This is no case of petty right or wrong
That politicians or philosophers
Can judge. I hate not Germans, nor grow hot
With love of Englishmen, to please newspapers.
Beside my hate for one fat patriot
My hatred of the Kaiser is love true: –
A kind of god he is, banging a gong.
But I have not to choose between the two,
Or between justice and injustice. Dinned
With war and argument I read no more
Than in the storm smoking along the wind
THIS IS NO CASE OF PETTY RIGHT OR WRONG (Edward Thomas)
TWO HOURS LATER…
It was four in the afternoon at La Forbie. The rain had not stopped at all. In fact, it had intensified to a blinding curtain that had put out all the torches the Captain-General had placed around the town's perimeter—even the magical ones that were nothing but flammable runestones on a stick. Faced with such poor visibility, the man had withdrawn his forces and had positioned them closer to the township's low walls.
Tobias Laurent had joined his charge by the window an hour ago. He did not like how everything outside had faded into pallid shades of green and grey. Even the temperature had begun to fall—every now and then he had to wipe the glass to keep it from misting up. He had once been able to see the silhouettes of the Dauntless Vanguard as they did their circuit around the cottage, but because Purvis did not want to waste a combat asset they had been moved further away from the cottage and replaced by the fresher Royal Guard. Every now and then, a flash of green would herald a lightning bolt, and then a rolling crack would follow. Dust would fall down the rafters in the wake of the bolt's arrival.
"They will strike soon, I think." Jarvan said to him. The duelist had helped the Prince pull on his armor earlier with a bit of grumbling. "I'm looking forward to it."
It was a fine set, even Tobias had to admit. The Prince's armor looked to be made of ensorcelled iron, with delicate brass filigree running about and around like ivy. It was fluted, which gave it a flowing and banded appearance not unlike a woven basket, and laden with rivets that had been polished down so as to not be a bother. The coat of arms of his House—a shield encircled by a halo of light—was embossed onto his pauldrons. His weapon was close by—an enchanted, segmented lance whose parts were connected by a thick metal cable, able to expand and contract on a whim. It was a strange contraption, but it was one that suited the Prince of the Realm to a tee. Why bother walking to his opponent if he could just impale the unlucky bastard from a distance?
There was hardly a mark on both his arms and armor—Jarvan did not use those in those times he had snuck away. It was too recognizable. All of it then was pristine and perfect as the day the armorers, artificers and blacksmiths had made it. A pity the man who wore it was very unpleasant and spoiled.
"If I were you, I would not wish for zings zat will kill me." Tobias muttered under his breath as he reached down to his waist and found the comforting silver hilt of his rapier. He would do much better work outside with the army, but Madame Berault had told him to stay here and play nanny.
Tobias cared very little for Ivar Purvis and his feelings. The Captain-General was too much of a northerner—all smothering concern and fearful of the King's displeasure. The King was just a man. There were greater things to be afraid of, like family honor. Indeed, the only reason why Tobias hadn't yet left Jarvan IV was because he cared too much for House Laurent's reputation. No Laurent had ever left their post. He would not be the first.
"It wouldn't be boring, at least." Jarvan quipped.
"You are young and stupid; toying with ideas zat you do not understand." Tobias' snappish reply was not quite as energetic as he would have wanted it.
"Have you fought the Noxians before?" Jarvan asked curiously. Tobias took a moment to think if he had to indulge the Prince's curiosity. It was not as if anything horribly important was happening at the moment. Outside the cottage the concerns of the world fell onto Ivar's shoulders. In this room, his only charge was the Prince of the Realm.
"Oui, at Belvoir and at Jacob's Ford—zat 'owling Marsh." The Laurent answered at length.
"The Noxians won both times." Jarvan pointed out.
"Oui," The Laurent's smile couldn't have been harsher, his eyes aggrieved. "Many of my friends are either dead or walking around trying to eat people. C'est la vie."
"I didn't think you capable of having friends." Jarvan's tone was everything but kind. Tobias resisted the urge to poke him like a pincushion. Despite his attempt at self-control, his sword hand twitched against his rapier's silver hilt. To his credit, the adolescent Prince seemed to understand; he laughed nervously and did not speak again.
With the Demacian's perimeter torches put out by the rains and with alien green lightning bolts terrorizing Demacian defensive positions, the remnants of the 2nd Legion could more or less regroup in peace. The storm had granted the Noxian columns some measure of cover, but the Noxian troops could not see through their own storm, and the terrain eventually became too difficult to traverse.
South of La Forbie where the Demacians seeded their fields, the ground beneath the dirt was more clay than silt, a fact only made apparent when the Demacian engineers had dug their trenches. Trying to walk through the stuff in the constant downpour was quite like wading through a pool of chowder; in the rains the clay had become a thick and clinging mess that needed a good amount of shaking or prying to pull loose. It didn't help that, in places where the Demacians hadn't laid down planks of wood to walk on, the muck was persistently churned about by booted feet and worked into a demonic batter. The blackish-grey mixture claimed footwear and men with alarming regularity, which only compounded their troubles. Closer to the river the annoying clay was joined with silt, and made walking through the trenches close to impossible.
In between slipping and hitting the walls of the trench and pulling out men who had the misfortune to fall flat on their face, Darius had found himself covered head to toe in it. His heavy armor only became more cumbersome as they progressed. Every now and then he'd stop, stand in the rain and swipe the more cumbersome chunks off, but the stuff would eventually make its way back to him. In the end, after ten minutes of misery, Darius had directed his forces to leave the trenches and brave open ground instead of tolerating the muck. He had weighed his options before giving the order.
He'd lose the element of surprise crossing the fields instead of using the trenches, but in exchange the columns would have an easier time marching. He figured that shaving off time and taking his chances with the Demacians was much better than trying to remain incognito and falling into slop every three seconds. Fighting people was infinitely easier than fighting the elements. In this way, Darius had managed to make the three miles in two hours. If he had still been in the Academy, his Chief Instructor would have had him beaten for making such slow time.
The townspeople of La Forbie hadn't bothered to raze their fields before the Noxians had arrived, and since the siege had begun none of them had been out to tend to their fields. The Captain-General then, seemed to be the sort of man who would rather starve his own people than let them die by a Noxian's hand. It was close to the end of July and the plants had been thrown into confusion given the weather. Taking his chances and betting that some crops had ripened too early, Darius had put a few men on foraging duty as they marched south. These gatherers brought back quite a bit: plump tomatoes, fragrant corn, rotund melons and firm cucumbers. Darius passed the rations around the columns to ward off hunger. At the moment, the Demacians' hard work was for the Noxians to enjoy.
Every now and then he would encounter another human being along the way, and before he took his axe to their gut he would holler out the 2nd Legion's challenge. He would then wait for the customary pass word—if the man or woman answered correctly he would welcome them to the column. If he or she did not know the word he would kill them promptly so as to not waste any more time.
A military staple in the Noxian army, where there was absolutely no regulation about showing one's Noxian allegiance save for finding some way to display one's rank, countersigns were used to verbally confirm if one was an enemy or a friend. In the heat of battle, one could never be too certain if the approaching force was Noxian or Demacian. In the days before the rule that mandated displaying a Noxian symbol on one's equipment, countersigns were used in order to verify if one was Noxian. The way one went about it was this: upon sighting a stranger, one would issue a verbal challenge. One would then wait for the pass word confirming the stranger's allegiances.
Challenge and pass words always changed every twenty-four hours, which always kept the Noxian infantry on their toes lest they be cut down by one of their own. Each Legion had their own challenge and pass words, and each company had their own version of the countersign to remember. Needless to say, it was a daily chore to remember word pairs.
At this time, the 2nd Legion's challenge word was 'Mountain'. The appropriate response was to reply 'Place'—which was easy enough to remember, given that their General's name was Caspian de Montolieu. The 5th Legion challenged with 'Knife' and expected 'Cloak'—a nod to their General, Marcus du Couteau. Across both Legions, the current Noxian challenge to verify if one was friendly was 'Drain Pipe', with the pass word being 'Swamp Rat'.
Supposing one was from the 2nd Legion and one was challenged with the word 'Knife', replying with the pass word 'Swamp Rat' sufficed. Conversely, if one forgot both sets of Legion-specific code words, one could simply scream 'Drain Pipe' and wait for the other force to reply 'Swamp Rat'. This was the version most Noxian soldiers bothered to remember. This was essentially how Darius managed to not get himself killed when he came across elements from the 5th Legion that had made a perimeter at the grid coordinates Swain had told him to go to. General du Couteau's men had put up a makeshift fence using planks of sodden wood and had sprung up the moment they saw the outline of Darius' forces through the rain. Shouting 'Swamp Rat' had never felt so good.
He had been received with mild interest, and had been told to wait for a few minutes while word of his reinforcements passed to those in command. It didn't take long for someone to come and fetch him.
"Ho there. Lieutenant Gardenly, with Grimdark. You're with the schmucks from the 2nd Legion? I don't suppose you've got a head count?" A woman with smattering of freckles on her face and a lieutenant's bolts on her leather shoulder pad asked him. He couldn't see much else of her—she was slathered from head to toe in the same muck.
"Lieutenant Darius, with the Black Watch; the headcount is more or less at fifteen hundred, lieutenant." Darius answered easily. "Light and heavy infantry only; no artillery, cavalry or mages."
He had found a number of stray companies on his march south, and most of them had been from the 2nd Legion as expected. Their captains had either died or gone away, so the unhappy officers left with the men had been more than ready to follow him instead of wallowing and waiting to die. Only a few of those men were lieutenants; the rest was made up of sergeants and other ranking conscripted personnel. It was admirable, how they did not take the opportunity to desert.
"We were expecting a bit more, but we'll take what we can get." She gave him an appraising stare, took in his bedraggled and muddied armor with an air of amusement. "Darius, you say? You him, then? The Baton that de Croix wants to put on a rack?"
"My rather sordid reputation precedes me, I see." Darius replied dryly as he reached over to wipe of the mud from one of his pauldrons, exposing his rank insignia.
"Oh, Maynard makes a great fuss every now and then. No one listens." She told him with a curt nod at the small white streak on his head. Gardenly gestured for him to follow her. "Leave your men here. My second'll see them settled in. We've a warning order up, so we can't waste time."
A warning order meant General du Couteau was prepared to make his move within the next few hours. It was more or less a standing bulletin issued to the men to be prepared for whatever the General thought to do. He couldn't waste any time dillydallying.
"No one listens?" Darius repeated with a perplexed look on his face, scarcely believing that Maynard of all people would be ignored.
"No one who wants to piss off a general." Gardenly replied with a laugh. "I don't think I need to tell you which."
du Couteau, Darius surmised. It had to be Marcus du Couteau.
As Gardenly's sergeant hollered for Darius' men to follow him, Darius followed the female lieutenant without any complaint.
"When the perimeter guard passed word of your arrival, Captain di Castellamonte was quick to request provisional command of the Black Watch. General du Couteau allowed her that." She volunteered the information without waiting for him to ask. "You know her nature; let's not keep her waiting."
The 5th Legion's bivouac was quite large, taking up three miles of farmland and lying across the road to La Forbie like an exhausted slug. Gardenly led him past several battalions, tents and pickets laden with horses; the soldiers of the 5th did not bother with digging graves in the dreadful weather. Instead they stayed underneath bushy trees or pulled a Demacian standard over their heads. Everyone here seemed to be in better spirits, and aid tents were few and far between. Compared to the 2nd Legion, General du Couteau had come out of the initial clash fairly whole and unmolested.
Captain di Castellamonte had a tent all to herself on the road, surrounded by the remnants of a ballista and ragged Demacian flags too ruined to serve as cover in the rain. That was where Gardenly had left him, a laughing remark thrown over her shoulder on the slim chances of his survival.
He didn't hesitate to scratch on the wet canvas—he knew that if he did take time to gather his own thoughts the Chief would hit him over the head for his indecision when he did enter—and was rewarded with a muffled 'enter'.
His first thought was that the Chief seemed to have a talent for evading dirt. Just as she had done during his Crucible all those months ago, she had somehow managed to stay immaculate even if everyone else was covered in muck. She was still as frigid and eerily stiff as he had remembered her, with the same number of lines on her face and the same unsatisfied gaze and ready scowl. Her obsidian daggers were on the table, glowing morbidly in the lantern light. She was wearing an oilskin cloak that hid the rest of her, but from the way the fabric curved and bent, she was wearing armor underneath it all. Her boots were the only part of her that was relatively dirty, with flecks of mud creeping up to her laces.
Strongbow was sitting across her, a half-empty glass of what looked and smelled to be whiskey on the camp table. The archer was slightly cleaner than Darius, but dirtier than the Chief. His cape was fading and fraying at the edges and his armor had gone through a bit of wear. He wore a browned bandage about his neck as if someone had tried to shiv him, and had a few new lines on his face. There was very little furniture in the tent: she had a table with a lantern, three wooden folding chairs and a camp bed in the corner. The Chief traveled light.
"Absolutely filthy and late as ever, lieutenant." She drawled at him in lieu of a greeting. He had almost called her Chief Instructor, but knowing that they were in the army instead of the Academy, he had caught himself just in time. "I have no excuse, Ch—Captain."
"No excuse, you say?" She repeated with a sharp hiss at his stumbling. "Well, you are certainly quick to shoulder blame."
"I am an officer, ma'm." In Darius' mind there was no point in sidestepping his duty. She had taught him better. "I am responsible for my failings, and for that of my men."
"And you have failed a number of times, so I have heard." She did not even rise, content to verbally shower condescension at him from her seat. Clearly, he had not earned enough of her respect to have her stand up to berate him. "And this is only your most recent slight: to take two hours to march three miles. Have you been picking daisies on the way? You are Baton of Boram's Point."
"I will do better next time." Darius offered, knowing full well it would not suffice.
Her scowl deepened, if it was at all possible to display one's displeasure even more beyond turning one's mouth downward. He felt like a new officer candidate in the Academy again—all anxiety and wanting to please someone who did not think one's best was enough.
"William has told me how you've been since your graduation." She tilted her head towards Strongbow. The archer took the time to finish off the rest of his drink. "I was not pleased to hear about Korovino, nor am I pleased to see you now. You have been rather underwhelming. We thought better of the Wolfman's eldest."
He had always known he would never be good enough in her eyes, but to hear from the woman herself that he still had not lived up to her expectations was like slowly applying a brand to his side. Admittedly, her standards were impossible—but that didn't stop him from wanting to achieve them. She had been, and still was, his god.
"I have done my best, ma'm." He tried. It sounded weak, pitiful; more an excuse than an actual justification.
She stood up then, and he knew instantly what was going to happen. He steeled himself and took the gauntleted punch in the gut quietly. After fighting for two days and marching for an untold number of miles, it was a miracle he didn't fall over.
The strike was unfair beyond all reckoning, because he had done his best, but he had been trained very well at Boram's Point. He thought it justified for her to hit him for being such a failure. After all, she had done such so many times before.
She curled her fingers about his throat, felt his lifeblood beating against the leather of her glove and growled like a she-wolf with an unruly son. "You are making me regret giving you this scar of yours. Perhaps I should have bled you out."
Despite his discomfort with such physical contact he did nothing but stare, obedient and subservient. To speak would be to insult her, to question her judgment.
Only then did she smile, and even that was colder than the rain that fell outside the tent. She removed her fingers from his throat and turned to look at Strongbow. "But you are correct, William; for all his flaws, he is obedient, and still alive."
"Stupidly obedient." Strongbow quipped back. "Doesn't know when to not be, that's the problem."
Darius gave him a pointed glare, the kind that said 'I'm still in the room'. He didn't think it safe to speak—the Chief might hit him for speaking out of turn.
"One can never be too biddable." Captain di Castellamonte said with a thin and dangerous smile. "If you survive the feint, then I may rethink your worth."
She gave him a little pat on the cheek that bore the mark of his loyalty, as a handler would pull on the collar of an attack dog to make it froth at the mouth. It hurt him the same way.
His Instigation had cut him deeper than the scar on his face, had left a festering wound in his mind. He did not like having that mark touched, did not enjoy it when people stared at it for longer than a minute. It made him remember how helpless he had been and how they had starved and beaten him—all for the sake of preparing him for torture by the enemy.
If she had been someone else he would have punched them in the face, but this was his god and he did not want to show her that he was hurt. So he stays nervously still and mentally quivers like a distressed lamb until she removes her hand.
"You and your men are under my explicit command until the feint is complete. You may rest here, if you like." She was still watching him carefully. He had to work to keep his front. "General du Couteau intends to march at the seventeenth hour, but there is a warning order; we may leave at any time."
"Thank you, Captain." Darius dipped his head quickly. He then lingered with his gaze down at the floor of the tent respectfully until she had left.
"Still alive, I see." Strongbow said with forced cheer. Darius looked up at the archer, and saw that the man was pouring himself another drink. Was he the sort of person who liked to crawl into bottles?
"Imbibing seems to have become your favorite pastime." Darius observed. He took care to brush the mud off himself before he sat opposite the archer and set the dark communication shard on the table in case anyone needed him.
"Good hobby; you should take it up too." Strongbow said. It was an awful attempt at humor and the both of them knew it, but there wasn't much happiness to be had in their present circumstances.
"How many hours are we going to serve as the feint?" Darius asked. He didn't know much beyond what other people had told him to do.
"Maybe three hours," Strongbow replied, a slight slur on the last syllable. "That is my most optimistic guess; we will be in front of them."
"Such as we are?" Darius asked morosely. It didn't seem practical to put the exhausted troops at the front line.
"The 5th think we are going to desert, that is why." Strongbow said with a half-drunken laugh. It sounded more like a strangled sob to him. "It is on the warning order."
"We would do the same." Darius finishes for him.
"The very same; at least du Couteau is giving us the promise of an hour. de Montolieu would have told us to go off and die the moment everyone arrived." Strongbow said, and he took that moment to drink from his cup. "So—we march before the 5th, not after, and we will hold the line or die. Easy enough to do, even while drunk."
"Do you think this feint will work?" Darius glanced at the quiet communication shard and then over at Strongbow. "Swain seemed very sure of himself."
Strongbow looked to resist the urge to belch. "Swain," He managed to say around his discomfort. "You've been talking to a Swain? Are you sure the man is a Swain?"
"Yes, he said he was a lieutenant-colonel. I didn't get his first name… if he had one, that is." Darius took up his shard and offered it for Strongbow to look at. The archer refused; instead he took the moment to ponder.
"Perhaps his name just is Swain," Strongbow said finally. "If he is of that unfortunate House, it's a miracle he hasn't died yet."
"Perhaps he is being protected somehow." Darius broached idly.
"When you say that it makes one wonder; what can possibly protect someone from Boram?" Strongbow rubbed at his dirty chin, sending partially dried flakes of mud on the table.
Darius didn't know either. It seemed an inconceivable thing, to be using a disgraced House name and to still be alive and even certain of one's survival and success.
"Maybe there is something greater than the Eternal General." Darius said with all the ignorance of a man born underground. Knowing full well this was the Chief's tent; he reached over and cleared the table of Strongbow's filth.
"Do not let people hear you say that; it will get you killed or worse." Strongbow said sharply. "It is all well and good to wonder, but do not wonder out loud."
Darius shrugged. He did not like politics, and all the secrecy involved when it came to playing that game. He had no desire to know beyond what he needed to. It was a pity people liked to tell him things he did not want to know.
"So you talked to a man named Swain." Strongbow returned to the first point. "What did he say?"
"He talked to me, and told me to march south so that he could get the Prince." Darius replied simply.
"Did he tell you General du Couteau would be here?" Strongbow asked.
"No," Darius admitted. "But he did sound like he expected it when I told him I would try to find General du Couteau during the feint."
"Sharp asshole sounds like a Swain." Strongbow commented. "If he does capture the Prince, I would not be surprised."
"Yes, but is he a Swain?" Darius returned. Strongbow gave him a withering look—we are not talking about that again.
Darius shrugged. "As I understand it, we have… appropriated by the 5th Legion?"
"Temporarily appropriated," Strongbow replied promptly. He seemed to like the change of topic, although serving as the feint was no laughing matter either. "It's certainly better than your captain's last orders to 'sit in hole and wait to die', don't you think?"
"Well, yes," Darius said slowly. "But that is not my point: how much of the 2nd Legion has been absorbed into the 5th?"
"Those on the north side are still under de Montolieu. They will be the ones to snatch the Prince." Strongbow did not mention Swain, nor did he need to. "The standards down south are all with du Couteau; that is to say, we will be doing the dying."
"Is our objective still La Forbie? Does High Command still intend to capture the town?"
"I don't think the town is our goal at this point." Strongbow told him honestly, punctuating his words with a vague shrug. "We've been out for too long. Any longer and the conscripts are going to tuck tail. Even High Command cannot ask them for more. No, it has got to be snatching the Prince and only that."
"It's been two days. What's another one?" Darius said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "If they wanted to run, they would have done it already."
"You can keep a conscript on if you make him think he is going to get something out of it, like combat pay or a pat on the head." Strongbow's tone brooked no argument. He had always adopted a specific pitch and intonation when he felt very strongly about something and wanted to make a point. "But once he becomes aware that High Command has no care for his survival, he will not follow; not if he's got half a brain left in his skull. Two days of abuse is stretching the chain and it will break if the conscripts do not have a furlough."
Darius couldn't help but feel cheated. He had been shot at, stabbed and kicked into the mud more times than he could count for the past two days, and in the end he had gone through all that trouble for nothing. In those two days he had told himself repeatedly his orders were his greatest obligation, that taking the town was their ultimate goal. To have his dedication spat on was more than he could bear—but that was the bitter truth of being a soldier. He was a tool. He had lost the right to refuse when he had signed his contract. He had no choice but to do what was asked of him, even if the orders were hardly consistent or even logical. All he could hope for was to survive. Hardly surprising Strongbow liked the company of a bottle, then.
Almost as if to exemplify Darius' thoughts, Strongbow took the time to drink from his glass before he added rather morosely. "Our truth changes every minute. Who knows? We might still take the town. We might still succeed."
"We might." Darius replied, though he knew they probably wouldn't. He got up from his chair and said. "… Well, I am going to look for the mess tent, if there is one. Better to die with a full belly."
He would have left the tent, and Strongbow would have gone with him, but at that moment the communication shard flared on the table and called his attention. At Strongbow's inquiring gaze, Darius reached over and answered it. "Lieutenant Darius; 3rd Platoon, Black Watch out of the 101st."
"Lieutenant-Colonel Swain; 3rd Battalion, 1st Standard." Swain's reply was as flat and bored as it had been two hours ago. "I take it you have arrived."
Strongbow swigged his glass, slightly quivering in his chair like a leaf almost falling off a branch. Darius watched him quake before he deigned to answer. "I have managed to make contact with several companies during the walk, as you have ordered, sir. The last head count I conducted was at fifteen hundred. And—"
"You found General du Couteau, I presume? Bivouacked on the road?"
Not for the first time, Darius wondered how Swain knew. The man's precognition was beginning to frighten him. In the way of men who knew very little about something that was obviously above his head, Darius reached over and took a sip of Strongbow's whiskey.
"Yes, lieutenant-colonel." His voice emerged sounding more or less like a croak as he spoke around the heat that assaulted his throat and nose. "The General has assumed command of all 2nd Legion units south of La Forbie. We intend—"
"There is no need to inform me." Swain's tone is snide, amused. Darius grimaced at that. If Swain knew everything, what was the point of telling him anything? "I know what the general intends. Have you been screaming lately, lieutenant, or is that voice of yours scratchy from drink?"
"Sir," Darius didn't know what else to say then. He resisted the urge to pull aside the tent flap to see if Swain was lurking somewhere nearby. Knowing that was probably his exhaustion talking and making his inherent distrust worse, Darius rubbed at his nose and resisted the urge to sneeze in the silence that followed. The archer was drinking stern stuff.
"Do you consider yourself as an intelligent man, lieutenant?" The idle question seemed like a suspicious thing, coming from the man who hadn't bothered to tell Darius anything beyond asking him to die for the sake of his advance.
"I consider myself as being intelligent enough for the tasks given to me, sir." Darius replied slowly.
It was strange to hear Swain laugh. It was like listening to a crow call in the distance, all lungs and dry throat. Darius looked over at the archer in askance, and all Strongbow could do was shrug. He didn't know what the man's game was either.
"So you are." Swain seemed to marvel at his honesty. Or the lieutenant-colonel had a particular liking for laconic humor. Darius didn't know which, nor did he want to know. "Do you know the punishment for desertion?"
"Death, sir." Darius replied succinctly.
"In Demacia they would say 'stoppage of gin'." Strongbow muttered.
"Quite. And is it a terrible thing, death?" Another cursory probe from the lieutenant-colonel; Darius wondered if he was deliberately wasting time. After all, a man like Swain wasn't the type to be dragging out a conversation out of the goodness of his heart. If the lieutenant-colonel even had one—he hadn't even met the damn man yet.
"No, sir." He put out the usual reply.
"There are more terrible things than death, lieutenant." There was a strange, almost alien tone to Swain's voice then. It was almost as if the lieutenant-colonel was trying to tell him something. He wondered if that was why Swain asked if he was intelligent.
"Sometimes, death is a reward. Think of your oncoming feint as a pat on the head."
"If I still have a head to be petted by the time the feint is over," Darius replied snidely. "I will let you know, sir."
At that point, the lieutenant-colonel cut the connection and left Darius with more questions than answers.
"How much gold are you willing to wager," Strongbow said with a nervous laugh that only emerged whenever he was dealing with others above his station. "That we are not going to even make it to the mess tent before they call us out to fight?"
"Our truth changes on the minute." Darius retorted with the same words the archer had said to him only moments ago. As if the gods were mocking him, there was a scratch at the canvas flap. Lieutenant Gardenly poked her head in just as Darius finished tucking the communications shard into his satchel.
"Time to earn your combat pay, gents." She said. "Captain di Castellamonte is calling for formation. You've the honor of being the tip of the spear."
Darius reached over and finished off the archer's glass, regardless of his dislike for alcohol and for the burning trail it left in his gullet. Strongbow just drank from the bottle as he gathered his things, slurring curses under his breath.
The higher one ascends in the ranks, the more one's priorities tend to change. As lieutenants, Darius and Strongbow's only worry was if their men would stand their ground. As a General, Marcus du Couteau had to think of that and more. He held the trust of two hundred thousand men, and was beholden to more than just their mothers.
He would have led from the front as the lieutenants did, but given the careful timing required to pull off the snatch, Marcus du Couteau had decided to stay back a two hundred paces from the front line. He stood with the rest of his staff on a hill that offered a good view of La Forbie in the distance, and the farmland that the 5th Legion still had to cross in order to properly bait the Captain-General out.
The rain made it difficult to see beyond the first two miles but there was nothing to be done about it. On the second day, after hearing of their unsatisfactory progress, Draythe had decided to conjure the storm. So all this was Draythe's work, and the young Darkwill had only seen fit to inform the rest of the Joint Council of the maelstrom a scant hour before he told his mages to begin the spell. For all their power, even the Generals of the Joint Council could not complain. They had simply shut up and hurriedly created a new plan to go with it.
Admiral Inglefield had sailed as close as he could manage without risking the guns, with Rear-Admiral Lachance and the rest of the Navy picking up their cues from the commander of the 10th Fleet. A yellow flare fired toward the sea would tell him if it was safe to approach. Generals Howard Westley and Ulrich Hobbs had resigned the entirety of the 3rd and 4th Legions to the defense of Draythe's mages. Last Marcus had heard from them, they had been struggling to push the combined forces of Spiritmight, Cardigan, Esslin, Gillson and Lesauvage off. It said much for how the Demacians thought the nexus-aided super storm was 'unfair'.
In comparison, the last reports Marcus had received from the 1st and 6th Legions showed a more stagnant battlefield. Newly minted Dresden Novak did not want to repeat the mistake of his predecessor; General Brecht Halifax had promptly been executed when a spell had gone awry at Jacob's Ford. The Glorious First was in no danger of being eaten alive by undead any time soon. The 6th Legion, under Grand General Boram Darkwill himself, was oddly tame. Perhaps the Elder Darkwill had a plan of his own.
And then there was General Caspian de Montolieu, who had a more hands-off and destructive method of commanding his troops. Marcus did not have a high opinion of him. The 2nd Legion had the highest conscript deaths and officer promotion rates in all of Noxus, as Caspian quite liked throwing lives away in the same manner a child would kill flowers to make a crown out of them; he used the souls placed in his care to secure commendations for himself and the aristocrats under him. When Draythe had told them of the storm, Caspian had taken that as a signal to push his men forward and then he had left them all to their own devices while he sat in his command tent a good three miles back. It was a good thing that the senior conscripted men of the 2nd Legion were mostly intelligent, because the many would not have survived at all if it weren't for the few.
Even before the beginning of the siege, Marcus knew that there was no way the exhausted 2nd and 5th Legions could unseat Purvis from La Forbie. The Captain-General would hold until the earth opened up underneath him. For his part, Marcus had kept his 5th Legion carefully. He did not like throwing his men. He did not like asking them to take a knife to their necks for no strategic benefit at all. He had been very spare with them, content to siege La Forbie from a distance. He traveled with his men and not away from them, as Caspian had done to his 2nd, and so the anti-magic veil did not affect the Dead Dogs as horribly as it did the Bendovers.
In true Demacian fashion, Ivar Purvis was waiting out the rain. He fought sitting on his ass, and Marcus was determined to push him off it—if only for a few hours. Boram Darkwill had given his list of wants, and as commander of a Legion and member of the Joint Council Marcus had to provide the answers. Marcus du Couteau did not just have obligations on the field of battle. Outside his soldiering, he had the aristocrat's game to play, with all the backstabbing and manipulation that such a thing entailed. Compared to his moves on the political front, sending men to die like pawns on a chessboard was so much simpler.
"The 2nd Legion has been called to formation," His aide-de-camp supplied helpfully. He was Marcus' assistant in matters that concerned the other Legions; as such, the young man held a communication shard of his own. The junior officer passed a sheaf of maps to his commander and patiently waited for the du Couteau to begin scanning through them.
"Our company commanders are inquiring if they should form behind the Bendovers." His adjutant-general held the Legion's communication shard ready in his hand. The adjutant-general was one of the most senior conscripted men in the entire Legion with the rank of Sergeant-Major of the Corps. Befitting his rank, he had a communication shard for his work with the 5th Legion's officers.
"That was in the warning order, was it not?" Marcus asked in a firm voice. He did not even take his eyes away from the papers. "A general should not have to repeat himself."
It was what was expected of them all. The 2nd Legion would have done the same, if the 5th had been bloodied as they had.
The adjutant-general did not hesitate, though it was clear from the way his face slightly fell that he did not like the order at all. "Yes sir. I will pass the word on then. Any other orders, sir?"
"General order: the 2nd Legion will advance one hundred paces. The 5th Legion will keep a distance of fifty paces behind them. I want three ranks of heavy infantry in front, with light infantry following behind. Pikes and lances at the first line, with the rest of the melee weapons bringing up their rear. Warning order for the cavalry: prepare to charge within the next hour, and form up due west of our position."
The adjutant-general began to parrot his words. Marcus turned to face his provost marshal—the man he had put in charge of munitions and men. "How is the powder for the cannons? I understand the artillerymen are having a difficult time."
"Yes sir, the rain is making it difficult to light the powder." The provost marshal replied.
"Then we will have to go without. Resume fire with the trebuchets." Marcus said with a tight smile. He turned to look at his adjutant-general. "Cease firing once the 2nd Legion has finished their walk, and then issue the command to charge."
"All ranks, sir?" The adjutant-general was asking him if he wished the officers to join the conscripted men.
"All ranks." Marcus affirmed. The conscripted should not fight alone. "The cavalry will be under my say-so."
"Orders for the gendarmes, sir?" The Gendarme-Commander asked him curtly.
"Follow behind and keep discipline. Make sure deserters are caught." Marcus replied with equal speed. "Let us begin the feint."
As the orders progressed through the chain of command, it would have been an awesome sight to see. The moment the message had reached the colonels through their shards, they passed the word down to the captains. From the captains, the orders went on to the lieutenants, and those men and women organized their conscripts according to how Marcus wanted them to form. He could see waves of movement as the 2nd Legion moved to the front, forming in two thin lines in front of the 5th. At his nod, the adjutant-general issued the command to march. It was almost like looking down at a chessboard, only it was raining, the board was not flat and the pawns were all people with their own hopes and dreams.
Marcus' uncle had once told him that the whole world was in chess. Every move had to matter, had to connect; there was no such thing as a wasted turn. A single misstep would take the rest of the game to correct, and, if it came to it, he had to have the will to sacrifice an endless number of pawns to save a king.
He had never fully understood all of it until he had been commissioned as a captain at the start of the Fifth Rune War twenty-five years ago. He had gone through his trial by fire with relative grace but lacking his House's flair, earning his Name with a knife and the beginnings of what would become Katarina's infamous Shunpo. He had come to see how decidedly cruel the world was towards those who did not hold an advantage by birth, and sought to return Noxus to the deserving, as the first Grand General had intended. The world was his board, and he collected pawns with the hope that they would go on to become queens.
Marcus thought himself to be considerate, principled. His uncle had instilled in him a great love of the Noxian Ideal. He entertained rather radical notions in his mind— like sacrifice, honor, valor and graceful defeat— and so it was only fitting that Marcus hated Boram's Noxus. After all, for a meritocracy to occur, the ones in power must be benign. If not, then they must be considerate of their own weakness and willing to step aside to allow their betters the opportunity.
Strength would see each and every man to greater heights; that had been the Way before the Eternal General took his seat.
The root of his dissatisfaction lay in these modern days: instead of a proper, ever changing and improving society where corruption was a rarity, there was only nepotism and venality as those in power denied the people they deemed as their lessers with alarming regularity—despite the latter's talent in the face of the former's creeping decadence.
Marcus was in between; he had the wants of someone who only wished the best for his city-state and he knew what he had to do in order to see Noxus obtain her fullest potential. He was in the advantage and, unlike most of his peers, he wished for others to achieve the same glory.
He had the very Demacian belief that one should not leave others behind because there was potential in even the weakest link of the great chain, but held a Noxian view on the transience of supremacy—that is, the weak were always replaced by the strong, and that those who sought the people's leash must first have proved themselves worthy of holding it. Like a good Demacian, Marcus saw what was best in other people, and wanted to cultivate their talents for the betterment of his city-state. At the same time, as a Noxian he did not coddle or hold anyone's hand; he only gave what he felt was necessary to even the scales and give a person a fighting chance in the callous cesspool of prejudice and inequity that was Noxus.
Ultimately, he held the values of the most ancient Noxus in his heart and sought to bring the notion into the decaying present; to encourage strength, in all its forms, not just in gold, influence or physical might. That belief was evident in the composition of his 5th Legion; he had a hundred commoners for every one aristocrat and he took delight in running all his nobles through the hardest paths so as to see their true quality. He took a personal interest in the welfare of those who distinguished themselves in his Legion, and made it a point to intervene whenever he felt it necessary.
Marcus knew his Name carried weight. The House of Couteau was respected and feared. Unlike the patriarch of the House of Croix, he threw his influence about only to protect those he thought were deserving of his patronage; the strong, underprivileged young whom the corrupt nobility kept under heel. Spending out of his own pocket, uplifting and granting a leg up to those who held an infinite amount of potential—that was Marcus' little rebellion, his righteous defiance of Noxian aristocratic convention.
Talon would eventually become the most infamous of his many foundlings, but to truth be told, the best, brightest and most influential of his wards was Jericho Swain himself. His protégé was further up north, still under the nominal command of General de Montolieu. Because of the veil, however, Swain had given up on contacting Caspian, and instead had formulated the plan of snatching Prince Jarvan with General du Couteau.
They shared the opinion that the town could not be taken, so they decided to take the Prince instead. That would deal a dreadful blow to Demacian morale, and it would force the King's hand to reach elsewhere. Marcus knew Swain had a bone to pick with the boy, and it was all because of a failed assassination.
Years ago, when Darius had been in the second year of his education at Boram's Point, Jericho Swain had tried to assassinate the young Prince Jarvan IV on orders from the Eternal General. Queen Elaine had taken Swain's ill-aimed bolt, and he had been held captive and given up for dead. Somehow, the young assassin had managed to escape. With a mangled leg and a large raven on his shoulder, Jericho returned just in time to witness the complete dissolution of the House of Swain.
He had been taken into custody and had been scheduled for execution until Marcus had intervened to spare him from the guillotine, personally appealing to Boram Darkwill to grant him his life. General du Couteau had not asked for clemency, because he knew Darkwill was incapable of forgiveness. Instead, he had asked for time. He had reasoned that Jericho had potential, even if he had failed as an assassin. As a mage, Swain could still serve Noxus, and he could still be of use to them all. There had been a prevailing rumor within aristocratic circles that Boram maintained his unnatural lifespan by consuming mages, and Marcus had played that card to the best of his ability.
Swain had been allowed to live with that whispered doom hovering above his head, and Marcus held onto the hope that the young man would find a way to escape it. He did not want that fate for anyone—if it was true. A small part of him still allowed himself to hope that it was not.
Almost as if he had known Marcus was thinking of him, the communication shard in the aide-de-camp's hand glimmered. The officer answered it as was his wont, and when the voice on the other side of the line identified himself as 'lieutenant-colonel Swain', the man had passed it to his general with a nod.
"General du Couteau," Swain said slowly, respectfully. "Has the Captain-General taken the bait?"
"Not at the moment," He returned. "If he does, I will pull him out of it."
"He will." Swain said with quiet confidence. "You are camped on his supply line."
"A pity the rains haven't allowed them the sight." Marcus muttered. "If, by some miracle, he does not see us approaching, then perhaps we can take the town."
"Battles can be won and lost in a turn." Swain reminded him. Jericho had learned to play chess from his father Thorvald, but only Marcus had proved to be a worthy opponent thus far.
"I will send word if I have secured his attention. Keep your men close; your leg is not what it used to be." Marcus reminded him.
"It is a reminder." His protégé's forced and calm voice veiled his real feelings on the matter. I do not keep myself a cripple out of masochism or self-pity.
"I do worry for you, dear boy." Marcus said the words easily because he meant every syllable of it. As a father, he felt it was imperative to remind his children, biological or no, that he did care.
"… General." As usual, Swain only replied after a full minute spent in silence. He cut the connection soon after. Marcus passed the shard back to his aide-de-camp and watched the 2nd Legion begin their walk, silhouettes lit up in the rain thanks to the verdant lightning that arced down and struck the town. Siege engines snapped and creaked nearby as batteries sent great rocks flying towards the town.
"Disassemble the tent; we go with the army." Marcus du Couteau said. "Pass the word to General de Montolieu, if you can, that we are beginning the feint. If you cannot reach him, inform Lieutenant-Colonel Swain instead."
The first indication Marcus had of the Captain-General taking the bait was a report from one of the foremost elements of the 2nd Legion. A lieutenant by the name of Darius had seen activity on the walls and had passed the word to his provisional captain, Suzanne di Castellamonte. Marcus knew Darius. He had known the young man's parents. He also knew Suzanne. It went without saying that he trusted their word. He watched the walls with his binoculars and saw that it was as they had said.
"2nd Legion, stand ground," He said to his adjutant-general at once, not even bothering to remove his gaze from the binoculars in his hand. "5th Legion, reduce distance with the 2nd by fifty paces. I want Ivar to look at a sea of blades."
"2nd stand ground, 5th reduce distance by fifty paces." The officer repeated into his shard. There was a slight delay as the order was relayed through the chain of command, and then the army shifted and as he had ordered. He could see specks of light in the town—torches. The rain hid everything else, but with the shards and an attentive officer corps Marcus was everywhere at once. At that moment, the magical maelstrom scored a lucky hit—probably a bunker of some sort where the Demacians kept their munitions. For the second time in the past two days a great orange cloud came roaring out of the distant darkness, sending flames in all directions and setting several buildings on fire.
"2nd Legion, storm the town. 5th Legion follow until the gates and then lie down on the ground." Marcus said without hesitation. His adjutant-general blinked and stared at him in surprise before he spoke into the shard. The second's worth of delay resulted in a full minute before the first two ranks broke formation and went into a heated run towards La Forbie while the rest seemingly melted into the terrain.
Marcus reached down and checked the time on his pocket watch. Fifteen minutes past the seventeenth hour.
"Captain Lambert reports that he has captured the town square." The man told him. "Orders sir?"
Marcus held up a finger. He needed to wait longer. He needed Ivar to think that he had thrown his men. He needed the Demacian to do what his people did best, which was to become righteously angry and determined to push them out of the town. It was not until the thirtieth minute that his adjutant-general said. "Captain di Castellamonte wishes to inform you she is… 'tired of playing games,' sir. She and the rest of the 2nd have taken a significant number of casualties."
"Recall the 2nd Legion," He said. "File behind the first three ranks of the 5th. For the 5th: wait until you see the whites of their eyes before you stand and fight."
Marcus du Couteau hoped that Ivar was like any full-blooded Demacian. He hoped the Captain-General would chase the elements of the 2nd Legion like a hunting dog. Ivar's priority was the defense of the town, but seeing Noxians turn tail and run would embolden him.
He watched the specks shift and move in the rain. Barely two minutes passed before his adjutant-general spoke again. "Captain Girac wishes to report that the first Demacian columns are filing out of the gate." His adjutant-general said rapidly. "Captains Odilon, Gilbert and Loic second his report."
"Let them come," Marcus instructed him. His adjutant-general parroted him in the shard. "First five ranks, engage the enemy. For the rest: do not engage until you see the Captain-General on the field."
Through his binoculars he could see the faintest outline of the Demacian Task Forces. There were a fair number of them despite the two days of sieging and skirmishing, but he still held the numerical advantage.
"Captain Hoche asserts that the Captain-General has left the gates. He is on the field at this moment on a white horse." The adjutant-general said. "Reports of his banner are making their way through the lines."
"Engage them," Marcus replied. In the manner of a Noxian assault, the order to charge took time to make it through each element, and so the result was a staggered approach into the Demacian ranks. With pikemen and lancers in the front, the Legions had an initial advantage when it came to reach. His men should be able to deal first blood, and to repel cavalry if it ever became a threat. Once contact was had, both sides collapsed and melted into each other. He hoped the men would hold.
Marcus checked his watch again. Thirty-five minutes past the seventeenth hour. Now was the moment that required careful timing. "General order: the Legions will retire one hundred paces."
His adjutant-general relayed his command, and for a moment Marcus thought his officers would not obey, but then the ranks shifted again and did as he had asked. Marcus wanted Ivar to think he had won. He needed him to be damnably Demacian. The entire feint was dependent on one man's arrogance and certainty. It was not until his adjutant-general mentioned that the Demacians were beginning to follow that Marcus allowed himself the luxury of breathing.
"Now issue the command to Brigadier-General de Belluno: light cavalry will clash into the Demacian left flank. Inform me if and when they are prepared to cut them off from the gate." Marcus knew de Belluno had a good head on his shoulders. He would not gallop through muck and risk his horses. No, the man would take his time, and that was part of the problem. Marcus was a duelist and an assassin, not a cavalryman. He didn't know when de Belluno would arrive.
So the du Couteau kept his eyes fixed on his binoculars, waited for his adjutant-general to tell him that de Belluno was in position before he gave his express consent. "Now," He added for good measure. "Infantry will engage the enemy once more. Any word from Swain or de Montolieu?"
"We managed to reach General de Montolieu fifteen minutes ago." The 5th Legion's aide-de-camp quipped. "He said that the Demacian garrison manning the shore batteries has surrendered to the 2nd Legion."
"And the Prince?" It was unrealistic to think that Swain would have been able to snatch the Prince so soon, but Marcus allowed himself the thin hope.
"No report from Lieutenant-Colonel Swain as of yet, sir." The aide-de-camp said apologetically. "His last report was that he had encountered the Dauntless Vanguard on the field."
"And?" Marcus tilted his head.
"He said he liked a challenge, sir." His aide-de-camp smiled slightly.
"Inform me if Swain reports in again. Send a communique to Admiral Inglefield to tell him that the northern shore is clear; the 10th Fleet may sail at their pleasure." Marcus turned back to the on-going melee. "If de Montolieu hasn't yet puffed his chest at him while he fired his flare, that is."
All he could do now was sit and watch his men hold their ground. It wasn't until the clock struck the eighteenth hour that his aide-de-camp nearly fell over in his haste to tell him the news. By then the rains had stopped, and the unnatural lightning had faded. The elements of the 2nd Legion with them had been fighting for close to ten hours. Marcus didn't see where they were all now on the field. At this distance both Noxians and Demacians were human-shaped blurs.
Jericho Swain had encountered heavy resistance, as expected, but he had persevered. He had goaded the Demacians on by teasing their strongest flank with his weakest infantry, and had allowed them to chew on his numbers to draw the Prince out. Overconfident and brazen, the young Lightshield had charged headlong into the fray, and that was when Swain enveloped him with heavy infantry to the south and a cavalry charge behind his back. When the Prince had been knocked down into the mud, the Demacians had fought with renewed vigor. At that moment, de Montolieu's men had arrived to reinforce Swain's battalion. Together they managed to send the Dauntless Vanguard and Knightly Orders running with their tail tucked between their legs.
"Sound the recall." Marcus du Couteau told his adjutant-general then. The man nodded his head, barely able to hold back a tired smile. "Let Purvis keep La Forbie. We've gotten our prize."
The officer nodded and began to speak into his shard. Marcus du Couteau looked over at his aide-de-camp. "What of the other Legions?"
"The 1st and 6th report a draw at the Howling Marsh," The aide-de-camp said slowly. "There was a brief break in the defenses and they were able to get to the King, but the Demacians regrouped quickly and the seneschal sent them running. Captain Darkwill managed to distinguish himself. The 3rd and 4th Legions could not hold against the Demacians; they took a beating and rolled eighteen miles back."
"Eighteen miles," Marcus repeated in mild surprise. "Draythe will have much to answer for, especially given Keiran's performance, but that is his father's worry and not ours. What of our men?"
"The 5th Legion reports mild casualties, with no deaths among the officers." His adjutant-general seemed to listen to the shard in his hand before he added. "The 2nd is in tatters, however. Many of the captains' shards have gone dark."
"And my blademaster, Suzanne?"
"I spoke with her only a minute ago. She grudgingly reports that her men served… 'as expected'." The adjutant-general shrugged at that moment. "She also wished for me to inform you that the Baton of Boram's Point was rather mediocre."
"She would say that, wouldn't she?" Marcus du Couteau said with an open laugh. Coming from Suzanne di Castellamonte, 'mediocre' was already a compliment.
"Action on the front." The adjutant-general broached.
Marcus turned back to look through his binoculars. Now that the rains had gone, he could see Purvis' banner bobbing up and down like a floundering ship at sea, and then spotted the telltale pattern waving that hinted at some sort of message being broadcasted to his men.
"Is that a recall or an advance?" His adjutant-general remarked. "Should we give chase?"
"A call for regroup I would say." Marcus replied. He lowered his binoculars. "It does not matter; we are not going to fight them any longer. They may keep La Forbie. We should begin marching to rendezvous with Caspian and secure their flank in case of a reprisal."
"I will get the men then." His adjutant-general offered. He was sent away with a nod.
Captain-General Ivar Purvis still held La Forbie, which made the two-day siege a Demacian victory—but Jericho Swain had managed to capture Jarvan IV despite all odds. To Marcus du Couteau, the battle had been a typical exchange in chess: handing over several pieces for one king. Despite the setbacks, everything was still progressing along the planned route. He only hoped that no one would discover the identity of his chess partner.
Author's Note: I had to draw a map for this and timed it as best as I could so I do hope it makes sense! Here we have war from a General's point of view, which is admittedly both detailed and yet not.
When we were with Darius we were basically hauling ass from Point A to Point B and getting poked with a stick all the while, but in Marcus du Couteau's perspective, everything is just a matter of telling the Knight to move to E4 and praying the chess piece doesn't break ranks and run away. The human element of war isn't very palpable from a General's point of view but the strategic element is very much felt.
We've been plodding along (imho) so it's refreshing to finally get to a lore anchor point, which is that point in old lore when Swain routes J4. After this, the young Prince is going to be rescued by Garen (or to be more precise, Marcus Crownguard along with his son). Everything will be as old lore intended, only with this fanfic you know a little bit more on the 'how'.
I'm no chess player, but from what I can glean the term, 'Evans Gambit' is used to describe a more aggressive version of the 'Giuoco Piano'— giving up a White pawn in order to secure the center and to bear down on Black's weak point— which is exactly what Marcus du Couteau does by offering up the 5th Legion to occupy Purvis' time while Jericho Swain went in for J4. It took me longer to find a chapter title than to upload this whole thing oops.
We're also given a bigger picture of just who Marcus du Couteau is in this chapter. I hope I did a fair job of it.
Played with the tenses last chapter but I see that went a bit awry. Anyway! Merry Christmas and have a happy New Year everybody! In a few months the fic will celebrate its 3rd birthday oh wow. I should probably open a bottle of champagne.