The Crisis of Power (Alpha LitRPG Book 9), page 6
Had we had properly equipped marksmen, I could have positioned them in scattered formations along the heights, prepped ambush nests, and made the terrain work for us. But we didn’t. Slings aren’t combat bows. They’re crowd control weapons. Even then, they are not the best choice, especially since Ballonean rioters traditionally threw the sling stones hurled at them right back.
One didn’t need to be a great strategist to realize the bitter truth: all the tactical advantages of our chosen position meant little, because we were not equipped to use them properly. That much was clear to everyone from the moment we arrived on location—everyone but Dors and Arsai, that is. The former had never been plagued by excessive thinking, and after getting access to the elite oct he completely lost sight of the big picture. The guy hardly responded to anything anymore unless horses were somehow involved. The latter, on the other hand, understood the grim reality just fine and doubled down on his efforts to sharpen his sword. I am sure he was firmly convinced that this time a glorious death was firmly within his reach.
Scown Drell was the last to drop by with his own take on the “we’re screwed” conversation. Huffing, puffing, and dripping with sweat, our wily minister climbed all the way up to where I was standing, perched on a freakishly lone boulder that rose perceptibly over the otherwise flat-bottomed valley. Everywhere else, it was nothing but clay and sand. You’d be hard-pressed to find a single large stone, so what this massive hunk of rock was doing here, I had no idea.
“Excellent position, Lord Gedar,” he wheezed. “I mean the boulder, not the valley. It seems to offer a great line of sight up and down the river.”
“That’s why I bothered climbing it all the way up,” I said.
“Do you know what the locals call this place?”
“Goat Rock, I think. Or something to that effect.”
“Exactly so, Lord Right Hand. Goat Rock. Named after this very stone.”
“What’s that got to do with goats? This is probably the only spot in the entire valley that’s not covered in their droppings.”
The mission head shrugged.
“It’s the Balloneans. They find a way to bring up their precious goats everywhere.”
I pointed forward.
“They’re setting up camp over there, around that bend.”
“How do you know?” Scown Drell asked.
“My scouts had a look. See those specks in the sky? That’s their recon birds. Feel free to wave at them.”
The man squinted and shook his head, looking at the sky.
“I’m surprised they’re setting up camp as their first move. There’s still a few hours left until sunset. They could easily use that time to get in formation and crush us. If it were up to me, I’d go on the attack first. This rock’s a fine perch, but the valley? Not so much. I mean, I’m no military man, but even I can see the obvious. Lord Gedar, it’s not my place to criticize your decisions, and maybe it’s not my business to give advice, but… Perhaps you should move the Corps behind the supply train? That’s always the first thing to attract any looter’s attention, and the southerners are known to be enthusiastic looters. So while they’re butchering the Quartermaster’s troops, Qash’Shak might try to slip away. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? If they don’t attack tonight, they’ll hit us at dawn. The fight won’t last long, and the high command, which is us, won’t be able to just disappear under the cover of darkness. Not with their heavy cavalry breathing down our necks. No one will make it out of here alive. Did I say yet that includes us?”
“Drell, you’re the head of the mission,” I said. ”You’re not even required to be here. I still don’t understand why you had to drag yourself and your entire entourage into a warzone.”
“What else was I supposed to do, Lord Gedar? You saw what was happening in the city while we were still there. Now imagine what it’s like now, after you took everyone with you. I wouldn’t be surprised if the mob were storming the Palace of Two Halls as we speak. The city’s practically been handed over to them to loot and do with as they please. If we stayed behind, we’d all be dead by now. You know it as well as I do. Rava allies or not, the rabble don’t exactly love the Empire and its citizens. No, no, our best chance is right next to you. For now, anyway. Until the southerners begin their attack.”
“I told you you should have headed north. All the way back to Rava.”
“Without a serious protection detail? Nah, it would have been far too risky. We’re juicy prey, and highly visible. Besides, for someone in my shoes, leaving the Emperor’s Right Hand behind would be criminal. By the way, has Ears and Mouth reported anything lately?”
“No.”
“I mean, has there been any word from… well, you know who I mean?”
“Drell, that’s exactly what I mean. The Emperor hasn’t sent word in a long time.”
“That’s not good. As soon as I saw you prepping for this campaign, I sent my courier north, into the wastelands. You’ll forgive me, I hope, for this little bit of weakness. I just didn’t think attacking T’Khat out in the open was a sound idea. I figured you’d get orders to stand down right away. Again, please pardon my maneuvering behind your back. I only did it for your own good.”
As I said many times and under different circumstances earlier, there is no such thing as perfect communications in this world, or perhaps anywhere. The system the Ravan Emperor used was, in my opinion, the best of all the other available options. The Emperor did not have all that many Right Hands, but he could talk to them all directly and over very long distances. Besides, that communication channel was much less vulnerable to various anomalies than all other methods.
Such methods mostly relied on skills or artifacts. The latter tended to have a short range and poor reliability, and the former… well, they did not ordinarily fare much better. Both were notoriously flaky in certain areas, especially the kind people like to label as “cursed,” or what have you. And even outside of such unhappy places, the connection could still be quirky. Sometimes you could find yourself in downright absurd situations. For example, in the Pentagon, there were spots from which you could contact the northernmost settlements in the civilized lands with no trouble at all. However, if someone there tried to respond, they’d get nothing. Nada. Not a peep.
Ballonea, as it happened, was essentially one big communications anomaly. Ordinarily, it was only in very specific limited areas that you could contact just about anyone you wanted. And even then, the recipients would almost always have to be to the south of you. If you wanted to talk to Rava, you’d have to send someone with the right skills or gear far to the north, into the wastelands. And it wouldn’t be guaranteed there, either. The closer one got to the Empire, the better their chances were of finding a place to talk. That kind of setup worked great for T’Khat spies, but it was a royal pain in the neck for us. It was one of the official reasons they even bothered sending me to Ballonea—because Ears and Mouth could usually keep the communication channel open where every other method went straight to hell. There was just one catch though: he couldn’t initiate contact. The Emperor had to “call” him and appropriate the man’s body for a while in a kind of a remote takeover. And lately, Kabul hadn’t exactly been enthusiastic about doing so.
Not that he’d ever given much of a damn about Ballonea. But now? Now it looked like he’d written it off entirely. In all likelihood, the Emperor couldn’t care less about how we were going to survive out there while carrying out his vague and reckless instructions. Even if we all died going about it, it would be no great loss. I was just an inconvenient Right Hand occupying a position better suited for some more worthwhile aristocrat. Scown Drell was a bureaucrat who’d been rotting away for years in the provinces that now had nothing of value left to offer. I doubted anyone in Rava held him in high regard. Our subordinates? Even less of a reason to care. As for the soldiers, well, their deaths might actually come useful. They weren’t elite troops by any stretch, and their sacrifice would serve as a shining symbol of how Rava “didn’t abandon its ally to the wolves” but “fought to the end, spilling imperial blood without hesitation.”
That was the kind of thoughts that came over me every time I looked at Ears and Mouth.
Our silence had grown a little too long. Scown Drell finally sighed.
“I understand you must be upset, my lord. Yes, I was out of line. Guilty as charged.”
“Oh, no,” I waved him off. “You were doing your job. Nothing to apologize for. I was just thinking. So, what about that communicator of yours? Did he manage to contact Rava?”
“These wastelands are fickle. You never know if you’ll get through. This time, full contact wasn’t possible. But he did bring back some intel. He had literally just caught up with us as the troops were leaving town. He darted right through the capital and somehow managed to avoid the rioters, lucky sod. Anyway, the southern viceroy himself gave him a very clear message: drop everything and run. Now. As fast as possible. He’s baffled we haven’t done that already. He said we’re being too slow.”
“The man has no authority over us. His sole role is to offer support,” I said.
“Of course. Naturally. Still, he’s a big player and close to the Emperor. If I were you, I’d consider his advice. You’re not exactly…ahem, looped into high politics. You might be missing a few pieces here and there. The southern naval blockade isn’t going nearly as well as they hoped, and we’re likely to see a new round of escalation soon. And I don’t mean some sideshow like T’Khat. I mean the real southerners. The ones Rava’s been in conflict with since forever. And every time that conflict flares up, we pay for it.”
“I get that,” I said. “No need to spell out the obvious.”
“My apologies, Lord Gedar. I’ll try to avoid the platitudes. What I’m saying is we might be on the verge of a full-blown war. The Emperor’s desire to pull out of Ballonea should be taken seriously. As should be the fact that in a serious war, every soldier counts. I doubt anyone would really condemn you if you turned around and left right now.”
“You doubt it?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, Lord Gedar. I do. If we’re just talking about the repercussions in the Empire, that is. The Balloneans, obviously, will curse you to hell and back. But what do their curses mean to you? They already hate us. And sure, Rava won’t be all smiles either. Certain people will jump at an opportunity to slander you again. That’s more annoying than anything the Balloneans could throw at you. But give it some time, and your retreat will be forgotten. Especially if you make a name for yourself in the coming big war. This unfortunate little episode might vanish from everyone’s memory altogether. But you, being a Right Hand and all, will have plenty of chances to shine in carefully chosen moments. You’ll be creating those moments yourself.”
I gave him a noncommittal grumble.
“This place here?” Scown Drell gestured towards the southern camp. “This isn’t your moment. You didn’t choose it, it wasn’t made for you. You’re not Arsai. A glorious death at the hands of the southerners doesn’t suit you. And honestly, are they even proper ‘southerners’? They’re just lackeys of the Empire’s real enemies. True southerners hardly ever venture here. Based on my intel, there are so laughably few of them involved this time that I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d already sent them all to the afterlife in that fight that gave you the posthumous curse. A very specific talent, that one, by the way. Even the great southern bloodlines can’t always claim access to such gems. It’s a rare branch of ancestral enhancement, and it only develops in well-structured top lineages. Merely dropping a hint at the right place about who you have gone against will make that skirmish the talk of every tavern. For someone your age, that’s a hell of a feat, and it’ll go a long way towards earning forgiveness. But dying here? In this pathetic excuse for a valley that doesn’t even show up on maps? That’d be a waste. You won’t even draw much of their blood. You’ve got no archers, no siege engines, nothing to inflict meaningful damage. The southerners will walk right up to us, unhindered, and flatten our lines with magic. And whoever’s left will be mashed into goat shit by the hooves of their heavy cavalry. That’s not a heroic death, my lord. No one’s going to honor that. There’ll be no glory worth remembering. Even the very name of it will sound ridiculous—the Battle of Goat Rock. Pfft! It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it? It doesn’t inspire. Not many chroniclers are going to bother writing about something as inconsequential. And when you go, the Crow line will end with you. The tale of how the last of a great house died on a goat pasture? That’s not a legacy. That’s a punchline. That’s most likely the only way it’ll make it into history at all. So I ask you, what’s all this for? I can’t see a single reason to go through with it.”
I pointed to the left.
“Take a look. We do have one siege engine. You can see it from here.”
“Oh, yes. The Quartermaster has already chewed my ear off about it. He’s extremely curious as to where it has come from. You had it brought in without a word of explanation, and now it’s driving him mad. He’s itching to punish whoever’s responsible but doesn’t want to bother you over something so petty.”
“Tell him to talk to Beko. I’ll order him to help investigate. He’s got a knack for that kind of things.”
“Really? I never would have guessed. And I never quite understood why you keep by your side someone from a race that is usually held in such low esteem. I suppose his talent for uncovering the truth is part of the reason?”
“Exactly. He’s a top-notch specialist in locating missing valuables. The Quartermaster will be thrilled to have his help.”
I didn’t add that, in all the time I’d known him, Beko had never once recovered a stolen item. And that in this particular case, he’d have to twist himself into knots to avoid tracing the disappearance right back to himself.
“How many shots do you think it’ll be able to get off?” Scown Drell asked, still staring at the catapult. “Two? Three? If they’re fired quickly, one after another, maybe you’ll put a couple of hundred of infantrymen out of commission. But so what? Regular grunts are a dime a dozen. But even if we get lucky and kill some of the mages, it is still not going to be a big deal. No, Lord Gedar, you don’t want this battle.”
The mission chief was dead wrong, of course. Even if he was sincere, he didn’t seem to have any idea of how war actually worked. Any kind of war. Anywhere. Back on Earth, a captain who surrendered his ship without a fight risked a court-martial and a harsh sentence. At the very least, his career would be over. But if he went down swinging, even if the fight was a disaster, it became a mitigating factor. Case in point: the story of the Russian Cruiser Varyag. That brand-new fast cruiser got trapped in port. It crawled out, escorted by a slow old gunboat, and tried to break through a powerful cordon of hostile Japanese ships. A brief exchange of fire, a few hits, and they limped back to port without making a dent in the enemy. The crew scuttled the ship—poorly, as it turned out, since the Japanese would then raise it easily—and returned home. And instead of being accused of sheer incompetence, they were greeted like heroes.
I was not a captain, and this wasn’t a cruiser. But the principle remained the same. If I turned tail and ran to Rava without at least trying to break through, I’d be done for. That raid with Camai wouldn’t count. A proper battle was needed—a real engagement by the allied forces, not some side quest with my personal retinue.
The Crow name was already hanging by a thread. I couldn’t afford to gamble with what was left of my clan’s reputation. Besides, why was everyone so convinced the battle was already lost? I wasn’t a madman. I didn’t come there to die.
I glanced over at the catapult and smiled. Hell, yeah!
I came there to win.
Chapter 6
Final Preparations and the Morning of Battle
You suffer damage from a FOLLOWER OF ORDER who has set foot upon the Path of Air. You attack the FOLLOWER OF ORDER who has set foot upon the Path of Air. Your weapon cannot be blocked or slowed by the physical defenses of the FOLLOWER OF ORDER who has set foot upon the Path of Air. You dealt fatal damage to the FOLLOWER OF ORDER who has set foot upon the Path of Air. The FOLLOWER OF ORDER who has set foot upon the Path of Air is dead. You defeated the FOLLOWER OF ORDER who has set foot upon the Path of Air. His name was Nat Mennaï. It is known that ORDER prevailed over the Air Element (Enlightenment Rank 194).
Victory over a FOLLOWER OF ORDER who has set foot upon the Path of Air:
Grand Symbol of Chi ×11
Greater Symbol of Chi ×934
Medium Symbol of Chi ×2225
Grand Agility Embodiment ×5
Greater Agility Embodiment ×498
Medium Agility Embodiment ×1292
Grand Endurance Embodiment ×9
Greater Endurance Embodiment ×772
Medium Endurance Embodiment ×1911
Grand Strength Embodiment ×7
Greater Strength Embodiment ×522
Medium Strength Embodiment ×1365
Grand Perception Embodiment ×4
Greater Perception Embodiment ×422
Medium Perception Embodiment ×1088
Grand Spirit Embodiment ×7
Greater Spirit Embodiment ×635
Medium Spirit Embodiment ×…
And that was just the beginning. What followed was a long—very long—string of entries packed with numbers. I’d looked over them more than once already and never got tired of it. I could keep staring at those stats over and over again.
