Chapter Three: The Battle of Ilys
I
The Imperial General Headquarters, Fort Caspar
The Seventh Legion is on the move!
The message arrived from a lookout stationed near Galia Fortress; General Osvannes quickly summoned his officers to a war council to address it.
“How far have they advanced?” he demanded.
“They crossed the Estich River and are making for the Canalia Highway, ser!” relayed the soldier breathlessly. The sound of metal on metal came from outside as soldiers scrambled about. Already the news of the Seventh Army had spread to every corner of the fort, leading the soldiers to rush to prepare for battle.
“My lord, from what the lookout said, we can only assume that their objective is Fort Caspar... It looks like they got the jump on us.”
“Indeed. I suppose they got tired of cowering in their hole,” said Osvannes with a smile, making the other officers roar with laughter. Paris looked away from Osvannes and let out the smallest of sighs. He knew that frustration lay hidden behind the general’s words.
Why did His Imperial Majesty reject the attack on Galia Fortress? As far as I could tell, my lord’s plan was flawless. General Felix gave it his seal of approval too. The first play should have been ours.
The others’ laughter irritated him, but he kept his voice even as he continued to question the soldier.
“And how many soldiers do they have?”
“The scouts report around fifty thousand, ser.”
“What?!”
The officers’ laughter stopped abruptly, their smiles replaced with grim expressions.
“Fifty thousand... They had more in reserve than we thought, then?” muttered Paris. No one answered him. None of them had predicted this either.
The force stationed at Fort Caspar had, through numerous waves of reinforcements, grown to around fifty-five thousand soldiers. Paris acknowledged that fifty thousand was higher than expected—they had undeniably underestimated their opponent—but he didn’t think it was as shocking as the other officers’ reactions suggested.
They had guessed that Galia housed around forty thousand soldiers—forty-five at most. If one factored in the troops left behind to hold the fortress, that figure had to be closer to sixty thousand.
The spy at Galia Fortress hasn’t made any reports lately... thought Paris. Probably means he got captured—or killed. Just when we needed information more than ever.
Paris had originally served in the intelligence division, so it was only natural that he valued information. He knew, after all, that the right information could be worth ten thousand soldiers on the battlefield; it could easily sway the course of a battle. Unfortunately, most people—including the officers present—didn’t share his views. Information provided guidance, but that was all, according to them. They all believed wholeheartedly that at the end of the day, victory came down to military might.
Lieutenant General Georg was the loudest proponent of this view. He was a giant of a man and the head of the House of Bachstein, one of the founding families of Asvelt. Everything he had, he’d obtained through the power of his family name. He was also a seasoned warrior and commanded his own legion: the Steel Chargers. His successes on the southern front in the early days of the war, decimating the Sixth Legion, had only strengthened his unshakable confidence in his own judgment.
Georg glanced at Paris, before turning back to Osvannes with a fake smile plastered on his face.
“My lord, we can’t let this concern us. The royal army are a pack of pathetic weaklings, no matter how many they scrounge together. We should send our full force out to meet them, and let them taste the power of the imperial army!” said Georg rousingly, pounding his hand on the table to emphasize his point. The other officers, even those who had looked so grim just moments before, called out over one another in assent.
“Well said! We’ll show the Seventh Legion not to underestimate us,” Osvannes said, and looked to Paris. “Paris, where should we engage them?” Paris looked down at the map spread out on the table before them.
“Hmmm. I believe the Plains of Ilys would be most suitable, my lord.”
“And why do you think that?”
“Simple. The geography is best suited for maneuvering a larger force. The only other options are the Forest of Arc or Glock’s Canyon, and we can’t maneuver an army in either of those. But most importantly, the plains provide the shortest route to Fort Caspar. Provided the enemy aren’t all total fools, they will be thinking the same thing.”
“Hah, a head-on battle, then,” said Osvannes with an approving nod.
“There’s nothing I want more!” said Georg. “Let the Seventh Legion cower before the might of my Steel Chargers!” He roared with laughter, and Paris saw the lust for battle in the faces of the officers around him. His sense of foreboding intensified.
I don’t like this... he thought. We haven’t fought a large battle like this in a long time, and everyone is in a hurry to prove themselves. This doesn’t bode well.
The southern front had been quiet as of late. With the Seventh Legion holed up in Galia Fortress, opportunities for glory had been few and far between. All the officers had been getting more and more fed up, hearing about their comrades’ heroic deeds on the central and northern fronts. It was only natural that the news of the Seventh Legion’s advance had them all chomping at the bit, hungry for some glory themselves. Paris had to prevent that recklessness from bringing about their defeat. As an intelligence man, it was his job to always imagine the worst possible outcome. He turned to Osvannes.
“My lord, perhaps we should ask for reinforcements to be sent to Kier Fortress, just in case. There’s no such thing as being too careful, especially after—”
“What the hell are you on about?” Georg cut him off. Paris saw the other man glaring daggers at him and shaking with barely-contained rage. “Well?” he demanded at Paris’s silence. “What are you getting at? If we were outnumbered, maybe I’d understand caution—but this time we’re evenly matched. Does the enemy terrify you that much? Are you so eager to be called a coward?”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant General Georg, but if we can raise a decisively greater force, it could do serious damage to enemy morale,” retorted Paris. “Shameful as it might be, I thought only to minimize our losses.” Georg pounded another fist on the table.
“Fool! Suppose, just suppose, we crushed our enemy with overwhelmingly superior numbers. Who could boast of such a victory? You think there’s pride in that? Shame on you!”
Paris decided he had nothing more to say to a man who valued glory over the lives of his soldiers.
“...Of course, Lieutenant General. Please forgive me for wasting your time,” he replied, bowing low. He heard a few snickers of laughter and thought he recognized voices belonging to Georg’s toadies. They were all officers from high-ranking noble families. Paris’s family were low-ranking nobles, so he was used to this sort of treatment.
“Lieutenant General Georg, settle down. Paris is my aide, and was only offering his thoughts.”
“If you say so, my lord...” said Georg, before grudgingly stepping back.
Osvannes clapped Paris lightly on the back and said kindly, “We’d all do well to remember his words! But first, let’s get a good look at our enemy. After the first battle we should still have plenty of time to reassess.”
“...Yes, my lord.”
“Very good! Now, a toast!” Osvannes stood up, raising his glass. The other officers followed suit.
“To the glory of the Asvelt Empire!”
“To our undying loyalty to Ramza the Magnificent!”
The next morning, fifty thousand soldiers stood rank-and-file under a crystal clear sky. A war horn cut through the air—the signal to move out.
“Everything is ready, my lord.”
“Good. Send all forces to the Plains of Ilys.”
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