Allacastra aþe’Curia-Wyrre
D+21
“The time is… seventeen hundred hours: Court is sitting, shall we begin?” The Crown-Captain began as he took his seat at one point of the chamber’s triangular table. Of course, the room looked nothing like one would expect any courtroom to look – there was no dock, bench, well or gallery – and this chamber was furnished more akin to a spartan meeting place than a sessions hall. The ceiling was low, and like the floor walls was unadorned concrete stiffened by protruding girders and concealed latticework of reddish-gold aurichalc. Dominating the room was a tribar table of varnished mahogany seating five a side and one at the head of each point. Unfortunately the ongoing calamity had somewhat ruined the modern touches by rendering each seat’s inbuilt display screens useless.
Not that this had stopped the Adjutant Clerks in preparing the room for today’s session. Instead, an ancient overhead projector was placed between the table’s arms while a roller screen blocked the shattered TV array opposite the Crown-Captain. Fortunately the day’s meeting of the Central Warfighting Executive would not require the whole table be filled, and the bar between the projector and the screen was empty.
“We shall begin with a brief accounting of recent events in the field from our Sir Aleſsya,” Sir Barynel continued as he opened the file placed before him by an aide. “After this the Sygecempyssym will apprise us of the Thaumic developments. We will then consider the current strategic directions in light of the new information and will make any adjustments necessary. Are there any additions to the agenda?”
Through a moment’s pause, Sir Barynel looked about the table at the fellow members of the Central Warfighting Board. Each sat in a large executive swivel chair, alternating between leather of maroon or deep blue as they snaked around the table. As the supreme decision-maker in the nation on matters relating to the prosecution of war against the denizens of Tambelon, Sir Barynel chaired the board from the principal point of the tribar table. To his left and right sat the members of the board – political, bureaucratic, and military. Each place was set with a brief of papers in manilla folders and an ornate name plaque of gold leaf engraved mahogany slid into place for all else at the table to see who was addressing them.
At Sir Barynel’s right sat Sir Rycoharde Uiso, the First & Principal Legate – the professional head of the Coronial Armed Forces and the most senior uniformed military adviser to him and the Justiciar for War. Next came the Justiciar for War herself, then more – Chancellors and Secretaries-General of the Justiciary for War and the Crown Captain’s Office.
At its end sat the other senior-most Military Officer in the room – the Central Commander-in-Chief who was the operational head of all Kouralian military forces that were not expressly continuing to remain stationed in Eastern Mystria. The Legatus Kyneræl-Magnus, Sir Aleſsya Byraþƿynn found herself in an unenviable position which was equalled only once in the last centuries. Of course, that the other Central Commander-in-Chief took charge less than a decade ago in 2014 did not bode well for the future defence of Kouralia. Down the other arm of the table sat a number of other important bureaucrats and military officers, until it reached the other key figure in the room. Unlike the varying degrees to which the other attendees deformalised their attire in the name of utility and necessity, Prince Palatine Sir Muri Mide wore a full three-piece suit of herringbone-woven plum purple wool. The waistcoat was crossed from shoulder to his left hip by a dark brown crossbelt that helped support the weight of the compacted staff which hung from a loop on his hip.
“Very well then,” Sir Barynel said after a pause, “Sir Aleſsya if you please?” He added, gesturing with one hand before opening the arms of a pair of reading glasses and beginning to digest the reports.
“Of course, Captain.” Sir Aleſsya said, the Legate Grand-General rising to her feet and reflexively smoothing down her khaki drab uniform shirt, before gesturing to the projector screen. At once, the hand of an Adjutant Clerk crept up from where he was sat cross-legged on the floor next to the overhead projector. Unfortunately the mechanical clunk of the device’s power switch was not followed by an illuminating glow from within.
Almost a minute passed, with all present studiously not making eye contact as the unfortunate, lowly Administrative Assistant’s hand flicked at the switch, wiggled the power cable, and even slapped the side of the machine as its owner’s voice muttered curses both profane and religious under his breath. Eventually, before the Clerk’s increasingly forceful percussive maintenance could dislodge the projector from its trolley, the Prince-Palatine signed and took pity on him. Raising one hand languidly as he sipped at his water, the Prince-Palatine snapped his fingers. Immediately the plexiglass plate was illuminated by a werelight from within.
“Thank you, My Lord.” Sir Aleſsya said to the Prince-Palatine, who merely nodded and waved for her to continue. “As we know,” the General said, as she stepped out from behind her desk and moved toward the projector screen, “the Tambelonic forces are continuing to advance. Their progress has been stalled this past week compared to the initial advance primarily due to the first influxes of men and materiel reaching the front via the canal system proposed and implemented by the Prince-Palatine.”
While she spoke, the Administrative Assistant’s hand slipped transparent a laminated sheet onto the overhead projector and the screen was immediately filled with a map of Northern Kouralia featuring helpful annotations.
“Now,” Sir Aleſsya continued, as she needlessly indicated the large scarlet lines flowing South-Eastward from Tambelon with her vine stick, “While the Tambeloni are largely out of the peaks of the Urykuu Range, they remain within the mountainous areas and in territory that does not lend itself to assaulting forces. However, we are still operating at limited effectiveness because of The Toll of the Tambelonic Bell.” She shrugged glumly, “It’s true that ‘everywhere a tank can go is tank country’, but at the moment we cannot move anything wheeled, let alone armoured vehicles. We also remain unable to bring any significant artillery to bear on the Tambeloni – also because of The Toll.
“A number of districts have identified out-dated L5/6 Pack Howitzers within their stores. Notionally we can break them down into 12 separate pieces for ease of transport over mountains… However we are experiencing issues carrying out this with any significant degree of widespreadness. Unfortunately it takes a substantial number of soldiers to carry it, and it was intended for carriage by pack mules – which we no longer maintain trained herds of. To say nothing of the relative scarcity of ammunition for a seventy-year-old gun.
“Now, our estimations are that the current Strategic Phase Line will likely be overcome within a number of days, and we will see a fighting retreat that will hopefully limit hostile gains in concert with destruction of infrastructure, stay-behind units, and temporary retiring to pre-prepared tactical bastions.
“The current combat losses, counting confirmed deaths in service as well as confirmed wounded and personnel and formations within the area which we can no longer accurately account for, is estimated at around 30,000 men and women. This, as always, does not included estimates of loss caused by The First Toll.”
As Sir Aleſsya said this, one of the Adjutant Clerks cleared his throat, his desk plaque introducing him as Arri Fystuari, Director of Civil Contingencies. Once she ceded the floor to him he spoke, “At this time it is best to consider all casualties inflicted during The First Toll as separate to the ongoing tallies of civilian and military deaths – though thanks to the destruction of communications and digital recording systems across the nation all of them are, at present, estimates at best. We estimate the death-toll so far is a minimum of three million in total – including patients whose conditions would have destabilised with the loss of power, those who were on or near motor vehicles at the time of The First Toll and people wounded by shattered glass.”
“How good is the prognosis for the coming weeks?” Sir Barynel asked
“Not good.” Director Fystuari said simply, leaving a short awkward pause until the Crown-Captain’s raised eyebrow and lack of response clued him into a need to provide more detail.
“National, regional and local food distribution networks have collapsed throughout the entire affected area. Rapid institution of rationing policies was certainly useful, but local supplies are invariably dwindling if not already diminished. Ultimately food is rarely produced locally enough for urban populations to be self-sufficient. Our society relies on significant mechanisation of the distribution network to allow most produce to make it to consumers whilst still fit for consumption. There are certainly places where this effect is mitigated – whether due to proximity to trunk or capillary canals, or due to local agricultural industry, but these areas are in the minority. The collapse of the national grid has similarly destroyed a significant proportion of food and medicine storage within the affected areas – to say nothing of its effect on production facilities and its predicted effect on heating the homes of the more vulnerable in our communities.
“Ultimately, we will see further-heightened levels of public disorder within the coming months. There are plans to put in place regarding this, and the Regional Prefects and their more local assistants will surely have studied them in preparation for such a catastrophe. Summary Justice will need to be enacted, and the regions most affected by the war will have to transition to a less…” He paused, “less judicial means of dealing with many offenders. Soon after that we expect to see mass starvation, and after that as the nights turn cold we will see countless people dying cold and alone in their homes - if populations can even remain in dense settlements.”
The room was soberly silent for almost a minute, before the Legate Grand-General resumed her briefing. “We know that the Imerian Krigsmakten is pouring to our aid through the South Coast portal, and additional assistance is on the way from further afield, but the Tambelonic strategy is heavily predicated on the use of the Shattering Peal and so far it is working. It will take a number of days, if not weeks, for our allies to really start to bolster the lines. The strategic canal network is proving useful, but its potential cannot be fully realised without transport by road,rail or aeroplane.
“Ultimately the doctrine of the Kouralian Military has been reliant on superiority in information management, logistics and supply, moral components, and being able to maintain a high operational tempo. Unfortunately the effect of the Shattering Peal has not simply negated any advantages in these fields, but it has completely eradicated these capabilities.
“It’s almost as if he’s planned this.” A clipped, almost stereotypically upper-class voice interjected.
“Indeed, My Lord,” Sir Aleſsya acknowledged. “The only reason not to think that this foe has spent every waking minute of his exile waiting and watching us is the clear evidence that he has spent much of it building up and equipping these forces to destroy ours. Were it that we could meet them in battle without the peal, I have no doubt that the Grand Legion would crush them with ease - regardless as to the sorceries of their goatcaste warlocks. However, even if the peal ended this very moment it would take an immense effort to start equipping operational formations to the standard we would expect of them.”
“What do we know about the Peal itself?” Sir Barynel asked, “Is there any prospect of stopping it?”
“No.” The Prince Palatine said simply.
“Thank you Sir Aleſsya,” The Crown-Captain said as an aside as he turned to the Prince Palatine, Sir Muri Mide. “Can you elaborate on that, please?” He continued as the Grand-General took her seat.
“Marginally.” Sir Muri said with a shrug, before taking to his feet and extinguishing the projector’s werelight with a click of his fingers. “Fundamentally, the Peal is an effect emanating from Tambelon itself. Every… I think it is twelve minutes, a wave of power surges from the Dark City until it reaches its limits. This wave of power shatters the constituent parts of any free turning wheel within machinery, it shatters glass, and it powers the unnatural tempests which ravage the land wherever pegasi cannot chase them away. We have tried to mask axles from it, but it hasn’t worked. We have tried to protect them with enchantments, but the pulsing of the Peal means that unless we can re-enchant them between its cycles of power the axles break when it next tolls. We have no actual practical idea about how this spell is being cast, though I am inclined to believe that some form of bell is being used as an arcane focus given the audible tolling that accompanies the pulses of energy.”
“You said that it cannot be stopped?”
“Yes. Or rather, it can be stopped, but not by us.” Sir Muri said. “Perhaps if we had prepared and planned and developed the right means to fight this foe over the past five hundred years then we might be able to, but with our current capabilities, we cannot. It’s only down to good fortune that the current preparations have held…”
“Thank you, Sir Muri…” The Crown-Captain muttered, “I think everyone here is aware of your advocacy for treating Tambelon as a threat since it last went away - and your efforts to prepare for its return in spite of government policy. But can we please stick to what we can do now rather than what we might have done then?”
The Prince-Palatine sighed, “Yes, of course,” he said. “I live to serve and all that, and it was certainly not infuriating being the only person to take the security of the nation seriously for these lonely years. Anyway, as I was saying…” He continued, “This spell is incalculably complex and powerful to have such a precise effect over such a widespread area and to be persisting for weeks now without stopping - and there is no sign it will stop. We’ve even recently seen the spell’s effect intensify briefly to support strategic level manoeuvres in the Tambelonic forces. I have written a short document on the underlying… Uh, ‘Pealian Principles’ as it were which we have been able to divine so far. That’s included in the briefing packs for this meeting.
“However, aside from the effect the Peal has on our combat effectiveness, this spell is emanating from a location which is protected by the most powerful armies and magics of the most powerful city state and sorcerer on the continent.
“Quite simply,” The Prince Palatine concluded, “there is no Thaumist in Kouralia, and no choir of Thaumists who could overpower its effects, and I doubt you could successfully get boots on the ground there without those boots being on the feet of near-divine godlings.”
“How optimistic…” Sir Barynel said wryly, “Well, overcoming the Peal shall be the first and most important priority for both scientific and thaumic research establishments. Now, shall we move on to some actual policy details?” He asked the table, a question greeted by some very enthusiastic nodding from those eager to move the topics on to ones they had at least some understanding of.
And so, over the coming months what was foretold came to pass. More than a score of scores - a scoreception if you will - of years had been given to the mannish realm that stretched from Kurton to the mountainous border with Hippostania across the seas to the southernmost stretches where Kouralia brushed shoulders with Silverdale within the peaks of the Western Wall. For this half century since Lord Grogar’s promise to return rang in the ears of power, that threat should have lived rent-free, foremost in the minds of the strategists of the Crown. Instead, as nature regrew and cities were rebuilt the short-lived and shorter-sighted peoples of those blessed, emerald draped lands forgot what it meant to be afeared. Their minds turned to other endeavours even as those who had fought him lived. When they were all dead, unnecessarily quickly as humans tended toward, those that now led the nation were even less inclined to listen to the warnings of a foe whose last breath was before their birth and whose next breath would scarcely trouble their greatest of great grandchildren - if it even came.
Those years, decades, centuries that could have been used to fortify the nation’s land and spirit, to prepare once more to do battle with the most powerful of powerful goats, and to inculcate an appreciation for the wondrous and magical into the population was squandered. As time went on even the veneration for nature and the divinity thereof which sat at the heart of the Kouralian spirit became akin to lip-service.
Last in the long line of executive bodies seemingly incapable of seeing the fate that dangled clearly before their noses, the Central Warfighting Board had finally recognised its doom. Of course, this was a doom a half-millennia in the making and a realisation too late to rectify by half that, at least.
Across Kouralia, while battles raged in the North and raiders roamed abroad elsewhere, society upended itself as its most basic needs went untended-to. Without power, and with transport links crippled to an extent never before envisaged, the unprepared populations migrated from cities to a thousand impromptu settlements across the countryside as many slowly travelled further to the areas of Kouralia unaffected by the peal. Production of every machined and processed good in the nation ground to a halt, while those made naturally found themselves spoilt before the consumer could even clap eyes on them.
Populations unused to privation and hardship streamed from urban centres incapable of sustaining their density to seek solace in a countryside which was anything but the breadbasket paradise the cityfolk had assumed. For each hamlet-like hillside frazione capable of sustaining itself through communal gardens and hard work, ten more became as quiet as the graves were not. Every night more caravans and camps of terrified refugees filled the bellies of the hangry dead resurrected across the continent by the dark magicks of Tambelon, as magecraft and skill-at-arms proved to be in poor supply among the priesthood of the Æhrycreda. Every day roiling bolts of dark energy tore the souls from the forms of Kouralian soldiers and blasted apart their fortifications in a twisted mockery of the honest and honourable howitzers which slumped silent amidst their shattered carriages at countless depots across the nation.
For those in the area of Pealian Wastes, any news was hard to come by so good news was latched onto with a fevered intensity no matter its provenance. Stories were abound about cowboys atop dragons and horseback charges of valiant foreigners while legions of blue-clad heroes died in their droves to protect a land that was not their own. Tales as tall as the trees, many Kouralians would have suggested such things to be in less trying times. Now even the least credulous of people needed something to spark hope.