Al's Rabbit Hole
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Days Gone By Chapter 14
🕑 Added 2025-10-18 02:56:12 +0000 UTC…it’s a strange thing, war. Kill a dozen men, be called a hero. Burn a building to the ground, be showered in accolades. Butcher a good man, a good leader, be remembered as a legend. Any other world, any other time, and we’d be known as monsters, but here, in this strange time, and this strange place, in this strange, pointless war, they sang songs about us. The things we did, we did because we had to. Not out of malice, or hatred, or any of the other little weasel words that people use to justify it, but because we were there to do a job. In a hundred years, when they talk about Gallia’s part in the war, I wonder what they’ll say about us, on days like this.
-Chapter 3, The End of the Beginning, Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front
Chapter 14
Jerry sat in the shade of the ruined Imperial command building and breathed the stink of burnt meat and oil. Radi Jaeger’s sword rested across his thighs, its lacquered scabbard scored with soot, the brass throat still warm from the sun that had pushed through after the storm. Around the edges of the blackened field, Militia and a few Regulars milled in loose knots. They kept their distance, glancing at him in that sideways way that he'd had to get used to, ever since Bruhl and he picked up that stupid nickname. Their voices didn't carry to him, though, which suited him fine. The warmth on his face felt like a borrowed comfort, as his bones ached with fatigue, the kind that set his joints heavy and made his muscles ache.
Jane sat nearby with the rest of the Pride. They wore the same uniform of grime and smoke, their coats stiff with dried rain, their boots ringed white with mineral lines. When anyone drifted too close to the cordon, Jane’s stare turned them aside. Out of all of them she had been the most... protective, of their space. It was something he and the others had appreciated when the lookie-loos had gotten to be almost oppressive, and it had been giving them something resembling peace despite the warzone around them.
Juno lounged on a broken lintel and pretended not to watch the perimeter, though her gaze skated each alley mouth, each rooftop, then returned to the street with the patience of a metronome. The field notebook on her knee carried neat block letters and a penciled notation of their operation, the woman not quite ready to unplug. Every so often she lifted the brim of her cap, listened to the wind come off the river, lost in her thoughts, before adding some other thought to the field report she was doubtlessly composing.
Wendy lay back on an ammo crate with her cap pulled over her eyes, bootheels knocking a soft rhythm against the wood. She'd worked the hardest out of all of them, and even her boundless enthusiasm for all things explosive had to end somewhere. Jerry didn't blame her for drifting off like she had, between the long hours of the operation and the time she'd spent beforehand putting her little gifts together. Honestly, he kind of envied her for that, as his own exhaustion had yet to seemingly find the limits of his endurance.
Marina, out of all of them, seemed content to linger in the shadows nearby. She'd put in some good work on overwatch, and while most of her shots had happened after the camp was in ruins, she'd managed to rack up quite a tally. That included her killshots on Radi, at the end there, and for that Jerry had made a note to see she get something for it, despite everyone and their uncle contributing the kill to him. She didn't seem to mind downplaying her part in it, though, and Jerry respected that. He knew the value of privacy, especially now that they all seemed to be losing it bit by bit.
Since the guns fell quiet they had waited for the same word: relief, hot chow, and a dry bunk. In those slow hours each of them worked the stiffness out of sore hands, traded sips from canteens, checked straps and laces, and let the wet stink bake off their coats while they kept quiet watch around him.
Across the river, clouds broke in slow pieces, and the light found the churned mud where bodies had been, where gear still lay strewn. Welkin had come up from the eastern bank in a way no one expected, having waterproofed his tank and run it under the river by the canal bed. He had punched out of the water a half kilometer away and ripped into the rear of the Imperials while the camp still reeled from the blasts. By then the fight had mostly bled out of them. Jerry wasn't surprised, though. It was a hard thing to keep going when your general died gasping over the open air.
Jerry flexed his fingers over the sword. He didn't hate Radi Jaeger. He didn't hate most of the men he had killed, really. That was the cold reality of war, he supposed. Nature of the beast, to steal a quote, but he'd killed the man all the same. There should have been some more to it, he felt. Some kind of weight, but in the end whatever he was supposed to feel, for good or ill, didn't really matter. Alicia had come to him afterward with the sword held in both hands, her eyes steady, a mixture of pride and sadness in them, but for whatever that meant, he didn't know.
“Sergeant?”
He hadn't heard Juno's approach, lost in his own thoughts as he was. Glancing up, he saw the same weary tiredness in her eyes that he was sure his own reflected.
“Hm?” he asked. He turned to look at her, giving her his full attention, and glad for it, just to take his mind from the hole he was digging.
“How are you holding up, Boss?”
An odd thing to ask, but then, he had been sitting there for two hours by his watch, neither sleeping nor looking at anything in particular. The question felt fair enough after a moment's thought. He chuffed a low chuckle, and shrugged.
“I’m tired, all told. It was a long night, and we're not done yet, feels like. Speaking of, though, did they get back to you with the prelims?" He asked, and for a moment, she shot him a searching look, before swallowing whatever it was she was going to ask, and nodding instead. "What’s the count?”
Juno shuffled her notebook, looking through it, before settling on something, offering it over to him as she spoke.
“Four hundred and thirty three, sir,” she said. “That was between the barracks and the depots going up. There’s another three hundred they’re attributing to battle damage, and… well, sir, they’re having some trouble identifying all the remains.”
Jerry nodded once, seemingly untouched by the news. That also wasn't surprising, given what they'd used. The stuff was napalm on steroids, and burned twice as hot. Given that it could melt steel with enough time, he didn't want to imagine what it could do to bones.
“Make sure everyone gets chow and fresh uniforms. Showers too, if they can manage it. You all earned it,” he said, handing the book back. Juno lingered a heartbeat, as if she wanted to say something else, but she noticed someone approaching, and decided to let it lie, for now.
He watched her go, then set the sword against the blackened stump beside him and stood to work feeling back into his knees. He had just rolled his shoulders when Welkin came up the lane with Alicia at his shoulder and Largo and Rosie a pace behind. The four of them moved with the shared gait of people who had been rushing from one fire to the next, and it seemed like it was his turn.
“Sergeant,” Welkin said.
Jerry saluted. “Lieutenant,” he said, as Welkin returned it with a snap. “Mission success, sir.”
Welkin nodded, formal for a breath, before letting the stiffness go. The day had been long enough for all of them, and the job of flushing out the last of the holdouts was still going on despite the battle being largely over.
“It really was, wasn’t it?” Welkin said. He looked at Jerry with a complicated stare, pride and worry set side by side. “Beyond our wildest expectations, it seems. Congratulations on besting General Jaeger.”
The words came out almost ceremonial on Welkin’s tongue, but Jerry understood the need. Someone would read this in a report with a seal at the top and a signature at the bottom, so all of the pomp and bullshit would need to be said.
“It was a hard-fought win, sir. My soldiers performed admirably,” Jerry said.
“I’ll make sure to write up the commendations myself, for all the good it’ll do,” Welkin replied, though both already knew how that would go over. Still, Jerry shot the younger man a grateful look for the effort.
“Didn’t expect anything less, Lieutenant. So what’s the word?” he asked.
“Not much to say, right now,” Welkin said. “There are rumblings about securing several of the border towns around Vasel to lock the area down. The Regulars are taking the bulk of the armor and artillery towards Aslone, but we’re being directed towards Kloden. Apparently General Damon is less than pleased about the militia showing him up by taking Vasel back.” Welkin snorted and shook his head. The sound had less humor than he probably meant it to. It made sense though, considering. For all Von Damon was a noble, the obese general was a lot of Nob and not a lot of Bull.
“So they want us out of sight, huh? At least until they want to throw us against another meat grinder,” Jerry said with a dour snort. Welkin lifted his hands in a helpless little shrug.
Jerry turned his attention to Largo and Rosie. They both looked like they'd been in the thick of the fighting, and say what he would about them, they pulled their weight. It didn't stop him from adding his own two cents in, though.
“Those two falling in, Welkin?” Jerry asked. He kept his voice low, though the two in question heard him anyway. Neither seemed much like they wanted to get into it with him though.
“Yeah,” Welkin said, more confidently. “There won’t be any more issues, at least not there.”
Jerry let the answer sit. He had his doubts, but he'd been proven wrong before, and neither had piped up a word to the contrary. All the same, he would keep an eye out. Actions spoke louder than words, and what he'd seen of them didn't exactly impress.
“Then that’s that, I suppose,” he said, as he kept the rest of his thoughts to himself, instead asking, “Where do you want us in all this?”
“R and R,” Welkin said. “The whole squad is getting three days downtime before we move out, so I want you all well rested before we start hunting Imps in the Wildwood. It’s treacherous terrain, though, so make sure you read up on it. Lots of deep woods, with a lot of biodiversity, and depending on how it goes we could be there for weeks, if not months." Despite the description, Welkin couldn't help but seem almost wistful, something Jerry noticed. He nodded and let a sly grin touch his face.
“Sounds like someone is excited about going there,” he said, teasingly. Welkin gave a bit of a sheepish laugh and rubbed the back of his head.
“I really kind of am. It’s a rich—” he began, and Jerry blinked, he knew that tone. Seems Welks was winding up for a whole speech on it, as was his wont. Jerry really shouldn't have prodded the biologist.
Alicia coughed into her hand, sparing them all the trouble but shooting Jerry a slightly annoyed look in the process. He held up his hands in surrender. The sound pulled Welkin back to the present, and he seemed to remember he had something else going on.
“Sorry,” he said. He rubbed the back of his head and looked properly abashed.
“Sir, we still have to visit the other teams,” Alicia said, giving him a prod to the back. "I'm sure Sergeant Finch would be happy to have you come by and tell him all about Kloden later." Ah, apology not accepted then, just a stay of execution.
Welkin agreed with a nod, and the two turned to go. Largo and Rosie stayed where they were. Jerry sat back on the stump unceremoniously as he eyed the two.
“You want something, Potter? Stark?” Jerry asked. He kept his tone even, if curious.
Largo and Rosie shared a quick look. Then Largo squared his shoulders and came forward with his arms crossed. He looked like he was chewing on something he didn't like, but that was the man's nature, Jerry was beginning to suspect.
“Yeah, I got something to say,” Largo said without preamble. Jerry raised one eyebrow and waited.
“Look… We ain’t on the same page. I can see that. And frankly I don’t like you very much, but-”
“But?” Jerry asked. The word came out cold as a dead man.
“But you’re good at what you do. I shouldn’ta doubted you. I’m willing to bury it, we both are, if you are,” Largo said.
Jerry studied the big man for a long moment and said nothing. He watched the man with a searching gaze, and Largo, for all his size, found that the look made him feel... smaller. He didn't like it, but he held his tongue, for once.
“Do your job. I’ll do mine,” Jerry said at last. “Do that, we won’t have any friction there. But if I catch either of you cornering another member of the squad...”
“By the Valkyrur, I don’t know why you’re defending those people. I thought you Vinlanders hated them more than we did,” Rosie cut in. Largo’s face tightened in alarm, but the words were already loose. Jerry looked at her and felt the same tired disgust he saved for the Imps normally.
“I have enough problems to add that to the list, Stark,” he said, biting. “And you keep this shit up, don’t be surprised if you have an ‘accident’ out there.”
Rosie’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?” she hissed, bristling, as things rapidly spiraled.
Jerry snorted, almost dismissing her in the process with how little he thought of that statement.
“No, Stark, least not from me. You aren’t worth the bullet. But you keep on making enemies like that, you won’t just have the Imps to worry about." Jerry rumbled, not giving an inch to the twintailed woman. "That said, you come at Isara again I’ll fold you up like a paper crane and shove you into the trash where you belong. And that was a threat,” he said. Rosie drew breath to answer, but Largo cut ahead of her with a hard look and a lifted hand.
“We hear you, Finch. You won’t be hearing about it from us again,” Largo said, trying desperately to get a reign on things. Rosie spun on him with a look that cut of betrayal, like she couldn't believe Largo would side with him on this. The anger, and the hurt, were bright and raw, but Largo didn't pause.
“He’s right,” Largo said. “I saw it happen, now and again on the front back in the last war. He’s not asking you to marry a darkie, just lay off on them.” He turned back to Jerry and set his jaw. “Same for you, Finch. Take your own damn advice.”
He hooked his fingers under Rosie’s elbow and steered her away before things could devolve worse. Jerry watched them go until the crowd took them. Then he picked up the sword and laid it gently across his thighs once more, as if its weight could steady the day that lay ahead.
000
Evening settled heavy over Vasel. Clouds carried the last of the storm across the river and left the streets dim and wet. Jerry climbed the stairwell of the building the Pride had claimed and paused on the landing to listen. Rain dripped in a steady line from a broken gutter into a metal bucket below, each tap clear in the quiet. The place lacked the dry comfort of the bank, but the roof didn't leak and the walls were solid. That counted for something, and honestly they'd slept in worse.
He pushed into the shared space with an exhausted sigh. Jerry had strung a canvas sheet into a lean-to against a support beam and rolled his bedroll beneath it. A small lantern sat cold on a crate beside a battered kettle, and his own meager belongings had been brought over from across the bridge. It was home enough, though, with the others having pitched their tents through the room and someone, likely Juno, had put together a cookfire stove in the middle of the room. The windows had long since blown out so ventilation wasn't an issue, and honestly having hot coffee and stew on demand was worth the effort.
He set his helmet on the crate and hung Radi Jaeger’s sword from a short peg he had hammered into the beam. The weapon didn't sit quite right, hanging there, but it made little difference to Jerry. It was a good sword, far as he knew swords to be, and the general wore it proudly, and used it with great and practiced skill. Didn't save him in the end, though, but that didn't diminish the blade. The idea of it though, a trophy, a war prize, however one might look at it, though? He still didn't know how he felt about it.
The city lay quiet in the way cities did after a fight. A cart moved below with two Militia pushing it by the handles. The cart carried shovels, sacks, and a stack of stretchers. A nurse followed with a clipboard under one arm and spoke to them without breaking stride. They turned left at the corner toward the river and disappeared from view. Another burial detail. There had been a fair few going around and collecting the dead, pulling them off to a mass grave outside the city limits. It was more of a pyre, all told, to get rid of the bodies of the Imps and prevent any diseases from cropping up, but it was all the same in the end.
He drank from a cup of coffee and let his mind step back through the hours. The moments after the bombs went off had been chaos and bedlam. As he fought with Jaeger, Welkin had come up fast along the canal road. He had somehow waterproofed his tank and driven it under the river, then burst out on the west bank a half kilometer from the camp. He had cut into the Imperials while they were still in disarray, the troops holding the bridge not knowing what to do without the head of the serpent leading them. The barracks had been ablaze, the depot stockpiles had already gone up, and the machine shop was a ruin. A few platoons held together and returned fire, fighting a desperate retreat, but many stragglers didn't. Some fought because that was what they knew. Some threw down their rifles and raised their hands because they judged the day over and wanted to see the next one. Many ran, for all the good it did them.
When Welkin reached the bridge controls, he had found the panel intact and the way clear. He had lifted the levers and released the clamps. The bridge, left down as an artery right into the center of West Vasel and fortified by a dozen tanks and a hundred men, had risen, dumping dozens into the river and sending more tumbling down on both sides of the accessway. A lot of soldiers were crushed by tumbling tanks, and more drowned, even as the bridge, now cleared, was dropped back down for the weight of Gallia's armies to pour over.
Reports already circled about the day’s result. Two battalions worth of men removed from the rolls one way or another. An armored company broken and scattered. Radi’s elite guard had tried to fight on, but to little effect. It had been a hard blow by any measure, and the main army command didn't enjoy seeing the militia take the credit for it. General Damon had been very open about the difficulty of the operation, calling the task impossible.
He'd had to eat those words now that it sat done. By evening he and his staff had rushed through Vasel and pushed toward Aslone with every gun and can they could gather. Damon had been humiliated, and he was going to make it everyone's problem, ripping away every Regular still standing, along with anything else of value. They would leave the militia scraps, largely consisting of whatever they couldn't haul away and tell them to be grateful for it. It was an old habit and not worth the breath to curse at. Good riddance all the same.
He turned from the window and set the empty cup on the crate. The squat felt larger now that the sound of the street had faded. He took the notebook from his pocket and opened it on his knee. The after action report needed to be short and precise. He wrote the time of assembly, the route through the storm drain, the points of contact, the confirmed sites of sabotage, and the moment the bridge controls changed hands. There wasn't any need to conflate anything. God knew that the stories floating around would do enough damage as it was.
Juno had kept good notes, from her perch in the tower. Despite their visibility concerns, they;'d only needed to move twice, and both had been textbook perfect. Their overview had been enough to buy Jerry enough space to truly set up the disasterpiece that had ended with Radi's death. Marina had contributed in her own way more after the fireworks went off, picking off officers and sending the remnants scurrying as they tried to find the sniper, until Welkin rolled into them from the side and broke whatever was left of their spirit. Juno had been a bit disappointed to not get to use the Erma, but she'd have her chance. That much he knew to be certain.
Looking at it with hindsight, he could see the full breadth of Radi’s mistake even without the fine details. The general had dug in for a siege. He had placed the bulk of his forces on the forward positions and the river, and he had figured the bridge to be the cornerstone of any offensive, giving him a nice, set choke point that he could close off at any time. City patrols had been thinned in favor of supporting the line. Base security had eased because he judged the threat to be a frontal assault like the last time. Jerry couldn't fault him for planning against the obvious. A full frontal assault with massed armor and supporting infantry seemed like the only way forward, right up until it wasn't.
Enough men had escaped the city that stories of the fighting, and of his unit's exploits, would spread like wildfire. From the lowest infantry to the Drei Stern, Jerry suspected, his Pride would become something of a legend. That meant more than anything, they would become a target. This meant his job would change, his tactics would need to evolve to match whatever countermeasures the enemy put into place to prevent another Vasel. They would need to be more clever, and more dangerous, to match what was coming.
He had already told Cheslock to refill the explosives and keep them handy. He wanted everyone to carry a small loadout for targets of opportunity. Not a lot, just enough to take a piece of armor or a fortification off the board in the field. The depots had taught the Imperials a lesson in keeping supplies too centralized, so he suspected a stunning alpha strike like the one today would be a hard trick to repeat. The next operation in Kloden would be something completely different, anyway, so he'd have to think on it. That was the nature of war, though, it seemed. Try something, see it work, countered, and adapted to, so you try something else next time.
He returned to the notebook and finished the report to the line that marked recommendations. He wrote that the squad required fresh uniforms, socks, and supplies. He wrote that Turner and Cheslock would benefit from additional access to the machine shop and armory. He wrote his thoughts on what went well, and what went wrong, and where the line between the two was, for both their side, and for the Imperials. Then he signed, tore the sheet with care so the edge stayed straight, and set it in a folder he had taken from the office desk. He would carry it to Welkin before lights out. The rest could wait until morning.
Jerry let himself sit. The room’s quiet pressed against his ears in a way that felt almost like rest. He dug a clean shirt from his kit and laid it over the back of the chair to remind himself to find water for a wash. He stared at the sword again and tried to decide what to do with it. Part of him wanted to hand it off to the quartermaster and be done with it. But that would be... wrong somehow. Radi would have hated that it ended up in Jerry's hands, or maybe he would approve. The guy had that sense about him, even though Jerry had only known him at the point of a knife.
He stood, stretched the tightness out of his back, and stepped to the door. The hallway carried a draft, so he pulled the curtain tight and pinned it. He checked the lamps in the corridor to be sure they were fully powered and lit, and then he let the weight of the day finally claim him. Today had been a long day, a tired day, one that he would remember, just from the stink of dead men and burning flesh, and the stench of cordite and oil and wood. The scent would follow him into the dark, into his dreams, into the hellfire where good men went to die, and things of steel and cold anger took their place.
Outside, the clouds kept their cover over the city. The last light went out in the building opposite his. Someone on the street laughed, then quieted, then laughed again, soft and tired. He thought of the Wildwood and the way Welkin’s face had changed at the name. He would read the brief in the morning, but he already knew what he would find. Dense timber. Bad roads. Clearings that could be kill zones if the wrong men got there first. A place you could hide a dozen artillery batteries and never see the flash until the first shell landed. A place where soldiers could vanish without a whisper, if they weren't careful.
But that was a problem for later. For now, he would sleep, and let the night take him, as he dreamed of another day go by.
000
Prince Maximilian Gaius von Reginrave’s command tent sat on a timber platform, the sprawling structure a proper field headquarters rather than a canvas lean-to. Tight-fitted planks kept the damp below, and thick carpets muffled every step and checked the drafts that slipped at the seams. Bookcases lined the inner walls, their shelves strapped for travel and packed with leather-bound treatises on campaign logistics and artillery employment. Journals of the First Europan War and neatly annotated maps filled the next case. Between the cases hung black-and-silver banners embroidered with the prince’s personal crest, mixed with banners of The Imperial Glory. Ragnite lanterns on iron hooks caught the thread of that work and spread an even light across the central table. The place smelled of oiled leather, paper, and the faint mineral bite of a ragnite burner.
Maximilian sat behind a wide oaken desk that had traveled with him since the start. The top bore the scars of years of work, four neat ink circles where inkwells had been placed and a knife score that ran the length of the front edge. Reports stacked at his left elbow rose like a low wall. A spread of charts lay open before him, secured at the corners with brass weights. On the largest chart a black grease pencil marked the highways that cut Gallia into parcels and the rail spurs that fed Imperial columns. Colored pins clustered over Aslone, Kloden, and the approaches to Randgriz, among many more.
Selvaria Bles stood to his right at formal rest, hands folded at the small of her back, chin lifted a fraction. Her coat was closed to the throat and pressed flat, rank tabs bright. The pale silver fall of her hair reached near her knees, moving only when she turned to follow the prince’s hand across the map. Bertold Gregor took the chair opposite the desk only after a slight nod from Maximilian. He sat without slouching, the posture of a lifetime of service, one gloved hand resting against his chin as he read and re-read the top sheet. All three had been there for an hour already, absorbing the mess of reports that had come flooding in with the catastrophic loss of the Vasel bridge.
In the silence, it was Maximilian who spoke first.
“Jaeger is dead.”
The words fell flat and cold across the desk. He delivered them with the measured precision of an accountant, but the two officers who knew him best heard the agitation behind his measured tone. He didn't look up from the map as he spoke. He drew a straight line from Vasel to Aslone, noting something from one report or another, likely pondering the Gallian Army's move to strike at the central city.
“Killed in action in a duel with this ‘Lion of Bruhl’ on the morn of the retaking of Eastern Vasel, after the Lion supposedly infiltrated his camp and set it to the torch.” The words hit like a hammer, even though they all knew the details. Saying it somehow made it all the more galling.
Selvaria’s gaze did not move from the map pins, but her voice carried iron. “Cowardice.” She leaned back from the table by a fraction, as if the word itself left a taste she rejected. “Using Radi’s own honor against him, like a thief in the night.”
Gregor made a low sound in his throat, neither agreement nor protest. He touched two fingers to his jaw and studied the summary again.
“Is it cowardice though, if it works?” he said. “It does speak to a sense of low cunning, does it not?”
Maximilian turned the report page and read a paragraph in silence. Then he closed the folder and set it atop the stack.
“Cunning or cowardice, it’s clear that Gallia is no longer pulling its punches. This is… much removed from how war has been fought.” He rested both hands on the edge of the desk. “It was foolish of Radi to assume that a cornered rat wouldn’t lash out in any way it could, and this… Pride, of theirs is one such knife in the dark. A very effective one, at that.”
“It was a trick, Your Grace. Nothing more. We have already made changes to ensure such a disgraceful showing will not be repeated,” Selvaria said, but Gregor seemed to disagree, though he knew better than to voice it.
“Tactics evolve in response to one another. This is a lesson both sides have learned, since the last war. Gallia cannot match our martial might, even with the numbers of our forces limited as they are. We shouldn’t be so quick to assume this is a handled issue.” The Prince settled back in his chair and tapped the pin near Vasel with a knuckle.
“It might do, Your Grace, if we expanded our suppression operations in the interim. Von Damon is marching on Aslone as we speak, and with our resources tied up in western Gallia, that pompous windbag might well take it. Crushing any resistance in the controlled territories will allow us more leeway in countering both them and their militia conscripts.” Gregor piped in, adding his own thoughts, knowing that it was the unpopular opinion, but one he knew to be necessary.
Selvaria gave a derisive snort. “You still worry over farmers with pitchforks, Bertold? It’s clear Gallia is in love with its folk heroes, but they’re barely armed rabble. No match for our soldiers, as we’ve seen time and again.” The War Witch pointed out, and it was true that their initial blitz had all but steamrolled over the Gallian fortifications, the trenches and light, fast tanks well suited for the last war, but a poor match for this one. Especially once superior Imperial engineering took the field.
Maximilian rose. The simple act was enough to close their exchange. He adjusted a paperweight on the chart, straightened one line of pins, and looked from one commander to the other.
“I want both of you to expand operations. Gregor, get those ragnite mines working double time, and clamp down on the controlled areas of Gallia. I need our forces focused towards the front, not putting out fires and chasing resistance cells. Selvaria, you will take over the defense of Aslone. Don’t overcommit, but make them bleed to take it back. Von Damon is a fool and a lout, and needs little reason to rest on his laurels.” He paused. “I need to think on this issue with this ‘Lion’ of theirs. Reports tell me he’s a Vinlander, and there have been messages coming in from the greater Europan theater of other instances of Vinland sticking their noses into our war.”
He looked down at the areas still controlled by Gallia, who had been putting up a stiffer resistance than their first showing implied they could. He could almost respect the gumption, the raw will of a nation willing to arm it's every citizen with a weapon to throw into a meat grinder just to stem the Empire one more bloody kilometer of territory. It was pure, in a way that his homeland wasn't, this patriotism, this courage in the face of total conquest. Something about those Vinlander bastards sticking their noses into it sat rank with him.
“There’s no reason not to think this isn’t one more of their catspaws, albeit one that has been paying out dividends against us. The man is a saboteur and assassin, and despite your misgivings, Selvaria, he is skilled. Skilled enough to kill Radi in single combat, and for all his faults, the man was no slouch with a blade.”
Selvaria inclined her head, ceding the point. “Then what’s to be done, Your Highness?” she asked. “If he represents such a threat, perhaps it would be better to burn it out now, than let it fester.”
Unspoken, it was clear that she was advising her own deployment to counter the Vinlander interloper, but only just. The suggestion hung in the warm light, and there was merit to it. The trouble was that there were too many targets, too many goals, far beyond simple conquest to consider. Maximilian measured the option carefully though, but eventually shook his head.
“No. For all that the Lion has been a thorn, he is but one man. He will be dealt with in time. Right now the priority is keeping Gallia from noticing our actual goals here as much as it is playing the conqueror. Losing Radi was a blow, but at least he died in place of being captured. In any case, this meeting is adjourned. Selvaria, I wish to speak with you in private. Bertold, prepare your forces and move out.”
Gregor stood at once, gathered his folders into a tight stack. He saluted, sharp and professional, even as he rolled his thoughts over in his mind.
“Your Grace,” he said, as Maximilian nodded back, dismissing him.
He stepped into the aisle, nodded once to Selvaria, and went out through the inner flap toward the corridor that connected the command tents. The canvas closed behind him, and the outer noise of the camp replaced the quiet of the map room.
Maximilian set both hands behind his back and walked to the tent’s side table where a decanter and three glasses sat on a tray. He poured a measure of something strong and drank. When he turned, Selvaria watched him without moving her feet, and as the flap closed, the two shared something of a private moment.
Outside, Bertold Gregor paused beneath the lamplight and drew a slow breath that tasted of dirt and oil. The camp was organized into blocks, its avenues raked, its sentry posts marked by sticks of ragnite lamp glow. A courier jogged past with a leather pouch under his arm. Somewhere beyond the nearest line of tents, an engine coughed and settled as the mechanics closed a regulator and bled the lines.
Gregor set his jaw and began to walk. He gave his thoughts the same structure he gave a field order. Radi was dead. That fact closed one set of problems and opened another. The militia had found, or made, a man willing to do what regular armies usually avoided. Gregor had known such men in the last war. A few had been useful. A few had been dangerous to keep near anything of value. He had paid some. He had put others in the ground because the risks they carried cost more than the work they could do.
Maximilian was right to keep his eye on the larger scope of the campaign. There were reasons for this invasion that most were unaware of, and Maximilian's ambitions were far more than the conquest of a small, if rich, nation on the Imperial border. Those ambitions, however, required steady supply lines and quiet in the rear. If the rear stayed quiet, then they could concentrate on winning the war, and achieving the spanning goals of their Prince. If not, though, well, Vasel was a good example of what happens when rot is allowed to slip in and take hold. The campaign would be won or lost based on those factors, and having tossed his lot in with Maximilian, his only path forward was through such a victory.
He walked past the operations tent where a duty captain bent over a ledger with a clerk at his side. He stopped at the board where the day’s directives were posted. A fresh sheet named three districts for additional searches and listed the quotas for ragnite shipments by the week. He lifted the edge of the sheet, scanned the addendum, and let it fall.
He did not much care for Radi Jaeger. He was a braggart and clung too much to his Fhiraldian origins, and now he'd paid for it. This Lion of Bruhl had mauled them for it, and in doing so had shaken the troops morale in a way that only victory could wash away. Even now, despite their best efforts, stories about men vanishing in the night, of supplies detonating and men burning alive as they're consumed in their beds were making their way up and down the front, and like a disease, fear and paranoia were beginning to take hold.
He finalized his plan as he moved through the dim stretch of camp between the ragnite lanterns. Suppression operations would expand across the occupied towns along the front, as well as through the controlled interior of Eastern Gallia. More than that, though, he would start having his men chase down whatever rumors they could find about this 'Lion', to try and track his movements, and hopefully, find wherever his den might be. But until then, he would need to tighten up both their patrols and their supply shipments, and harden what weakpoints or depots they had to maintain. Ultimately, he would create a net, one the Lion of Bruhl would have to cross if he intended to strike anything of value. When he did, they would close in. If they could take him, they would. If they couldn’t, they’d put him down before he escaped.
He reached his tent, stepped inside, and called for his adjutant. There were orders to draft, units to reposition, and names to select for the hard work ahead. The operation would begin before first light, and it wouldn’t stop until the map pins were moved back to where they belonged, under Imperial control.
Comments
Alex Piskura
War is old men talking and young men dying.
Duke of Coffee
War never changes.
