At the Queen_s command

"It is worse, my friend." The Count stopped at the top of the hill and looked toward the Fortress of Death. "They already know the outcome. In one way, Norisle has already won because you cut the road to get here. They will use it next year, or the year after, to finally eliminate this threat. But when the battle is lost here and Mystrians die, two things take on new life. One is the myth that Mystrians cannot fight. It will take root here as well as grow even more wild in Norisle. News of Major Forest's failure to take Fort Cuivre will just exacerbate things. The second, and far more important to Deathridge, is the myth of Mystrian vulnerability. People here will feel the threat, and will believe that only Norillian troops can save them. They will welcome more troops, and the presence of these troops will enable Deathridge to crush nascent notions of independence. Publication of books like A Continent's Calling will be outlawed, and anyone who thinks of independence will be labeled as a Malphian sympathizer. It is a simple process that will destroy Mystria's future."

Vlad shook his head. "This isn't even a game. It is merely their preparation of the board for the next round."

"Elegantly put, Highness."

The Prince looked out at the battlefield. He had no difficulty seeing it reduced to maps in a book. Squares with unit designations would replace flesh and blood. Giant arrows would show lines of attack. Dotted lines would show lines of retreat. Somewhere a chart would total the casualties. He could write a report detailing why the disaster occurred, but Rivendell would commission another book. Vlad's criticism would be dismissed as an attempt to, once again, cover up for the Mystrian inability to wage war.

"So, my only choices are to either march back down there and shoot Rivendell dead, or remain here and use my skills at observation to create a complete and accurate chronicle of what happens?"

"I am as frustrated as you are, Highness, perhaps more." Von Metternin's eyes narrowed. "What Rivendell will create is a disaster, but there might be a way to avert it. We've known it all along."

"Yes?"

The Kessian pointed toward the highest part of the fortress. "The cliff fort. If we were to concentrate forces there in a direct assault, du Malphias could not bring all of his cannon to bear on our flank. You force one section of his wall, get into that fort, and then use that position to attack down into the Fortress of Death."

"Back to the original plan, but without our climbers." Vlad sighed. "Deathridge saw to that."

"So, Highness, back to your choices. Shall I drag a table and chairs out here so we may make notes as we observe, or do I charge a pistol and fashion an alibi?"

Owen gave Sergeant Unstone a withering glance. "And I have given you my word, as an officer and a gentleman, that I will not run off."

The non-commissioned officer held the shackles out. "Please, sir, I don't mean you no disrespect."

"Have you forgotten the other evening, Sergeant? Who was it told you how to kill the Ryngians? Who stood there side by side with you?"

"You, sir."

"Exactly." Owen exposed a wrist. "See these scars, Unstone? When I was in that very fortress, the Ryngians put me in shackles. They did that to humiliate me. That's what Rivendell wants you to do to me now."

"Sir, I have my orders."

"You won't be charged with insubordination, Sergeant. I will be charged with escape. I'll make that clear to his lordship. You'll testify to that fact and all will be well."

The Sergeant, whose face bore more than one battle scar, looked at his squad and then dropped the shackles. "I ain't going to lie, sir."

"You're a good man, Sergeant."

Owen drew his hands to the small of his back and watched the troops assembling. He couldn't help but shiver as disaster loomed. The Fourth formed up by battalion, with four on the line and one held in reserve. The cavalry held the right flank, anchored against the river but, dismounted, only mustered two battalions of foot. Armed with carbines, their effective kill range was only thirty yards, which made them especially weak. Since they were not drilled in infantry tactics, they were even less useful. An intelligent commander would have pulled one of their battalions back into reserve and used the Fifth infantry battalion to fill out the line.

The Mystrians likewise had four battalions on the front and one held in reserve. Owen shook his head. The Mystrians had no real uniforms to speak of. They looked more a rabble than a military force. Their ranks remained ragged, though they did cover four hundred yards of front, same as the Fourth Foot.

Sixteen hundred souls marching into Hell. Two squads in every battalion carried siege ladders and bridging material. Those men would have to reach the wall first. Even if Rivendell's fantasy about the cannon being unable to depress far enough were true, many men would die in the approach.