Our King is Exposed
"A woman can beat any man; it's difficult to imagine another kind of sport where a woman can beat a man. That's why I like chess."
- Alexandra Kosteniuk
Cyprus took a deep breath. Deep fatigue left his features darkened and gaunt, shadowed by the flicker of candlelight. He had been woken from his slumber by the tentative shake of a scout bearing dire news. Slovenia's troops had been mobilized. Her entire front line was on the march and bearing down on their position.
"If the scout is correct, then it would appear that the enemy is aware of Jordan's movements."
He was addressing the hastily assembled Captains of the Poan host. They were seated around the large, round council table in the High Lords tent. It too housed the type of strategic map and figurines that adorned Slovenia's own table on the Wreghan side.
"There are four cohorts of pikemen and archers heading directly for our left flank. This is either a tactical fluke, or there are agents of the enemy among us who have informed the Countess of our Lord's activities."
He carefully studied the faces of the assembled men, looking for the slightest hint of deceit. All he got were the tired, bleary-eyed features of men who had spent the previous night boozing and whoring.
"Wake up you fools!" he shouted, banging his fist on the table, "We have squandered our tactical advantage!"
This got a suitably startled reaction from the Captains. There was a brief disruption as one of them vomited into his helmet. Another of the men, slightly soberer, set about rearranging the iron figurines that had been displaced by the shock of Cyprus' fist. Cyprus sighed and waited for the helpful Captain to finish before continuing.
"We must protect our flank at all costs," the steward implored, waving a hand at the line of metal figurines that represented their left flank.
"If they cut us off from Jordan, then we are lost."
"With respect, Cyprus," one of the Captains interjected, wiping spittle from his beard, "My men fight for me. Lord Jordan doesn't sway the morale of the men under my command."
There was a chorus of agreement and furious nodding of heads followed by groaning and a fresh round of vomit. Cyprus stood up and bellowed for silence. When they had settled down again he spoke with a quiet intensity that forced them to lean forward and concentrate on his words.
"The board has been reset. We were poised on the edge of victory, but now our foolish King is exposed. The Black Queen bears down on us with all her might."
He looked at the Captain who had spoken of his men.
"I do not doubt the resolve of your men, but without the banner of Jordan's guard to unify our companies, they are nothing more than a gang of men amongst other gangs of men. Now tell me, what use is a gang against an army?"
He waited for a beat to let that sink in. It took a moment, but it began to dawn on the assembled men that their dominant tactical position was in grave danger of being unraveled like an errant thread. Their collective hangovers throbbed slightly harder as nervous tension began to build. Jordan may be an insufferable human being, with a reputation so deviant that mothers used his name as an admonishment to errant children, but he was an undeniably powerful unifier. The Poan tribes were notoriously prickly. Constantly engaged in minor territorial disputes that would periodically flare up into full-scale conflict. Jordan's method for resolving these conflicts was simple. He would insinuate himself into the conflict and provide both parties with a clear path to resolution. Resolution or death. Most chose to resolve their differences.
"What are we to do?" the still white-faced puker asked, nursing his helmet of vomit.
"Each of you will spare five of your fastest riders," Cyprus replied.
"Have them armed and ready to ride in the hour. They must head out before the brightlight and locate Lord Jordan. He will need capable knights to break through Slovenia's pikemen. Fifty riders should give him enough clout to smash through any line the flankers might form between him and our forces. Hopefully, we can salvage something from this farce."
Instructions thus delivered, the steward dismissed the assembly with a curt wave of his hand. He knew well enough that they were probably too late, but at the very least he would have a fast-moving company of knights out on the periphery when the full-scale assault began. They might be useful in a pinch.
When the last of the captains had stumbled from the tent, taking the cloud of alcohol fumes with them, Cyprus returned to his seat at the empty table. He lowered his forehead onto the flat surface and just sat there for a moment, gathering his thoughts. The polished wood felt cool against his skin and for the briefest moment, his tension was eased.
"Maybe it's time," he said to himself.
He stood up, brushed the creases from his tunic, took a deep breath, and marched out of the tent. This war was not about to fight itself.
Chapter 24
Art by Daniel Sheldon https://www.facebook.com/speednperspective & https://twitter.com/Beatroute
