Randgriz- May 15, 1836
Colonel Thomas Moore walked briskly down the length of the Gallian fortifications on the bank of the Vasel. Sentries and passing soldiers stiffened quickly to attention. It was foolish to trifle with a colonel of the Royal Guard at any time, especially Moore, who was known to be one of the finest blades to have ever walked the halls of the Federal officer's academy in Appledore.
"His Highness is quite interested in the state of our defenses here," he remarked to the captain at his heels.
"They're coming along well sir. The Imperial attack a couple of weeks ago damaged them a little, but I'm sure they'll protect His Highness well, sir," the captain said, tearing off the third salute in as many minutes.
Moore glanced in amusement at the young officer, who had been the very image of boyish enthusiasm upon learning that Moore would be personally inspecting his sector of the river. "You don't need to salute quite that much Captain," he said with a laugh. "Relax. I'm only here to make a report to His Highness. I'm sure you're doing a fine job."
The officer swelled with pride. "Thank you, sir!" he exclaimed . . . with another salute.
The colonel paused as they reached a sentry post. "Give me that glass, soldier," he said, extending a gloved hand.
"Sir."
He extended the brass telescope, scanning the Imperial side of the river. "What are those cannon, Captain?" he asked, pointing to a battery on the opposite bank.
"Oh, those. The Imperials placed them there a few days ago," remarked the officer, who had also deployed his own spyglass. "I ordered counterbattery fire on the guns, but we were running short on powder, so…" The captain extended his hands helplessly.
"I see." Moore continued to scan the treeline, pausing every time he spotted a battery. "There's over fifty guns on that bank there, Captain. They might be building up here. I'll see to it that you get the powder you need."
"Thank you, sir," the man said gratefully. He hesitated. "But. . . General Damon expects the buildup further up the river. He has seen significant troop movement there sir."
"I've been there too. There were about thirty guns visible there." The colonel paused. "That means one of the two is a diversion. The Imps don't have enough men to run two assaults at the same time." He stopped to clap the man on the shoulder. "At any rate, you're doing a fine job. I'll get you that powder." He was turning to go when a warning shout arrested his movement.
"Cannon fire!"
Imperial shells howled in, blasting the Gallian works in an inferno of smoke and flame. Moore staggered in the trench, and then checked his ears to see if they were bleeding. They weren't. He wondered why.
"Come on men! Rally!" the captain shouted, struggling to his feet and rushing down the trench toward his own guns. "Let's-" The man's exhortation was abruptly cut off as a fresh storm of metal came crashing down; a cannonball had neatly clipped off the top of his head.
"Shit!" Moore cursed with little imagination but with great feeling. He dove down flat as a new barrage thundered in. The Imperials are trying to break through… Too many shells for a diversion. The colonel peered over the top of the trench to peek across the river. Sure enough, Imperial soldiers were loading themselves onto boats and beginning to row across the Vasel. Getting to his feet, he ran doubled-over towards the dead captain's battery.
"Can we get some fire on those boats?" he shouted to the thickset battery chief.
"On it now, sir!" the other man yelled after seeing Moore's shoulder straps. He turned as the field pieces began sighting on the river. "Fire!"
Moore cheered with the artillerymen as two boats disappeared in a shower of water and splinters.
"Load your pieces, damn you!" the chief screamed. As the men hurried to obey, Moore turned his gaze back toward the Imperial side of the river. His eyes widened.
"Incoming!" He threw himself to the dirt again as the counterbattery began. If this wasn't the end of the world, you could see it from here. A blast picked him up and threw him back into the far wall of the trench, bringing the taste of blood. The world roared and then turned deadly quiet as the hammering continued. He watched as a caisson exploded in a silent fireball, throwing one of the four-ton cannon contemptuously aside.
"O-ers -ir?" The query came from one of the guardsmen who had come down from Randgriz with him.
"What?" Moore foolishly wondered for a moment if the guard had forgotten how to talk.
The man placed his mouth next to Moore's ear and screamed. "Orders sir?"
"Oh. Yes." Moore got slowly to his feet. Wondering if his hearing was still affected, he looked about wonderingly. Then he realized that the silence wasn't just him; the Imperial barrage had stopped completely.
After looking over the top of the now splintered and blackened earthworks, he quickly wished he hadn't. The Imperial boats were over the river, the first of them vomiting blocks of brown-clad infantry on to the bank.
"Fire!"
Moore turned. A young lieutenant, probably the dead captain's aide, was on top of the earthen ramparts, waving his sword over his head. Some soldiers obeyed, throwing a ragged volley at the oncoming Imperials. However, most of the men stayed well out of sight, too scared or rattled to fight.
"Valkyrur save us!" a nearby sergeant cried despairingly. "They've got artillery over the river!"
Moore paled. With the men staying inside the works, artillery this close could punch a hole in the Gallian fortifications in a matter of minutes.
"Orders sir?" The guardsmen's query brought the colonel out of his reverie.
"Form up the Guard here. Be ready to move on my command."
"Yes, sir!"
The colonel ran toward the lieutenant, who had since jumped back to safety. "Lieutenant, we have to take those guns and push the Imps back over the river. If we don't, they'll roll on through here and then there's no stopping them until Randgriz."
"T-take the guns sir?" the youngster stammered. "I d-don't know about that…"
"Come on, man! If the Imperials break through here, they've won the war!" Moore shook the junior officer impatiently. "Do you want everything we've done till now to be for nothing?"
The lieutenant's eyes refocused abruptly. "You're right, sir." He strode off down the trench. "All right, men! We're going to take those guns and throw those Imps back! Form up!"
His exhortation was met with blank stares and little actual activity. Moore looked back at his own men; gritted his teeth. He yanked his sword clear of its sheath, waving it. "Come on, men! We're going to the guns! Fix bayonets!" The guardsmen goggled at the colonel in disbelief, but all obeyed. By this point, the Guard was as much of a professional fighting force as any the Empire had to offer.
The officer sighed heavily as he looked about. The men he had brought with him only came to about fifty men; a paltry number compared to the hundreds already on the banks. This was probably a suicide mission, but Moore's strong sense of duty would not allow him to reject it.
Before he could actually think about what he was doing, he quickly clambered over the front of the ramparts. "Come on boys! Follow me!" With a shout, the men followed, charging toward the Imperial lines.
Despite the lack of support from the regulars, the Guard gave a fierce charge, accurate rifle fire scything down the Imperials that tried to halt their advance. Mid-reload, the opposing artillery could not put down the murderous canister so suited to this range. Within seconds, the lines met, and brutal hand to hand combat broke out mere feet from the guns.
Moore deftly sidestepped an Imperial rifleman attempting to disembowel him with his bayonet, pulling the rifle past him and slamming three feet of steel into the man's gut. The colonel quickly pulled his rapier from the man's limp form and looked about for a new target.
He did not have to wait long. A plucky artillery sergeant grappled for the short sword at his own waist, aiming a vertical chop at Moore's head. The Gallian managed a lucky riposte, which bought him the time he needed to properly face the other man. The man hissed what was presumably a curse in his mother tongue; Moore knew no more Imperial wordsthan the average housecat.
Moore's ruminations on feline knowledge of the Imperial language were cut short as the sergeant rushed him with a blood-curdling shriek. The colonel's long rapier flicked out almost disdainfully, ripping the weapon from the man's hands and puncturing his throat in one smooth movement.
The Imperial gurgled for a moment, clutching at the fountain of scarlet, and then toppled like a marionette with cut strings.
With a huzzah, the regulars cleared the works and came scrambling down the slope to the Guard's aid; apparently inspired by the guardsmen's example.
Moore turned back to the guns, making sure they were in fact out of action. A lone artilleryman, crawling on all fours and leaking like a bloody colander, dragged his body over to a nearby lanyard and pulled it an instant before the Gallian put a bullet in his brain.
It was too late; the damage was done. Men and pieces of men slid down the incline, painting the riverbank red. Moore swore briefly before tuning his attention back to the battle. Thankfully, with the arrival of the regulars, the Imperials were cleared off the bank in short order, with the boats still on the river beating a hasty retreat.
The Royal Guard colonel sat down abruptly on the bank and wryly surveyed the gore spattered on his uniform. I hope His Highness doesn't mind his report being a little late...
Author's Note: Thanks, as always, to Markal and chiemiangel for the beta. In addition, if there are actually any of you in the ghost-reader population that actually like this story, please leave a review. It helps a lot, and helps reassure us that this isn't just something we would be better off not doing. Thanks.