To the North - 4
One hundred and fifty thousand from the Central Army, one hundred thousand from the provincial forces, and no fewer than six nobles appointed as marshals. Assembled for operations along the eastern border, it was a host large enough to send every eastern kingdom into simultaneous convulsions.
Numbers like these made plain just how terrifying nomads remained to settled states. Intelligence estimated the nomad host would number seventy thousand at the absolute most; the Empire had gathered two hundred and fifty thousand—more than three times that figure. Measured against the lower estimate of sixty thousand, the disparity became a full four-to-one. By any ordinary calculus the war was already won before a single blade was drawn.
Had the enemy been anyone other than nomads, victory would have been a certainty.
Damn horse-riding bastards.
The problem was that all sixty or seventy thousand of those nomads would be cavalry. Those mongrel steppe dogs ought to have the decency to fight on foot like civilized people.
Still, the gap in mounted strength was merely an irritation, not an unbridgeable abyss. Even a civilian like me fretted over it; the Emperor and the General Staff could hardly have overlooked the issue.
…Separate from the special forces organic to each corps and provincial army, the expedition will include fourteen knight orders, eight mage companies, and sixteen additional combat units under the Ministry of Special Affairs.
That was the note on special-force allocation tucked into the final pages of the expedition’s confirmed order of battle. Fully thirty-eight of the elite formations the Emperor had nurtured for years were being committed.
That ought to be enough.
The sheer number was reassuring enough to draw a nod from me unbidden. Cavalry might dominate ordinary infantry, but special forces were monsters that transcended branch of service. Even the finest horsemen became little more than mobile scarecrows before a properly trained knight or mage. The Empire was short of cavalry; it was not short of special forces.
The North, of course, possessed its own knights and mages—but most of any real quality had died in the last war.
Somehow each side is missing a limb.
The more I thought about it, the more absurd the symmetry became. The Empire’s cavalry was a wreck; the North’s special forces were a wreck. Both sides were limping into the fight with one leg already broken.
War, someone once said, is a game in which two cripples bash each other until the less crippled one wins. Whoever said it was right. Objectively speaking, the Empire was the less crippled of the two, and for that at least I could be grateful.
The day of the departure ceremony arrived. I finished the bare minimum of work and made a hurried visit to the estate, only to find the atmosphere as grim as expected.
Within the family alone, both the head of house and the heir were marching to war; across the domain, a great many of the people themselves were shipping out with the provincial levies. Family, friends, neighbors—all marching off to die. A cheerful mood would have been the stranger thing.
“Come in, dear. The day’s so hot—are you comfortable?”
“I’m healthy as a horse, Mother. Perfectly fine.”
Even so, Mother greeted us with the brightest face she could manage, as though she refused to let her son see gloom on the eve of his departure.
“And you’ve brought a welcome face as well.”
“Ah—it’s been far too long, Mother.”
The 4th Department Head bowed hastily at Mother’s gentle greeting. Seeing how stiffly she held herself, Mother gave her a soft smile and a light pat on the shoulder. Penelia, overwhelmed, bent at the waist as well; I decided not to mind. The depth of the bow only measured the depth of her respect.
“To meet again only for a farewell before a campaign…”
Mother murmured the words with a bitter edge, still looking at Penelia. From her vantage it was one more daughter-in-law marching off to war after husband and son. Few fates could be so unkind.
Yet there was no help for it. With so many Ministry of Special Affairs units committed, the Dark Light Squad could claim no exemption. Its predecessor, the Audit Department’s Fourth Division, had covered itself in glory during the Great Subjugation War; the symbolic weight was enormous. Staying home would have been the stranger choice.
“Please don’t worry overmuch. Penelia, like me, will not be fighting on the front lines.”
I offered the small consolation carefully, hoping it might ease her heart. The Dark Light Squad had joined for the sake of that same symbolism—and because of it, they had been attached to me. Officially they were escort for the expedition’s inspector; in truth they were meant to amplify the psychological pressure on the nomads by pairing me with the old Fourth Division. Consequently they would almost certainly remain at headquarters rather than the forward edge. If I ever did ride to the line they would ride with me, but honestly, once Penelia and I stood together, nothing short of Dorgon himself appearing would put either of us in real danger.
“War is always better avoided… but that is a mercy, at least.”
Mother’s voice lightened a fraction.
“Come back safe. Both of you. If you return healthy, I shall ask for nothing more.”
She drew us into a brief embrace and whispered the words. A noble who prized duty to the Empire would never have spoken so; in that moment she was simply a mother and a mother-in-law, holding us the way the previous head of house once had.
“Yes. I shall.”
Penelia answered with iron certainty. Having lost her own parents, she seemed deeply moved that someone would worry over her like a child.
“I will return without so much as a scratch.”
“Yes—do exactly that.”
Mother smiled at the vow. Watching the exchange, I alone noticed the tiny misunderstanding that had just taken root.
Mother meant, Come back without fighting at all if you can—glory be damned, just come back whole. But the steel in Penelia’s bearing suggested she had heard something rather different.
If I kill them before they can wound me, I won’t get scratched.
A delightfully grim interpretation: overwhelm the enemy so thoroughly that injury becomes impossible. In her mind, her mother-in-law had just handed her a victory charm. That explained the sudden resolve.
…And she wasn’t entirely wrong. Kill first, stay unhurt—sound logic, all things considered.
“My lady. It seems unkind to keep guests who have only just arrived standing outdoors.”
“Ah—”
The head lady-in-waiting murmured the reminder from behind Mother, who started.
We had somehow slipped into the posture of people already departing—embraces, encouragement—when we had only just arrived.
“C-come inside at once. Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
I had, in fact, but saying so would only have made her more flustered.
We shared a single meal and then set out for the expedition’s assembly grounds near the Imperial Capital. The head of house was already in the capital preparing to march; Mother had never intended to keep me long. She had simply wanted one more look at our faces and one more meal together.
I had half-feared she might cry during dinner, but whatever tears she still possessed had been spent last time. She held steady. Small mercies.
“Come back safe. Knowing you, Brother, you’ll probably walk out of hell itself in one piece—but be careful anyway.”
“Thanks. And if you have a spare moment, drop a line to Countess Horpfelt. The former count is marching as well; she must be a wreck.”
Right after the meal I answered Erich’s pure-hearted send-off with a bit of practical advice of my own. Offering romance tips on the eve of war was faintly ridiculous, yet the counsel was less for my brother than for the countess. She was already suffering for having given her heart to a man whose social instincts and intellect had both collapsed; with her father now riding to war on top of that, her nerves must have been ash. This was advice meant to save a life… I could only hope Countess Horpfelt would be glad of Erich’s letter.
“What are you thinking about?”
“How many nieces and nephews I’m going to have.”
While I fretted inwardly over the countess’s mental state, the Minister’s gruff voice snapped me out of it and I answered on reflex. Odd reply, true, but since my future nephew count hinged entirely on Erich’s romantic competence, it wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Hah. I’m more curious about how many children you are going to sire.”
“Somewhere north or south of twenty, I expect.”
My tone of pure resignation made the Minister snort with laughter. I ignored it.
“Then come back with every limb attached. If anything happens to you, the Empire loses twenty future bureaucrats.”
“Hey—don’t you dare assign my kids’ careers for them!”
That one I could not ignore. The madman planned to enslave my children? They were going to be rich layabouts, thank you very much.
I was about to unload a heartfelt stream of paternal invective when the Emperor’s voice rolled across the assembly grounds from the raised platform. Whether by artifact or sheer lung power, it carried over the broad plain with thunderous clarity.
The departure ceremony proper was beginning; I clamped my mouth shut. Damn it—I should have gotten the curses out a second earlier.
“Beholding the valiant ranks of our loyal soldiers, one perceives that Heaven’s Mandate upon the Empire remains unshaken.”
Attended by the Crown Prince, the Minister of Palace Affairs, and the Duke of Victory, the Emperor stood tall upon the dais—the master of the Empire reciting the Empire’s history.
“For three centuries the Empire has not been the challenger but the one challenged. Throughout that long history we have met challenge after challenge.”
His words were calm, yet they rang with the pride of an unbroken line of victories. The atmosphere among the assembled host kindled into quiet fire.
“Our great forefathers met those challenges and advanced. No hatred, no rage, no plea could halt the Empire’s march. Those who dared defy us were simply crushed beneath the giant’s tread and vanished.”
“Now it falls to us to follow in their footsteps. As our ancestors did, we shall trample the Empire’s enemies without hesitation and prove once more that Heaven’s Mandate stands firm.”
Sensing the mood, the Emperor raised his right arm—an uncharacteristic flourish for a man who normally spoke only what needed saying.
“Advance, advance—from the southern tip of the continent to its northernmost reaches. Toward every place upon this earth where the light of Heaven falls.”
A simple gesture, a single verse from the anthem every imperial subject knew by heart. It was enough. The already-kindled soldiers erupted.
“Advance, advance—from the southern tip of the continent to its northernmost reaches! Toward every place upon this earth where the light of Heaven falls!”
“Rule, rule—from lofty Mount Gariond to the boundless ocean! Over all who bow their heads to Heaven’s Mandate!”
The soldiers’ chorus rolled across the plain on the eve of war. Whether it was pure patriotism burning or a desperate roar meant to drown out fear, no one could say.
It hardly mattered. The Emperor had commanded, the nobles obeyed, and the soldiers cheered.
That was all there was to it.