The Clouds of Caelus
Copyright© 2026 by Lumpy
Chapter 3
Camp Banwīhraz, Central Germania
The room was stark, one of imprisonment and interrogation, meant to give the power to the jailer and oppress the jailed.
You wouldn’t know that from seeing the Easterner sitting at the simple wooden table, working his way through a plate of roasted lamb and root vegetables. Far from the standard fare for a prisoner.
“Leave us,” she said to the guards.
They exchanged glances but obeyed without question, filing out and pulling the heavy door shut behind them, the lock mechanism clicking into place with finality.
Fa Jian looked up at her, but didn’t pause his eating, slowly cutting another piece of meat as Medb pulled out a chair opposite him and sat, leaning back and watching him.
“Better than field rations, I’d imagine,” she said. “Though I suppose we have to be careful not to make your preferential treatment too obvious.”
He didn’t answer right away, slowly chewing a bite before setting his utensils down.
“I do not think they see. You choose people every day for ... talking. Very smart idea. All camp thinks it is a trick. You bring people, sit for hours, ask nothing, do no hurt, almost not look at them. They think they are more smart than you when they do not talk. People you choose get help from others after. Extra food. Small things. They think they fight against you together.”
“Good. That was exactly what I intended. Your government is too centralized and controlled, so most don’t know any of the long-term planning, just carry out the orders they are given as the orders come down. Those that do, we question before they are put into the camp. This is just a holding pen, so if it works to screen our conversation, then I wish them luck in their opposition. I’ve been thinking about what you told me last time, about this resistance network among the Han. You’ve given me fragments, but I need to understand how it actually functions. You mentioned cells, but that could mean anything from three malcontents meeting in a barn to something far more sophisticated.”
“More big than that, but less than we used to be. Old resistance try to organize like an army. Leaders, followers, one big boss. That was the time of my grandfather. Empire destroyed them in a few months. Now we work differently. Keep small and local. No more than twelve people in one group. Most groups do not know about others. Those who know have almost no contact. It limits much what we can do, but it keeps us alive.”
“But surely you need some way to coordinate, otherwise you’re just isolated groups accomplishing nothing. How do you even recruit in a setup like that?”
“Some of our angrier people argue the same thing. But yes, we coordinate. It is slow and careful. Through middle people. No real names, mostly fake names. For finding new people ... the army draft gives us the best chance. When the empire takes young men from villages, they make ready groups of angry people. Bitter words about leaving sick parents, fields without men to work them. We watch for these small signs. That was my main job. As a Banner Army officer, I have perfect access. Who thinks an officer moving up through the ranks the proper way is a spy? I could move between army posts, find people who might help among both drafted men and career soldiers.”
“Until this war pulled you west. Do you have any idea how many groups actually exist?”
“I knew twelve in my area. If I guess from communication and other things ... maybe three hundred in all the empire. But that is just guessing. I not think anyone knows the true answer.”
“Three hundred cells of a dozen or so members each, even if that is all of the cells, which is probably unlikely, that isn’t even four thousand. You realize how inadequate that sounds?”
“Each active person has family, friends who help even if they do not know they help. A farmer who looks away when strangers cross his fields. A merchant who forgets to report strange buying. Active resistance is small, but the support network goes deeper.”
“Still, you’re talking about overthrowing an empire that’s lasted centuries with what amounts to a loose association of malcontents and sympathizers. What exactly do you hope to achieve?”
“Freedom. To see Han rulers rule Han people. To end the draft that bleeds our villages. To stop watching our children marched away to die in foreign wars.”
“Those are all noble aims, but I asked about practical objectives. Have you ever actually tried to act on these grand ambitions?”
Fa Jian pushed his plate aside, his expression darkening. “Fifteen years ago, three groups in Yúnzhōng worked together to attack the garrison. They beat guards, took weapons, said Han rule was back. Empire response was ... complete. Not just rebels. Their families, their villages, anyone who might know them. Public killings for weeks. The provincial governor made everyone watch.”
“So now you focus on smaller goals?”
“We protect Han communities. Gather information. Help soldiers run away when possible. Survival instead of revolution, as you say.”
“Because revolution requires hope, and your emperor has crushed that for generations. I’m curious about this man. I’ve heard similar stories from a few prisoners, but they speak of him like a force of nature rather than a man. Help me understand this fear that seems to paralyze even hardened resistance fighters.”
“You cannot fear what you cannot understand. The emperor is beyond fear. He is like winter or death, unstoppable. No one has seen him for many years, but his hand moves everywhere. People who speak against him disappear. Often not even arrested and killed. They just ... stop existing.”
“Someone must see him. Even hidden rulers need servants, physicians...”
“I am sure they do. But they are kept in the palace, never allowed to leave. Locked in the same way others are locked out. They serve for life and never leave the deepest part of the Forbidden City.”
“Terror alone can’t maintain an empire. He must have other methods of control.”
“The emperor has ten thousand eyes. In every village, someone reports to the local official. In every army unit, political officers watch for loyalty. Even in families, children are taught that reporting parents who speak against the empire is the highest good. We live in a prison of mutual suspicion that has lasted for generations.”
“Every empire believes itself eternal. Every tyrant thinks his rule unbreakable. History proves otherwise. Which brings us to why we’re having this conversation. Your empire attacked mine without provocation. They burned one of our ports, invaded our territories, started a war that’s cost thousands of lives. That makes us natural allies against a common enemy.”
“Allies. An interesting term from someone holding me prisoner.”
“Would you prefer I release you to your fellow prisoners, let them know what we’ve been up to? I’m certain they’d welcome a Banner Army officer who collaborates with the enemy with open arms. No? Then perhaps we can discuss this like adults who understand necessity. Your emperor, and the system of oppression he has set up, threatens both our peoples. You want them gone. We want them stopped. Our interests align perfectly.”
“Do they? You help us and win. What stops your people from just replacing the emperor as our master? Your empire spans from these lands to Africa. You conquered nations, absorbed kingdoms. Why should we believe you would stop at our borders?”
“I think you are confusing an alliance of countries for mutual defense and a single country. Germania, where we sit, has its own government and rules. Italia has its own government. Gaul, Hispania, Scandi. Before the war, we traded and worked together, but we were not all ruled as one. Besides, look at the distances involved. From the front lines of the war to your homeland exceeds the entire width of our current alliance, if I understand it correctly. We never tried to go to Persia and, in spite of knowing of your existence, from your emperor helping the Carthaginians, never attempted to travel to the east. Because logistically, it is a difficult thing. And even harder to maintain control outside of war.”
“Your version assumes we started this war. Emperor’s announcements say Westerners caused conflict. Attacked first.”
“And you believe these proclamations?”
“What I believe matters little. Truth of who started this war changes nothing for my people. They remain under TianYou rule regardless.”
“But that could change with the right pressure applied in the right places.” Medb watched his reaction carefully. “The Han resistance lacks resources and coordination. Britannia has both in abundance. Properly applied, those resources could transform scattered cells into an effective force.”
“Supplies cannot cross so much hostile territory. Even if they could, border watches would stop any support before it traveled into the empire. The watching network I just told you about ... how do you plan to bypass it?”
“That is the problem we have to solve, isn’t it? What if I could get you home?”
The question clearly caught him off guard. His composure cracked slightly, revealing genuine surprise before he reasserted control.
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it? Ships sail many routes. Documents can be created. A Banner Army officer separated from his unit during the Western campaigns, making his way home through irregular channels, would that be so unusual in the chaos of war?”
“Political officers would question any returning soldier extensively. Slightest mistake...”
“Then we ensure your story withstands scrutiny. You were captured early in the conflict, held in various camps, escaped during a transfer, traveled slowly to avoid recapture. Details can be crafted to match known events. I’m very good at creating believable lies.”
“Even if I reached home safely, what then? One man cannot change the empire’s fate.”
“One man with the right connections can do a great deal. You know which cells can be trusted. Which officers sympathize with the resistance. Where to place resources for maximum effect. You could be our bridge to the resistance network.”
“Supplies that still cannot reach us. You have not answered how your support could possibly reach us.”
“Let me worry about the logistics. I’m asking a simpler question, if I could arrange safe passage home, would you go? Would you resume your resistance work knowing that this time, you might not be alone?”
He was quiet for a long moment before saying, “To see home again. To walk among my people. Yes. If you could truly do this, I would return. I would contact cells I trust, organize what resistance I could.”
“Then we have an understanding.” Medb stood. “I’ll need detailed information, every detail you can remember once we work out a plan for this. You will not be a passive participant. We have resources, but the thing we lack is information.”
“You truly mean to attempt this?” There was something almost like hope in his voice now.
“I’ve accomplished more unlikely things,” she said, standing. “Tomorrow we’ll start with geography, every route you know, every checkpoint, every seasonal variation, what the empire’s control out into the sea looks like. Then documentation, procedures, personnel. Every detail that might help someone navigate your homeland.”
Fa Jian stood as well. “I hope you are as able as you say.”
“Time will tell,” she said, knocking on the door. “Guard!”
The lock disengaged and the door swung open.
“Return him to general population,” Medb ordered.
As they moved to flank him, Fa Jian offered a slight bow. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Until tomorrow.”
She watched them escort him down the corridor; plans were already forming, pieces sliding into position. She had the inkling of a plan, but there was much to do to make it real.
Wistla River
Bomilcar stood on the muddy western bank of the Wistla, watching as fifteen ironclad riverboats turned the corner. It was still early in the day and the light was low, hiding the plume of smoke that rose off the group of them for a moment. These were all the riverboats he was able to pull together over the last few weeks for this assault.
He just hoped it would be enough.
The plan had started when the enemy had begun to dig their trenches in this sector. Along most of the line, the enemy trenches were almost half a mile back, putting everyone’s artillery in range of the river, but not so close that they were susceptible to the ironclads, which could put direct fire on them while withstanding the pounding they’d take in return.
In this sector, that had not happened.
The Eastern armies’ zigzagging earthworks cut close to the river, in some cases only back a few hundred meters, a new metric of distance the Consul had started drilling into the army personnel.
The enemy was too confident, and Bomilcar hoped that confidence was going to cost them today.
The Eastern sentries probably heard the ships first, before they saw them, the loud steam engines collectively making a hell of a racket, even over the sporadic artillery fire that never seemed to stop along the long front.
Bomilcar could see men running along the trench lines through his spyglass, followed by the sound of horns announcing an oncoming battle.
The lead riverboat brought her broadside to bear. Her captain had positioned the vessel perfectly, presenting her armored side to the enemy while her six rifled cannon tracked toward the Eastern positions.
The first salvo erupted in an orange flame and white smoke poured from the gun ports. Shells screamed across the four hundred yards of open water and the shells struck the forward trench line in a series of devastating explosions. Earth fountained skyward as the fused charges detonated on impact, hurling sandbags and wooden planking through the air.
Bodies tumbled from the firing steps as concussion waves rippled through the enemy positions. One shell must have found an ammunition depot, the secondary explosion sending a pillar of black smoke climbing into the morning sky.
The second riverboat fired her broadside, then the third. Each vessel added her voice to the bombardment, shells falling in steady succession along the Eastern line. The enemy trenches disappeared behind curtains of smoke and flying debris. Splinters of wood and clods of earth rained down on the defenders as they cowered in their dugouts.
Behind Bomilcar, his own artillery batteries opened fire. Dozens of howitzers added their deeper voices to the chorus, lobbing shells in high arcs over the water. The shore guns had better angles on the enemy’s rear positions, their plunging fire reaching targets the riverboats could not see.
Between the two, they completely bracketed the enemy position, laying down a devastating fire.
As impressive as it was, Bomilcar knew it wouldn’t be enough to win the battle itself. Artillery could stop charges and cause terrible casualties, but it took infantry to actually move the front forward.
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