Chapter 22

Sidorian Army Camp, South of Port Belmar, Northern Lynese

The commander’s tent bustled with activity as William’s officers filed in, all looking concerned. The last month had been difficult for the entire army, as their men lay dying, forced to watch the enemy that had been fleeing, on the verge of destruction, pull itself back together and reinforce, establishing new lines, extending the war even further.

Even Pembroke, who normally looked as if he was immune from self-reflection and rebuke, seemed somewhat diminished. On top of his worry, however, was something else, something between concern and annoyance. Pembroke kept eyeing the other commanders as they took their places around the large table with the map of the front drawn out in detail, updated with all the information their scouts had been able to obtain.

William had a guess about what was bothering Pembroke specifically. Since Aldric returned home, leaving William in charge, he’d allowed Baron Pembroke to take the forefront in their conferences, calling the commanders together, leading the meetings, and directing the strategy. This was the first time William had called one himself, without speaking to Pembroke directly, and clearly, the word had spread to the other commanders, as they returned the looks Pembroke was giving them.

William didn’t take offense to it. There was bound to be some friction when he made his first independent command, and he imagined Pembroke was less concerned that he was showing independence, and more concerned that William might try to pass blame to him for the losses they had suffered to the curse. Something that William had never addressed directly, either publicly or in private. William didn’t plan on changing that today.

William cleared his throat as everyone found their places, “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. Before we begin, I want to take a moment to welcome back Sir Drummond. It’s good to see you recovered and back with us.”

Sir Drummond, his face still bearing the scars of the Battle of Dead Man’s Hill, nodded in appreciation. “Thank you, My Prince. It’s good to be back, though I must admit I’m not yet fit for the front lines.”

William clasped the knight’s shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring, “While I appreciate your sword arm, I’m just as much in need of your experience and wisdom, and glad to have you with us today.”

Sir Cedrick, Commander Haverhill, and Commander Baldwin all nodded their agreement, smiling at the comment.

Pembroke did not share in the moment of levity. “With all due respect, Prince, I’m sure everyone is needed back at their commands, what with the Lynesians bolstering their forces by the day.”

“You’re right, they are,” William said, meeting Pembroke’s gaze, not letting the older man shake him. “Gentlemen, I understand your concerns. We face a dire situation. Our enemy believes us routed, weakened by the Elder Curse ravaging our ranks. They perceive our sickness as an opportunity, a chance to press their advantage. While this is concerning, I think it also contains a chance for us to put things back in our favor.”

William had spent the past several days in deep conversation with Eskild, running what he wanted to say, what the barons and others might counter with, and the feasibility of his plan. This was his first chance at real command, not as a figurehead for Pembroke, and he had to make sure everything, from its proposal to execution, came off just right.

“What do you propose, My Prince?” Sir Cedrick asked.

“That we attack their lines directly. My plan is an immediate frontal assault. We catch them off guard, strike while they believe us crippled.”

That got their attention, with each of the commanders looking to his comrades, clearly concerned the boy left in charge had lost his senses.

“With all due respect, Prince,” Commander Haverhill said. “Our men are already on half rations. And the sickness ... it spreads daily. Mounting an attack under such conditions will be ... challenging, to say the least.”

“I understand your reservations, Commander, which is one of the reasons I want to attack. Now. We all know that one of our challenges, aside from the sickness spreading through our ranks, is our supply situation. It’s why the duke chose to return home when he did, to correct the problem. The enemy has been building up in front of us for weeks, and our scouts report that buildup includes a large amount of supplies, probably in preparation for an attack of their own. By moving swiftly, we can capture their stores and resupply our forces while weakening theirs. It’s a risk, I grant you, but one we must take.”

“And what of the sick?” Pembroke said. “We can hardly bring them into battle and we are undermanned without them.”

“Undermanned from our initial force, but not as much in comparison to the Lynesian forces. Right now they have the advantage on us, but only by a small amount. If we wait and they continue to bring in reinforcements, their force advantage could grow even greater before the quarantined men are released by the Disciples. While I know it has been suggested that we release those men from quarantine now, and take the risk that the sickness spreads further, I cannot take that risk. The quarantined forces will remain in the rear with the Disciples. Our attack will commence with the forces we have at our disposal.”

“You expect to win an all-out attack with a smaller force?” Commander Haverhill said, the words escaping before he could stop them. “I apologize, My Prince. I simply am ... concerned with such a plan.”

“Normally, yes, your concern would be well-placed,” William said. “But our scouts have reported that the enemy, fearing the plague, has weakened their center and instead reinforced their flanks, probably expecting us to remain on the defensive and, if we were to attack, to do so from the flanks as well.”

“Which is why the center is exactly where we will strike,” William said, leaning over the map and putting his finger on the midpoint of their line. “We will strip our own flanks to the bare minimum and concentrate every available man in the center, far enough back to remain unseen. They are expecting the sickness to spread and, hopefully, will write off a reduction in our forces to exactly that. When the time for the attack comes, we will make one decisive push to break their lines.”

“And if they attack our flanks? They’ll collapse like a house of cards.”

“A risk, to be sure. Commander Haverhill and Commander Baldwin, I want each of you to dig in on your respective flanks and hold your ground. Do your best to fortify your position. Based on all of our recent scouting reports, the enemy isn’t currently in place for an attack and has brought up mostly line infantry, and very few knights. They will likely increase their deployments once they see our lines thin, but it will take them some time. It will be a race to see who gets their forces in place first, except we will know when the race starts, and they will not. Giving us an advantage.”

“What about the village between our force and theirs, the one where the sickness originated?” Sir Drummond asked. “Both armies have avoided it, putting it almost in the center of our two armies, creating an almost no man’s land. Any attack would end up being split by the village, weakening it.”

“Which is why we do not split our attack but go through the village instead, directly to the point of the enemy’s line that is the weakest, concentrated, punching through the Lynesians like an arrow through chainmail.”

“Through the village?” Pembroke said, almost aghast.

“I’ve spoken to the Disciples who’ve recently come through the village, purely in terms of concern over the spread of the disease. I know they are normally neutral, and refuse to discuss anything military or secular they might see; perhaps because I’ve been so focused on our own afflicted, they told me that the sickness in the village has been contained and all those infected moved into the same quarantine tents as our men. What’s more, they were adamant that the sickness only transfers from person to person and never from items. The village is safe to travel through.”

“The men won’t like it,” Pembroke countered.

“The men will do their duty. I have complete confidence in your ability to convince them of the safety of this plan, Your Grace.”

William met Pembroke’s gaze, not blinking or looking away. This was the moment his plan could turn south if the baron balked or challenged his leadership. Of course, that would mean admitting he was not, in fact, capable of convincing his men to attack in spite of their fears. Something William knew Pembroke would never admit to.

After a moment, Pembroke nodded and said, “And once we break through?”

“We’ll be in the heart of their army. They’ll have no choice but to retreat before our central force can wheel around, get behind either flank, and roll them up like a carpet.”

The commanders all looked to the blocks on the map representing the respective lines and units, playing out the scene William set for them. One by one, their expressions changed as they came to the same conclusion he had.

Commander Baldwin leaned forward and said, “It’s a gamble, My Prince. If our center fails to break through...”

“It won’t fail,” William said firmly. “Not if we commit everything to it.”

“It’s bold, I’ll give you that,” Sir Cedrick said, smiling for the first time since entering the tent.

“We’ve been on the back foot long enough. It’s time we seize the initiative, catch them off guard.”

“It’s a good plan,” Pembroke said, grudgingly, but still with respect.

“I hope so,” William said. “Gentlemen, those are your orders. Sir Cedrick, Commander Haverhill, Commander Baldwin, Sir Alistair - I want you to begin repositioning your forces immediately. Strip your forces as best you can, keeping the minimal forces you need to hold your wings. It’s imperative that you send every man you can to the center, to better the chance we break through. Baron Pembroke, as the senior commander and most experienced in the field, you will, of course, lead the attack itself.”