in this paper.
"...send a second, better trained scout to confirm this report," he said, at length. "And order the commanders to be ready to gather for a council upon the scout's return, should the cims be verified." He folded the paper back up, handing it to another silent aide.
So the Champion's madness begins, he rumbled, a tap of spurs stirring his steed back into motion. Sara of Amarat, a diplomat on the warpath. What other strangeness shall you have in store for me, god-touched child?
He needn't have wondered. Nor had he needed to call the meeting. By the time the second scout had returned, the army had made camp and was well into the night, too te to rouse the scattered nobility. The second report had come from a member of a proper Knight's retinue, and so had provided a much more detailed account. King Sporatos had mulled its contents over with a gss of wine, deciding upon how best to conduct himself when the army arrived. The defensive structure was only a few short hours march away, and he decided the army's leaders could hold their meeting in sight of that which they discussed, the following morning.
And so it was that he found himself standing firmly beneath the rising sun, which shone over the eastern valley wall to illuminate a most impossible construction. Many of the nobility he had gathered were ill able to conceal their shock, whispering incredulous questions to one another, but the King himself stood unmoved in his shining armor, surveying the cancerous mass which had stretched itself across the so-called "Midwich Valley."
White stone of a sort he had never seen before climbed some thirty feet into the air, unbroken by marring lines of masonry or stone joinery. It was as if a great obelisk of white had fallen unto its side, blocking the entire eleven hundred yards of valley without exception. Even the stream, which had throughout the valley widened and narrowed at times, had been just before the wall forcefully dug into a narrow canal, allowed access to the fortification's interior only through what appeared to be an incredibly thick set of iron gates.
Though it may have seemed obelisk-esque in its roughest outline, that the structure before his army was a purposely constructed fortification there could be no mistake. Creneltions significant enough to hide a standing man dotted the entire structure's northward rim, save for turreted outcroppings, where circur bulges to the mass afforded the empcement of defensive ballistae. Ballistae that were inexplicably absent, he noted. Narrow slits also ran just beneath the length of the structure's wall walk, lending the entire thing a diseased, pockmarked countenance. Those murderholes promised a nigh unsuppressable hail of arrows throughout his army's approach.
While an incredibly impressive effort, there were damnable mistakes in its design, at least in King Sporatos's estimation. The gates through which an army occupying the fortification could exit were obviously kept small and spread apart so that a besieger would not be tempted to batter them down. Unfortunately for the Champion, the inverse worked against her forces within, preventing a mass egress of troops in any reasonable timeframe. To better ensure their defense, they had denied themselves the ability to sally out, allowing King Sporatos to make camp in whichever way he so chose, seeing as the enemy could not sally out to strike without a prolonged period of re-organization for their scattered number.
But where is that army? King Sporatos wondered. The white mass was barren of any sign of occupation, not a lookout or guard to be seen. It appeared abandoned, though he was not fool enough to think that so. For however mad or arrogant the Champion may be, she was not wholly without intellect. Whatever the apparent state of the fortification may have been, he knew it and its occupants were ready to defend themselves at a moment's notice.
Having completed his appraisal, he raised a gauntleted hand, calling to silence and order the chattering nobility about him. They fell silent one by one, recognizing his raised fist and calling attention to it by the bowing of their heads. He took satisfaction in that. Even the most recalcitrant of the army's nobility wouldn't dare fail to show proper subservience.
When all had gathered before him, King Sporatos took a deep breath, swelling his chest out.
"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Royal Army, as you can see, the Champion has proved herself an–"
Not a sentence through his opening speech, as if waiting for him to begin speaking, a most foul concoction shot out over the open air. It came in the form of sound, low-pitched and groaning, a jagged razor taken to the edge of a fine harp. Even from the near mile his army stood from the fortification, it overpowered his voice, warbling up and down in pitch, like the mentable oration of a dying leviathan.
Every head of every body in the army turned towards the source, not a one of them understanding what they heard. As if reacting to the multitude of eyes now upon it, the great white mass added to the shifting groan a thudding, pounding rhythm, at a rate of just more than once a second. It thumped into the skies as if emanating from the coordinated marching of a hundred thousand soldiers, a force beyond reckoning advancing down upon them all. Many of the lesser-trained horses of the army began to nicker and shy away, tugging against their reigns in desire to retreat from the auditory assault, and a great many of the peasants cringed with them, a ripple of reaction rolling through the army.
Until, for a lingering few seconds, silence reigned. King Sporatos almost began to speak up once more, to give orders, but then thought better of it. The Champion of Amarat was a creature of drama. This was not the silence of a performance completed.
It was building anticipation.
Abruptly, the warbling wail and its associated pounding redoubled, but rather than the purely unworldly tones of before, it was now joined by the forceful smming of wood against stone. Something more physical than the spell-wrought wail, reverberating in a more natural fashion. He peered closer.
Before his eyes, the entire top of the fortification began to writhe.
Even as his army recoiled in horror, King Sporatos squinted into the depths of the fortification. He soon recognized the movement as the raising of polearms, emerging from behind the wall's lip. The glittering heads of halberds, bouncing to the rhythm of the pounding, their wielding soldiers adding to the cacophony by striking stone with the hafts of their weapons, creating an uneasy confluence of sound both worldly and strange. More steel followed, helmets dazzling bright in the early morning sun, then there was the far rger sight of breastptes moving into view.
In moments the entire wall was occupied by armor-cd soldiers, marching with an inhuman and impossible synchronicity. They came forward to occupy the defenses in perfect unison, well beyond what any amount of training could have accomplished. Their legs swung in lock-step, their armaments bouncing in unbroken blocks. They looked as if they were merely the multiple fingers of some single being, responding to the whims of a single mind. The illusion was furthered by the unique uniformity of their dress, each soldier's armor a perfect replica of one another's. The entire force, every st one of its many thousands of members, was outfitted as if on parade.
Silence reigned once more, longer, and for a brief moment, King Sporatos was tempted by the thought that the dispy was completed. This hope was dashed by the echoing of a melodious voice, one he had not heard in nearly a year, yet had spent so much time agonizing over that it was as known to him as his most hated rivals.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Sporaton people, welcome to the first-ever performance of Sara Brown's rendition of the world-famous song, Escape From Midwich Valley!" The Champion's voice boomed, roaring with the same preternatural quality of the earlier onsught. "For those of you conscripted into this war, I would like to remind you of two things: your king's a nd-grubbing no-good blue-blooded egotistical prick, and surrender is always an option. Here in Tulian, those who wish to flee tyranny will always be welcomed with open arms! If you wish for more information on the appropriate methods of surrender, or even methods of subtle resistance against your so-called noble oppressors, please consult the instructions helpfully hidden beneath the grass you now stand on!"
Throughout the army, powerless to stop it, King Sporatos watched peasants bend down and lift away chunks of grass, untold thousands pulling up rolled papers that had been hidden beneath cut pieces of sod.
The Champion's narration continued on, echoing in a fwless imitation of excitable town-criers and jousting tournament announcers. "And now, if I can receive the attention of the commanders and leaders of the army bearing down on our beautiful little Republic, I'll move on to the discussion of the upcoming maaaaain event! In matters of war, I'll inform you that I, the Champion of Amarat, have no respect nor regard for the chivalric codes of war you hold dear! I will bite, cw, and tear my way to victory, and the only rule of warfare I value is the white fg of parley and surrender! Until it is raised, I and my troops will never cease our attack, never stop killing, and never fail to take the opportunity to stab you in the back, so-called honor be damned! If you don't believe me, King Sporatos, you simpering, boot-licking, knee-bending toadie of masked heretics, come and put it to the test, because I will gdly ride out beneath the fg of truce in just a few short hours! Until then, please remain rexed, seated, and enjoy the music!"
With her speech completed, the hideous screeches that the Champion cimed to be music ripped once more over the grasses, a rushing roar that returned the cacophonous tones to the air.
Beet-red with fury he could not hide, King Sporatos whirled away from the fortification, signaling with a circling fist for the army's commanders to follow him. The hideous music was too loud to hold easy conversation from their present location, and what he had pnned to say to them had very much changed, regardless. He snagged a runnerboy by the shoulder and barked orders into the child's ear for his tent to be prepared, then shoved him in the appropriate direction. The child bolted off at a dead sprint, leaving King Sporatos churning his boots through the valley grass.
All around him, he caught sight of peasants retrieving the hidden parcels of paper the Champion had prepared, no doubt loaded with insidious instructions for the few commoners capable of literacy. He snapped off another set of orders, prompting officers to begin ripping the papers from the hands of their troops, but he at once regretted letting his anger get the best of him. The papers were too numerous for them to be properly confiscated. Much as in the court, the censorious efforts he had just incited would only enfme the peasant's curiosity.
He shook his head like a bull, shaking the thought free. No matter. The peasants were a distant secondary concern. He had far greater matters to attend to.
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Through her looted Carrion spygss, Sara watched the King retreat back through his army, foppishly dressed nobles stumbling after him like lost ducklings. She had to give the old man credit; for a dude in his sixties, he was leaving people far younger than him in his dust.
When she lost sight of the King among the press, she stepped back from the murderhole with a smirk on her face, snapping the spygss closed.
"A satisfactory reaction, Master?" Evie asked.
"Looks like it. At the very least, I pissed him off."
"I am not surprised."
"Think he'll show up for the parley?"
"You just told him you intend to disregard every rule of war, that you would happily stab him in the back given the chance, and that he was a cowardly tool of heretics, which also served to enfme the most hideous of rumors that the political factions opposing him bandy about."
"So that's a no?"
"I would not hold my breath, Master."
Sara sighed, stepping back from the murderhole. She'd expected as much. The music still pounded around her, providing its benefits to her army, but she could still hold a conversation with Evie in the cramped space. As she'd hoped, when Champion's Inspiration was stretched far enough, it lost some of its more physical qualities. It could still be frighteningly loud if she chose, and maximum volume still scaled with distance, but it wasn't deafening to those in her immediate proximity. Its limits were vague in a helpful way, and she'd decided not to interrogate it, lest she accidentally tweak whatever subconscious magical direction it was running off of.
She and Evie cmbered out of the murderhole, taking one st look at the enemy some mile away. The columns of peasant levies carried their equipment upon their bodies, meaning they were as equipped for battle then as they ever would be. That armor constituted nothing more than a padded gambeson, which was admittadly considerably more protective against sshing blows than Sara's modern eye would have guessed, the only protective metal of consequence coming from their derogatorily-named kettle helmets. Their spears were at least uniformly well-made, of sturdy wood with long, piercing steel tips, but that was all she could say for their condition.
When put up against the nobility that rode among them, it was a study in contrasts. The beautiful interlocking sets of Knight's armor were uncompromising in their protection of the wearer, better even than Sara's vague recollections of Earthly contemporaries. Glossy steel ptes, some deeply dyed by rich paints, others left shining brilliantly bare, slipped and slid over one another without any difficulty. With Skills adding supernatural quality to the works of already brilliant smiths, there wasn't even any need for exposed linkage or chainmail. As best Sara could tell, though each and every set of Knight's armor she saw was unique, none had a single gap in the armor, save for the eyes. Only to allow vision did the smiths allow small slits, or, more commonly, a woven wireframe of what she could only assume to be highly-enchanted metal. As Evie had trained Sara and the rest of the Irregurs, there would be no easy way to kill a Knight. Her only hope would be to either bludgeon the Knights to unconsciousness or take them to the ground, where she could work a knife between the tight-pressed and squirming ptes of the shoulder or waist.
The vaunted Sporaton cavalry were the most intimidating. They rode at the back of the column, difficult to discern even with her Carrion spygss, but they still practically glowed under the sunlight. The heavy Lancers had taken the same quality of armor that covered the Knights and sthered it across the entire bodies of their horses, taking what may have been a vulnerable mount and turning its very crushing weight into a weapon of war. Evie had told her that each specially-bred horse had been trained from infancy to the age of five before being first ridden into battle, endlessly drilled within their armor until they had lost nearly all fear of physical harm. As far as the horses of the Lancers were concerned, the only thing they had to fear from a collision was the displeasure of their Knights, should the splinters that remained have once belonged to something expensive. The lighter cavalry were less exceptional, only the chest, neck, and haunches of their horses covered in sheets of steel, but they were all the faster for it. Unlike the massive ten-foot nces, which couldn't be hidden, the light cavalry kept their four-foot cavalry sabres in the sheath, but she knew they would be there. At the speed those horses could obtain, just the ft of the saber colliding with a helmet would be enough to knock someone's head off, much less when accounting for the razor edge the riders religiously maintained.
Sara licked her lips. Of all her priorities in this war, avoiding the Sporaton Cavalry while in the open field was her greatest. If they caught her ft-footed, the war might end then and there.
There were more than a few surprises waiting in store for the Sporaton army making camp further down the valley, not just this fort, but while she watched the army gather, she couldn't help but wonder. She'd done all she could to prepare, quite literally, but would even that monumental effort be enough? The sheer volume of concrete needed for the fort had required repurposing entire vilges to its construction, highjacking grain mills and waterwheels to turn them into janky medieval versions of concrete mixers, employing hunderds of farmers in quarries for the mortar and aggregate. Even though a mill was often the center of a vilge's economy, Sara had ordered several disassembled and moved to the fort's location, just to complete things in time. The northern vilges of Tulian had been the first to be abandoned for the oncoming invasion, weeks before the northern spring, and not because they were in the invasion path. Sara had coopted so much of their bor that they couldn't tend their fields, and eventually had to move back to the city just to live somewhere with enough food to go around.
And it could all go to waste, if I didn't py the King's ego right, Sara mused darkly. She didn't let herself linger on the thought, though, because it was what the meeting she was heading to was intended to discuss. Evie kept her rapier summoned off her hip as she guided Sara along the fort's walls, moving towards a command bunker that had been constructed behind the lines.
They were the st to arrive, as was often the case. Sara scanned the faces in the room as chairs were thrown back and commanders went to attention, for once not immediately dismissing them.
There were the core commanders she knew well, who had come up through Voth's bandit raids. There had been considerable reorganization of the ranking system as their numbers swelled to five thousand, but those in ultimate command were the same.
Those most senior in the room were Colonels, in overall command of near a thousand troops each.
Sarig, a scarred orc man who had been the first to convert his troops from shortswords to halberds, citing prior personal experience. Perhaps as was appropriate for a commander of heavy infantry, he cked initiative, but was exceptional at holding his formations together.
Alsen, a younger human talent only slightly older than Sara. He had distinguished himself quickly under Voth's employ, getting promoted with a rapidity that would have been impossible under other, less desperate circumstances. The inverse of Sarig, he had a hot-tempered streak and propensity for sudden charges that would have been more appropriate for a cavalry commander, and if Sara had any trained horses, she'd have given them to him without hesitation.
Shale, the human in charge of the Republic's Combat Engineers, and the only one who Sara had trusted with a modicum of knowledge regarding her most closely guarded contingencies. She had an awful addiction to the tobacco-esque pipes favored by some in Tulian, the haze of smoke that followed her more distinctly identifying than her face. An ominous but appropriate symbol of things that might come, to Sara's mind.
Ese, another human woman, whose combative attitude regurly teetered on the edge of verbal abuse. She was the oldest in the room, in her mid fifties, but she'd only begun her combat career as a part of an anti-bandit vilge militia two years ago. Before then she'd been a carpenter, and something of her Skills from that career seemed to lend her an affinity for handling wooden siege weaponry.
Finally, there was Colonel Targ, one of Voth's old army buddies. He was the only one among the senior command staff with experience fighting in a true army, before Old Tulian's colpse, but that had only been as a lowly sergeant, in command of twenty troops. He'd risen well to the challenge Sara presented him, however, and was one of the few that had kept up with Evie's military jargon from the very beginning.
Voth himself, unfortunately, hadn't shown. True to his word on the day they'd met, he ftly refused to fight the Royal Army. He'd wished them luck, and agreed to work with the vilge militias to fend off what raiding parties he could during the course of the war, but that was it. As he'd openly admitted to her in their final meeting, he didn't think Sara was going to win, and was now more concerned with padding his resume for the Sporaton occupiers. He reasoned that if he demonstrated enough skill as a commander, without actually harming any nobility of importance, there was a decent chance he could end up with a well-paying position in some mercenary company or noble retinue. Perversely, Sara had so greatly respected both the invaluable aid he'd provided and his blunt honesty that she'd wished him luck. Voth was a good man, if a bit too practical for her liking.
Behind each of the Colonels sat their own subordinates, many of which Sara knew nearly as well as the senior staff themselves. The ranks beneath Colonel went Captain, Lieutenant, Sergeant, then Private, the st being rank-and-file soldiers without any command of their own. Mostly due to constraints of space, the command bunker was open only to those of Lieutenant rank and above, and not even every Lieutenant could be present, but Sara knew those that were would rey what was said to the others.
"At ease," Sara said, granting the army's commanders permission to return to their chairs. They gratefully did so, and Sara sat down at the head of the table, scooping Evie up into her p. She began her report without preamble.
"Thankfully, the King's troops seemed to be as surprised by our fort as we'd hoped. The efforts to employ only long-term Tulian natives in its construction while luring spies to the capital's defensive efforts appear to have been successful. Further, I do not believe that the King will be retreating back down the valley to bypass the fort to press on to the capital."
"And why is that?" Ese demanded. "He's an old fuddy-duddy. Hates surprises. He's got every advantage on the open field, and it only makes sense for him to back up and go around us. If he moves to attack Tulian, we'd have to charge out and stop him."
"Correct on all accounts," Sara said, "but missing a few pieces. He's here to capture me, not the city, and destroying the army we've built is his secondary concern. The city of Tulian itself is a distant third concern, and if assumes I'm anything like him, he'll think I'd rather stand strong in this fort than risk lives for mere peasants. So my presence is bait one for a frontal assault. Still, he's smart, and I bet he'd know that going to the capital could draw us out. Even if it didn't work, what're an extra few weeks of marching, to him? He could sack the city and return to siege us here, his troops fat and happy off the spoils. Thus, bait two: insulting the hell out of him. I called him a coward, stirred up his peasants, and threw in a bit of accusations about the legitimacy of his masked advisors, which we already know the nobles don't trust."
"What's the advisors have to do with it?" Targ asked.
"They're smart, and they'll be advising the King to do exactly what he should do: retreat down the valley, get out, and go directly to the city. I'm willing to be they'll know even better than him how unlikely I am to let Tulian burn. Now that I've cimed those advisors have his balls in their hands, though, he'll have to pcate the nobility, who'll be slobbering mad at the idea of their king following some weirdo cult's orders. Combine that with the insults and wounded pride, and he'll have a damn hard time backing out of this fight without looking like a pansy."
"He still will, though," Ese argued. "He's as by the book as it gets, by Evie's account, and the book says never to attack prepared defenses if you can help it."
"He is indeed 'by the book', Colonel Ese," Evie said from Sara's p, "but that does not extend to just his military command. He has a greater affinity for political matters than he does war, and as every good King should, he prioritizes the accumution and maintenance of personal power beyond all else. Militarily, assaulting our defenses will be costly in terms of peasant lives, but what are peasant lives next to preventing political instability? Even if one were to argue morality, the cost of Sporaton lives in a prolonged civil war far outstrips an assault upon our single fortification. I believe he will attack."
Sara nodded. "And seeing as she's the one that knows the King best, and it's what we're damn well praying for, we're going to operate under the assumption he'll attack."
Sara leaned forward, circling a finger around the models representing the Sporaton army's disposition on the table's map.
"Problem is, he's not wrong for doing it. When you run the numbers, he's got enough bodies to overrun us. It'll be a damn bloodbath, but he ought to be able to manage it. Have you all received the test troop estimates?"
There was a round of nods from the Colonels, but not all of the Captains and Lieutenants, so Sara went over it again. "Nearly sixteen thousand peasant levies, either archers or basic spearmen with limited armor, mostly gambeson and metal caps and whatnot. They're unfortunately supported by eight hundred cavalry, led by a renowned Knight named Emeric something-or-other, the sort of commander with a track record that's been getting all the noble dies fanning their panties dry in the ga bathrooms."
A round of chuckles. By every account Emeric was a talented commander, not someone to joke about, but Sara didn't see much point in hyping up an already uded enemy to her own troops. "Emeric's cavalry seem to be divided up into a core of two hundred heavy Lancers, complimented by six hundred lighter cavalry equipped with spears. If we get caught in the open field, our halberds should be able to hold off the light cavalry without issue, so long as the troop's bravery and morale holds, but the Lancers have enchanted armor and weapons, so they're likely capable of risking a headlong charge. Beyond the cavalry, which won't py much part in a siege beyond maybe acting as dismounted Knights, enemy mage and Irregur compliments appear to be as expected."
As she spoke, she'd been indicating each whittled model on the table, and it was only now that she moved to the center of the enemy army, where the mass of simple troops y in wait. Among them, denoted by their carved robes, were the source of Sara's brightest-burning anxiety.
"Ultimately, for the siege, I'm worried about the mages more than anything else. They're the biggest variable by a wide margin, the only ones capable of doing physical harm to the fort itself, and I don't see a damn way we can know exactly what they're capable of do until they start doing it. Irregurs and Knights could wreak ungodly havoc if they manage to get up on the wall, but it's only the mages that'll be flinging shit worth worrying about from a distance. Any suggestions for our strategy?"
"Are the ballistae rails ready?" Targ asked, addressing the question to Colonel Shale, who nodded.
"Finished a few days ago, which was too damn close, you ask me. Should be able to pop up and skewer any mage we see, then roll the goods back into cover before they can respond. It'll be damn hard to keep a consistent aim, seeing as the whole thing shakes like a bitch in heat, but I trust my troops. They'll figure it out."
"Good," Sara said. "Remember, these are real battle mages, so I doubt they'll give us the opportunity to shish-kebab 'em on the spot. I'm not expecting you to kill them, just distract them enough they don't rip the walls down around our ears. You're to preserve the siege weapons for as long as you can. Don't take risky shots."
"Understood, General. Shouldn't be too hard to convince the kids to avoid getting charbroiled, anyway."
Sara allowed herself a smirk. "Funny how that works, huh? Just make sure they don't roll the ballistae off the back of the fort."
Sara scanned the faces of those present, taking in their attitudes at a gnce. On the whole, it was a cautious optimism that characterized most of the senior command staff of her minuscule army. As she expected, the lower down the ranks, the greater the optimism. The Captains and Lieutenants, having not worked as closely with her, put a great deal of stock in her mysterious Champion's status. They hadn't seen anything war-winning out of her yet, but there was a certain type that seemed convinced she was just waiting for the right time to reveal it.
Unfortunately, Sara's estimations better fit the Colonel's. They had pursed lips and looks of careful concentration, surveying the lines of battle with no small amount of trepidation. Tactically, the faith of the lower ranks in her was great for morale, but strategically, overconfidence could get them killed. She'd have to tamper their expectations.
"Let's look at our own forces now, to see what we can do." Sara swept her hand over the section of the map which denoted their defensive line. "Together, we'll be defending three thousand feet of wall. Each soldier, whether they have a halberd or a spear, walks with their shoulders nearly touching their fellows, and the average non-orc soldier has a shoulder width of two feet. That means that, if we don't want any gaps in the line, we'll have at minimum fifteen hundred troops active on the front line."
"But they wont' be able to attack everywhere," a Captain said, nodding to the models of various siege engines that were kept off to the side. "They'll have to pick and choose their points of assault."
"A good point," Sara said, less because it was, and more because she wanted to encourage the lower ranks to speak up. "But it doesn't change the fact that we need at least fifteen hundred troops on the wall. Preferably three thousand, to give us ranks two deep. If we weaken or abandon the line in any particur spot, their Irregurs could seize the opportunity to gain the wall, and it'll be a hell of a lot harder to force them off. If they break through even once, we'll have fifteen thousand spears rushing in like water through a dam, and we couldn't plug that hole. We've got to hold everywhere, all the time." Sara tapped her finger on the map. "So. Three thousand of our halberds are taken up just manning the walls. What archers we have will be in the murderholes, around eight hundred or so, and that leaves us with around twelve hundred reserves."
"The bulk of which will be my troops," Colonel Shale said.
"Exactly. The combat engineers. Your troops will be operating the ballistae as best they can, but we don't have enough to occupy a thousand troops. I know your battalion's spent the least time of any training for combat, and that's no fault of your own. It's what I wanted. That said, do you think they'll be capable of reinforcing when necessary? Of holding the line while the others go back to rest?"
"Yes," Colonel Shale said simply. "You named them combat engineers, ma'am, not engineers. They'll fight, and even if they're not as practiced, they'll damn well figure it out quick. I got the best and brightest in the army under my command, I've made sure of it."
"Good. Now, as for supplies, we've got to talk about distribution. The murderholes being isoted is great for structural integrity, but it complicates the distribution of arrows..."
With the lower ranks now appraised of the rger picture, Sara began moving to the logistical minutia that truly mattered in a siege. All of it was predicated on the idea that King Sporatos would take the bait, that he would assault them here and now, rather than retreat a ways and move on to Tulian, and that was no guarantee. As she'd said, she just had to prepare for what she thought would happen, and be ready to pivot when it didn't.
Even when battle was met, she didn't think her pn would go swimmingly. She wasn't that stupid. Evie had drilled it into her head over and over again that any pn, no matter how perfect, was useless the first instant bdes met in earnest. There would be unpredicted successes, unanticipated failures, and confusion enough to drown in. Only Sara's ability to adapt, to turn and face the new reality, would carry them through the day.
That, and the wooden crates hidden in the depths of the fort. Those were the other wild card, the smoldering embers beneath a bonfire's worth of kindling. Should the walls begin to fall, only the gods knew what would happen next.
Sara just knew it would be very, very violent.
