Chapter 782: All out assault(2)
It was evening, cold and wind-bitten, the warmth of the day stripped away by the icy breath of night.
Arnold found it oddly remarkable that, despite a week of relentless, bloody failures, not a single voice among the White Army’s ranks gave way to despair or grumbling. Not even now, after the brutal losses of the day, in which dozens of men had died below the walls.
He had seen firsthand how that assault had crumbled. How fire and oil had shattered their momentum.
He had led his own contingent in that doomed push beneath the massive siege tower everyone, mistakenly, had pinned their hopes on. And yet now, walking among the men of the Fourth, he did not see the pain of defeat etched into their faces.
He saw only anger. Not however towards their general but instead a smoldering rage of men denied the laurel of victory.
Had someone once told him that soldiers could react like this, he would have laughed and called them liars. But now, having witnessed it firsthand, he was simply... fascinated.
How did such an army come to be?
A voice behind him stirred him from his thoughts.
"Do they not look like the Red’s Legions reborn?"
He turned and found his younger brother standing there, his eyes trained on the same sight, lit faintly by torchlight, the silent, solemn ranks of the Fourth. Their armor dented, their brows furrowed, but their spirits unbroken.
Normally, Arnold would’ve dismissed such a comparison as flattery or myth-making. But now... he wasn’t so sure.
"I wouldn’t dare make such a comparison lightly," he replied. "I’ve read some of the surviving accounts from the old bones of Romelia, though most are useless,just a tangle of romantic nonsense. They call Vrivius’s Legions ’second to none,’ warriors who felt no pain but the sting of defeat.Gods you could read such words about each nation praising the warriors of a victorious general or king.
Still...those are stories written long after their time. They read more like fairy tales than proper history."
His brother smiled, the gleam in his eyes clear as the moon during this night
"You miss the point," he said. "I’m not comparing Yarzat’s men to Vrivius’ in terms of strength or discipline. That’s not what made the Red’s Legions so revered. Ask anyone what they remember, and they won’t speak of tactics or drills. They’ll tell you those soldiers were the shield of Romelia, the sword of its will. The bulwark against the chaos beyond the Finger. They remember not the soldier, but the myth he carried."
Arnold studied his brother’s face for a moment, puzzled by the strange joy in his tone.
Was he just glad to be having this conversation? Or had he come here with purpose? Thalien knew where his brother was going...
"Don’t you see it?" his brother said, eyes fixed on the quiet ranks before them. "That’s what the White Army is becoming."
He paused, then added with a hint of disbelief, "I never thought men could come to believe in something that doesn’t even exist."
He gave a half-smile, the kind that bore both wonder and irony.
"A legion, just a denomination, isn’t it? Well,try telling that to them. Gods, they are making it their whole identity. Their name, their pride, their purpose. That kind of thing... any general would kill for it."
He gestured with his chin toward the soldiers, their silhouettes unmoving beneath the fading amber of dusk.
"Who knows?" he continued, his voice now softer, almost reverent. "Maybe one day, long after we’re both dust, some scribe in Yarzat will sing of these men the way the chroniclers once sang of the Red Legions. Maybe they too will become legend, if our prince manages to etch his name alongside Vrivius, that is."
A bitter breath left his lips, half a chuckle.
"Strange, isn’t it? To think how far empires fall. The great colossus of Romelia now limping into irrelevance. I wonder what Vrivius would make of our world now... Still," he added, glancing back with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, "these are interesting times to live through for sure...."
Arnold didn’t reply. He only watched the men, his thoughts heavier than before.
After a moment, he turned toward his brother and asked, quietly, "You know where I’m going. So why are you here?"
There was no reprimand in his tone, only curiosity.
Thalien’s response came with an easy grin. "Come now. I was there when you begged for aid. How could I not be here when you’re about to give counsel? We’re brothers, Arnold. It’s ride or die between us."
He clapped him on the back and walked ahead, leaving Arnold still.
Gods, how guilty he felt.
For half a lifetime, he’d kept his brother at arm’s length. Dismissed him. Ignored him. And yet, in the past few months, this man had been the closest thing to kin Arnold had allowed himself.
He had failed , as a father, and as a brother.
Thalien would probably be better at both, he thought bitterly.
There was nothing left to say. Only a quiet breath of thanks murmured as he followed his brother toward the Prince’s tent.
He was right. They were brothers.
And it should have been them against the whole damn world.
---------------
It had been a dreadful week for Alpheo.
Ever since the meeting with the Habadian envoy, all he had received were bad news, one after the other, like waves crashing against an already crumbling shore begging for mercy.
And now, as he sat beneath the weight of yet another failed assault, forehead pinched between his fingers to dull the ache pulsing behind his eyes, the news only worsened.
"Twenty-nine dead, thirty-two wounded among the Fourth," Edric reported.
It was clear he was angry.
Not toward the prince, he had, after all, been the one to offer up his legion, but toward the entire situation: the endless bloodletting, the fruitless struggle, the bitter taste of stagnation.
Alpheo grimaced.
It was the worst assault so far in terms of casualties. In just a week, the army had bled nearly 230 dead and 300 wounded, two tenths of their entire force.
He knew the enemy had certainly suffered losses too, but it was meaningless. This wasn’t a duel of attrition. The goal of an assault was to take the city, not simply batter the defenders. Every day the walls stood was another day the campaign bled purpose and time.
It was catastrophic.
There was no other word for it.
Now I know what Shamleik must’ve felt during his failed sieges, Alpheo thought bitterly given he was the reasons for those failures, but the realization brought him no comfort. Only the dull sting of comparison to a man whose legacy was marred by failure by his own hands.
Still, there was no choice.
They couldn’t afford to retreat. Not without taking the city. If they failed to seize it, then every inch they had conquered thus far would be disconnected, isolated from the mainland, and impossible to hold.
They needed a corridor between the new and the old. And that corridor began here.
So the city had to fall.
Alpheo didn’t care if he had to march through its gates with half his army dead and the other half dragging their broken swords behind them.
But gods, just once, he wished for good news.
Suddenly, Jarza rose from his seat.
For a fleeting moment, Alpheo allowed himself the hope that the old officer carried good news. But of course, he did not.
"Our wood reserves are nearly gone," Jarza said. "I’d like to send a hundred men to begin refilling the carts."
Alpheo gave a weak nod. His headache pulsed with every new logistical failure, but he still managed to speak.
"Inform the troops they’ll rest tomorrow. There’s no use launching an assault without a tower. Give the engineers a day to repair it. Give them double rations at each meal.
We’ll resume the assault once the tower’s ready."
He had just finished speaking when Edric stood up again not for a report but a request , stiff and resolute, fists clenched at his sides.
"Permission to personally lead the Fourth from the front in the next assault."
Alpheo blinked.
Gods... He admired the boy’s fire, but not his reasoning. He was already starved for capable officers, and now one of his few top generals wanted to throw himself into the most dangerous breach of the entire siege?
If he allowed any of his general to work to his death, to whom was he to give command?Chickens?
Thankfully, Jarza intervened before Alpheo had to.
"Your legion took the brunt of today’s assault," the older man said, his voice firm but not unkind. "We can’t afford to break them. Fervor is admirable, Edric, but even bridges collapse under too much weight. Let your men rest. Let them grieve."
But Edric did not bow his head, nor temper his voice.
"With all respect, sir’’ It should have been lord, but Jarza had been his overseer for the majority of his carreer’’ It isn’t I who pushes them. I spoke with my men after the assault. They’re the ones asking to return. Not out of duty, but for their brothers. They want to honor the courage of those who fell today, and I would be dishonoring them if I turned their will away.
And what commander would I be, to send them to the devils’ mouths and not be amongst them?"
He took a breath and continued, his eyes scanning the room.
"We are a new legion. We don’t yet bear the honors of the First or the Third. And my men know that. They are eager not just for glory,but for recognition. We are the youngest, the least proven.
But if we fall, it will not strike the Crown’s foundation as harshly as the loss of the old legions. I say this with no bitterness, only realism. Let us carry the burden."
Alpheo’s heart swelled with quiet pride, he found himself respecting Edric more and more.
There was something rare in him. A commander not only eager to lead, but deeply bound to his men.
Still, no amount of courage justified a reckless death.
Alpheo leaned forward, voice calm but resolute.
"Edric, your men have shown nothing short of heroism today. The valor of the Fourth is not only seen, it is remembered. And I promise you, they will be given another chance to earn their place in history."
"But I will not allow you to lead the next assault."
He raised a hand, cutting off the protest he saw forming.
"It is not a question of doubt. It’s a matter of necessity. The Crown needs its officers alive, and the Fourth needs its commander." His gaze sharpened. "Lead them, yes. Inspire them, yes. But not by dying at their head.I have more use for you alive than dead"
Edric stood silent.
Alpheo continued, his tone softer now.
"You have my word: the Fourth will be given another opportunity to storm the wall. And what happened today will not happen again. I’ll see to it that countermeasures are prepared to prevent what happened today."
Edric gave a solemn nod, the fire in his eyes dimmed into acceptance,not extinguished, but tempered by the Prince’s words. Without another protest, he returned to his seat, his jaw clenched but his back still straight.
The tent was silent for a few seconds.
Then the heavy flap at the entrance rustled sharply.
Vrosk stepped in without ceremony,some grass still clinging to his boots and the wind catching his cloak behind him. He gave a crisp salute, then spoke
"My Prince, outside the tent, Lords Thalien and Arnold request permission to speak with you. They’ve come to offer their counsel."
Alpheo normally would have had instinctive irritation flare, more lords, more unsolicited advice. He had long since grown weary of nobles barging in his meeting to offer counsel.
But then, just as quickly, the irritation faded.
Maybe, he thought, he should listen.
Fresh perspectives were in short supply. And after a week of dead ends and burnt bridges, he was willing to turn an ear to anything short of madness.
He cast a quick glance around the tent and after seeing no one protesting he gave his permission.
"Send them in," Alpheo said with a tired wave of his hand. "Let’s hear what they have to say."