From Meleus Travner, Urban Tactical Confrontation Throughout History: Case Studies, vol. 2: Seleucar
To call it the First War of Succession is historically apt, but technically inaccurate. War was never declared, as there was no formal monarch to declare it. Although Castomira pushed to have her puppet Mycale accede to the throne, the Church refused to bless the coronation before the gods, and even Castomira was not so reckless as to risk divine disfavor during her dangerous bid for power.
The war began by accident, as such conflicts often do. The perspective of history shows that when Castomira realized her assassin Pyramides had thrown in his lot with his onetime target Catarin, she pressed her consort Lord Errikale to move the Royal Guard more vigorously against Catarin's rebel faction. Although Lord Errikale gave the order only reluctantly, the fanatical Guard Captain Maxim Everhardt used the opportunity to place extreme pressure on the areas of the city held by Catarin.
The war could have been far bloodier than it was. The Seleucarian armies, although much smaller than they were at the time of the Black Wave, were still large enough to have reduced the city of Imperial Seleucar to a wasteland if Castomira had been able to manipulate her faction into enlarging the conflict as much as she wished. Instead of being a contained urban conflict, the First War of Succession could have been even larger and more destructive than the Second. That it was not is due almost entirely to the peacemaking abilities of the two reluctant titular generals, Lucius Errikale and Orin Grandier.
Lucius Errikale is now considered one of history's most tragic victims, a noble idealist whose ideals were twisted to the service of Seleucar's greatest enemy since the Tsol'teth, the evil Castomira. The Duke of Seleucar, Lucius Errikale was the feudal leader of the duchy whose capitol was Imperial Seleucar, and therefore was considered first among the dukes. In theory, he was second in power only to the Prime Minister, Orin Grandier. In recent times, however, the office of Prime Minister had weakened relative to the Council of Lords, and so the political might of Lucius Errikale and Orin Grandier was roughly equal. Lucius Errikale gained his position by accident of birth, like all nobles; also by accident of birth, he was of the serpent folk. It is still poorly understood how a Serpentlord can be born of two normal human parents, or how ophidian traits can emerge in a person of any race even after years of seeming normality. Since Lord Errikale hid his serpent nature until minutes before his death, it's a matter of historical debate whether he was a serpent for his entire life, or whether he gained serpent attributes through study of the secret Serpentlord disciplines. What is known is that for much of his political career, he championed the cause of the Serpent people, despite public opposition. For seven years before the First War of Succession, he had spent a few weeks each year at a resort in far Hashan that is now known to have been a front for the brave but ineffective Coiled Cobra Cult, a pro-serpent terrorist group. It is there that he secretly learned his Serpentlord fighting skills. (The Coiled Cobra Cult was wiped out in a bloody series of crusades by Seleucarian Myrmidons a few years before the Seleucarian Empire's collapse; the cry "Let's go bash some CCCs!" is still used by warriors around the world to initiate morally ambiguous bloodshed in the name of personal gain.) Lord Errikale was called "The Man with No Smile" by many, and was considered humorless and cold. He never smiled for fear of revealing his serpent-like fangs.
Prime Minister Orin Grandier was Lord Errikale's friend for many years, until the First War of Succession forced them apart. A wise and intelligent man, he restored much of the power that the prime ministry had once held, but was unable to fully balance the great political power of the Council of Lords. Furthermore, he was the personal mentor of Princess Catarin, teaching her the political networks and backroom dealings that made the empire work. When the succession troubles began, Orin Grandier strove to hold the empire together, and had surprising success in convincing the empire at large that the succession troubles were a minor upheaval, involving only riots, instead of a major armed conflict. By the time the underkings of Ashtan and Shallam received word from the Church that a civil war was taking place within Seleucar's walls, the hostilities were already over, and the quest for the Staff had begun.
That Ashtan, Shallam, and the other city-states that composed the Seleucarian Empire did not involve themselves in the First War of Succession is due to the diplomatic phrasing, elegant reassurances, and outright lies of Orin Grandier. But the highly limited nature of the war within Imperial Seleucar itself is due to the cooperative effort of Orin Grandier and his opposite number Lucius Errikale. While Castomira and Catarin were bitter enemies, their generals were loath to fight, and loath to place the citizens of Seleucar at risk. All the time during the four weeks of warfare, Grandier and Errikale organized steady evacuations of their sectors of the city, loading the churches and poor-houses of the outlying villages and towns with refugees. Whether Grandier and Errikale were in direct communication is a matter of speculation, but it is certain that they held each other in high respect, and strove to oppose each other only in strictly military matters.
The fighting itself was unique at the time (previous urban combat had been between small groups; see Case Studies, vol 1). A war within a city requires tactics far different from those employed in the field. Only one battle of the war was fought between units any larger than a few hundred men each, and snipers, traps, and hit-and-fade tactics were deciding factors in the early successes of Castomira's faction, as Lord Errikale was exceptionally adept at such techniques. Using these tactics, soldiers loyal to Mycale were able to capture and hold the Imperial Palace for days at a time before being driven out by counter-sorties.
The emphasis each side placed on capturing the Imperial Palace is one of the ironies of the war. Originally designed for war by the visionary Nicator, and reinforced by his son Piraeus, the palace had been expanded and altered in peacetime until it was virtually indefensible from any position. Each door required extensive barricading to be secured; in many places, terraces and walkways made it impossible to shield a group of men from missile fire. Although control of the Palace was essential to the political meta-struggle, it was infeasible from a military standpoint, and heavy losses were inevitable on both sides.
The war began with its only large-scale confrontation, the Battle of the Parades.
Varos Devlin, The Battle of the Parades
Darkness hung over the city, low clouds roamed
As civil war was preached in streets and homes,
Debated in courts, proven in maps of troops and arms,
That showed the loyal firmly in two camps,
A split city, partisan enmity brewing slow like ale,
Turning dark and potent in casks, intoxicating and poisoning
Friend against friend, lord against knight, might against might,
With no concern for wrong, no thought of right.
The two queens, true queens uncrowned,
Catarin and Castomira, fighting through will, beauty, glamour, glory,
Each seeking, and destined to find, a place in story, legend, history,
For one, infamy. For one, majesty. For a hundred others, death.
Success in succession is more than just lords' acclaim,
More than just law's color, more than martial fame.
Liege lords lacking loyalty fall from royalty by revolution,
The torches and pitchforks of the common choice, the people's voice,
Never long to be rejected. So wise suitors to crowns long to be respected,
And give that into the common weal they'll later take in taxes paid,
In fine parades they ride in state, their lordly manner on display,
Their knights beplumed, their soldiers trim, their wizards conjuring lights on high,
In hopes that show of sword and bow will prove their worth in doubting eyes.
A fine day dawned, a holy day, a day when Churchmen raised their songs
And poured out wine and poured out oil, entreating gods for fruitful soil,
Entreating gods for strength of breath, for long, full life, for peaceful death.
A fine day dawned, a day of rest, a day when children flocked the streets
And begged their parents for copper's shine to trade for peddlers' fresh-baked treats,
And revelers bought the vendors' wine and feasted well on roasted meats.
A fine day dawned, a day of parades; Lord Errikale decreed a march,
From Green Snake Way to the Beggars' Arch, all through the Royal Square.
And all unwitting, Lord Grandier did also sense the festive air
And called his men to polish shields, tighten drums,
Dress in richest martial wear and march around the Royal Square,
And hand out coins to beggars there, rich gold to match their lady's hair,
The flowing locks of Catarin deSangre, youngest noble heir.
A fine day dawned, a fateful day, a day when two parades of hope
Would clash in battle small in scope, large in implication;
A day when violent civil strife would slash the city, unkind knife,
Cut the bonds of brotherhood that formed the basis of the nation.
Through peaceful parks and sunlit streets Lord Lucius led one thousand men,
A hundred drummers and clarion-players, two hundred archers and bandit-slayers,
Three hundred pikemen, sturdy sons, four hundred swordsmen, hot to fight
To save the honor of their lord, Mycale, who rode in state that day,
Waving brightly to the crowd, giving no sign of his soul's decay.
Lord Errikale rode very nigh, to school his lord if by any sign
He showed the weakness Lucius feared and used, the idiot moral brain confused.
And Castomira Brangwin rode by Mycale's side, and whispered to him
Words of mother's love, sister's comfort, lover's bliss,
The cruel web she'd snared him in, the love his family never gave.
Cruel irony, that lack of love is grip for evil!
At Castomira's urging, Mycale spoke ill of Catarin,
Addressing crowds who cheered for him, his glassy eyes and wooden grin
Took nothing from his eloquence, and nothing from the fire he roused;
His words, poetry of honey and blood, sweet anger, cold ash,
As he raved, his eyes did glint in spearheads' flash.
He had the look that day of noble kings
Who fight and die to keep their country dreaming
Of warmth and bread, songs and crops,
And take on themselves unwholesome scheming.
But a cunning king Mycale was not, nor even sly…
As soldiers hot for loyal killing followed Mycale's royal train,
So too did armsmen fresh and willing travel with brave Catarin.
Her smile was bright as suns that day, her eyes diamonds,
Unearthly and solid, enthralling all with sparks of grace.
And people called out fealty: "Golden hair, steel polished soul,
"Forever we support you, lady! Fight! And make our kingdom whole!"
Swords and shields of hardened steel cast sunbeams into cheering crowds
And in the streets and on the walks the people gathered by.
The flagstones of the Royal Square, like stove-lids, bent and warped the air.
So fierce were summer's light and heat that hard-eyed archers flinched away
From endless pinpoint suns and stars that shone from triply-polished arms.
The people's cheers, an endless roar; and shimmering light, a blinding rain;
Little wonder is it, then, that Catarin's troops met Mycale's men
Before each high commander saw his nemesis approach.
And full of patriotic verve, of noble thoughts, of warlike nerve,
The frontmost soldiers took it as their destiny to fight.
No warcries here, no trumpet-sound; the grisly painters worked the ground
With harsh motifs of red on red, the living blood of newly dead.
Errikale called retreat in vain, as soldiers vied to join the slain,
Heedless of their training now, responding to their foremost vows,
To stand and cut their foemen down to win their lord his rightful crown.
On the side of Catarin, as well, chaos reigned alone. Shouting to his regiment,
Grandier struggled to defend his fore and flanks against the rage
Of Castomira's bitter force (good men betrayed by evil words)
And muster order, praying to remove his queen from battle's reach.
The crowds of townsfolk churned like stormy seas,
Some struggling to flee, some taking arms, some standing near to yell and jeer,
And in an eyeblink, deadly havoc reigned among the common folk
As surely as in soldiers' eyes, soldiers' arms and soldiers' minds.
By half past noon, the two commanders knew that they were even matched,
And locked, unwilling, in a deadly combat, deadly game of chess;
If only chess were played with dice, and loss meant instant butchery,
For true war owes to table games what Tsol'teth owe to forest sprites.
The noontime heat, sticky sweat and blood, cries of pain and fear
Caused only greater hatred in these men who'd marched as one last year.
Twilight settled on scenes of woe: unspoken truce as families buried dead,
Though stricken with partisan hate; soldiers vowing vengeance on their friends,
For striking adverse blows in self-defense; Catarin and Castomira, blessing the dead,
One with bitter sadness, one only with its semblance…
And city boundaries drawn in bloody strokes: north for Mycale, south for Catarin.
Morning's gay parades were now a funeral march,
And warrior's dirges now rang half as strong,
As stout-backed pipers dug their fellows' graves.
Buried with their instruments, the proud marshals of the march
Stared up through one man's height in dirt to sorrow at the sight of martial feet
Once locked in formal order, now trudging past the funeral fires.
Lucaine Pyramides, Catarin (Poem 10)
Blue hope, her eyes, too true to deny--
An order, her smile, too strong to defy--
Her lips are a question; I dare not reply.
Lord Damen Kephry, Collected Correspondence
My dearest Margaux,
Be assured, my love, that your concern for my well-being is matched only by my own. Though the fighting is fierce in this sector of the city, I am sure that we shall prevail, and place Prince Mycale on his rightful throne. I can only pray that once Mycale's coronation is complete, his noble sister will capitulate, and support her brother as is her duty. Even among the supporters of Mycale, the Princess is respected and loved, and it breaks our hearts to oppose her ill-conceived rebellion against the natural order of succession.
We lost possession of the Castle of Twelve today. Praise be to Sarapis, no member of the Guild of Knights struck a personal blow against another, but the fact remains that the Guild is broken now, perhaps forever, by this passing political feud. The supporters of Catarin believe that they are doing what is best for the Empire, as their guild oath demands, and I am certain that they believe they are right, so I cannot hate them. But when men under my command pulled Lord Kyralos from his horse and beheaded him, I was forced to commend them for putting the enemy temporarily to rout, even as I shed tears for my oldest friend.
This street-fighting is the worst sort of combat. Even my ventures in the swamps of Mannaseh and the mountains of Vashnar never prepared me for this hellish funhouse of sharp corners and rooftop snipers; and aside from physical peril, nothing is more taxing to sanity than to cut down one's own countrymen, in one's own neighborhood. Civil war is an abomination, and I pray daily to all the gods that they deliver us from it.
For us, the day started early. We were to depart the Castle of Twelve before dawn, hurrying through the side streets in a party of fifty, to blockade the Road of Snows and lay ambush for the party that Grandier would inevitably send against the Palace. Simply to walk the streets of Seleucar is torture in a time like this: to see the rows and rows of buildings, shuttered tight with fear. The few citizens out and about fled into alleys at the sound of marching feet. I understand the war is already hard on them; the "foresightful" hoarding by the few has caused food shortages for the many, and the soup kitchens seldom have enough to feed all. Soldiers ransack homes, with the noble goal of redistributing any hoards they find, but too often those hoards are redistributed only to the soldiers. Are you eating well? I can only hope our family's name is sufficient to keep you from hardship. It is well that our manor is in the far north of the city; Catarin's men are unlikely to penetrate there.
Near midday, we engaged an enemy element, perhaps a hundred men, as they advanced up the Road of Snows. Our plan was successful; fighting fiercely, then repeatedly falling back into alleys, we slowed the enemy advance long enough for Mycale's corresponding sortie to fortify the intersection between Royal Circle Road and the Road of Snows. Lord Errikale has shown an astonishing talent for such devious tactics; though he has no formal military rank, the man proves to be a cunning leader, walking a fine line between flexibility and treachery. Perhaps he has been consulting with our distasteful Serpentlord allies, although I've no clue how he might stomach their smell. Our mission complete, we returned to the Castle of Twelve... only to find it already under heavy assault.
Built a hundred years after the Black Wave, the Castle of Twelve is a ceremonial fortress, not a practical one. After all, the Guild of Knights was meant to defend the Empire through individual adventure and knight-errantry. We never considered that there might ever be fighting in the streets, as even the Tsol'teth were unable to breach the city walls. As a result, my allies were hard-pressed to defend the Castle and its many windows and doors, even with the aid of the barricades we'd cobbled together after the Battle of the Parades. Even so, we might easily have turned back the enemy, were it not for the presence of the infamous criminal, Lucaine Pyramides.
In accounts from his days as a mercenary bandit, the man has been described as a sort of incarnate demon, and now that I've seen him fight, I give those authors the benefit of the doubt. His fighting style wavers between madness and genius. Madness, for he spends half the battle with his sword in its sheath, avoiding blows through speed alone; genius, because when he draws his sword to fight, he turns that very act into a deadly blow. A warrior learns to detect a hundred movements of the blade, a hundred twitches of the body, and when he draws his blade, Pyramides reveals none of them. Even with his sword drawn, the man fights as if possessed. Though his sword clearly is not forged in Bladefire like that of a Knight, nevertheless it glows with arcane power, here setting men ablaze, there freezing them to the bone, there causing them to bleed their life away from a single cut. Each time he draws his blade, men around him die, giving him time to enchant his sword with some new witchery. Just as the Tsol'teth were said to practice some art of destruction unknown to mortal races, so too does this squire of hell, Pyramides. Draw what parallel you will. Mycale's indecent detractors hint that he is "unnatural." I submit that if anyone in this war is unnatural, it is that brigand monster Pyramides.
We fought to our utmost, but though the Avenue of Swords ran with the blood of our foe, it ran twice as deep with our own. When the order to retreat came, however, I was dismayed, for we had succeeded in separating Lucaine Pyramides from the rest of his allies. Surely, with just a little more time, we could have overwhelmed him, and damned be the cost to our own lives. So be it, though. I write this from the Selicande Lycaeum, where the remaining Knights in Mycale's camp have been given a warm welcome. Tomorrow I am to join a sally against the Marcella Library, in the company of Lord Errikale and Prince Mycale. As the Library itself is undefended by Catarin's men, we hope to break through their front and triumphantly invest the Library, thus winning a psychological victory. Pray for me, my love, as I pray every night for you.
Your loving husband,
Lord Damen Kephry,
Artaius Angus Hall, Barracks 104,
Selicande Lycaeum
Lucaine Pyramides, Catarin (Poem 14)
Gold and soft diamond and pearl--
The crown is one with the soul, for her.
Empress, goddess, overarching girl--
The part is one with the whole, for her.
My sword will defend her
My sharp sword will keep her safe
My true sword will keep her safe from harm
I shall make her as immortal as my love.
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