Your own tent within the camp is a splendid one if for no other reason than necessity. The royal treasury is in here and you need space for your loyal knights to stand guard over it. In addition, there's the consideration of optics. You are the king and you must project a certain majesty. Having a giant colorful tent is a simple way to do that.
You are currently inside said tent along with a few of your close advisors and knights drawing up battle plans. A map of the surrounding area has been drawn and laid out on a table and a few soldiers have carved unit counters out of wood for you to use. The group of men surrounding this table have a deep well of first hand knowledge of how elfbloods conduct warfare. Uncle Ansur has been involved in several full scale campaigns against Saraqusta before and your brother Ramon has engaged in many skirmishes against them.
You are an odd one out here. Never have you lead a military expedition before. Back when you were a boy of eleven or twelve, your father would take you and Ramon with him to observe him lead the men, but that was so long ago and you never really learned all that much anyway. The Grand University had a curriculum on it, but you are a mage. You took the magic courses.
"This hill right here," Uncle Ansur points to a spot on the map near the river, "It is perfectly situated. They will build cavalry spikes and occupy the hill with their archers. The infantry will anchor their flanks against the Estrella and force a decisive cavalry engagement on a single flank."
Ramon strokes his stubbled chin as he analyzes the map. You can see the calculations dancing behind his eyes. Always, you have been considered the genius and cast a large shadow over your younger brother, but you are proud to say that in this theater he far surpasses you. You watch him move around some unit counters adjusting the enemy formation and then setting down the unit counters representing your own troops.
"Their archers are vastly superior to our crossbowmen. This is a disadvantage we must contend with. Either the orcs must win through the center and push up the hill or our cavalry wins the day and flanks the archers from behind. Alonso's magic should be able to deal with the cavalry spikes and make the flank go smoothly," Ramon explains.
You nod. Yes, the enemy cavalry will be a challenge. You could always fly up there yourself and engage the enemy from the sky, but with Nuño the archer and his nigh four hundred pound draw weight bow, it would be a risk that you'd be foolish to take.
"I propose a more daring tactic," Uncle Ansur states. His thick finger taps the map where the Saraqustan cavalry tokens are. "They are expecting an engagement a single decisive cavalry engagement on the flank believing the other to be protected by the river that is too deep to ford. My suggestion is thus— to split our cavalry in half. Have half engage the elfbloods and harry them. Lose gracefully and buy time. The other half will hide. When the elfblood cavalry is thus drawn away, we will charge through the river using our good king's magic to create a temporary bridge. This tactic is attested in the Battle of Delebourg to great success against the Avenci archers. We will then overrun the archers and turn the battle into a rout."
Your brother looks at the map and frowns, but does not dismiss the idea outright. "Could you do this, brother?" he asks. His expression demands humble honesty. The battle would hinge on this and if you could not do it, your cavalry would be depleted for no gain.
"I am capable of raising such a bridge. Will it hold two hundred stampeding horses? My gut tells me yes but I have little experience in this theater," you reply honestly.
Ramon hums and continues thinking about it. He picks up a few of the tokens and moves them around trying to find a good place to hide the cavalry. "Uncle Ansur's plan does seem to have a solid foundation. We could use it as a basis and adjust it further, perhaps."
"The matter can be discussed further at a later point after we have felt out the enemy capability. I do not predict we shall engage the enemy in full tomorrow," you decide.
Your brother and Uncle Ansur both nod in agreement.
"There is the matter of the orcs," Uncle Ansur reminds everyone. "Will they wait idly? Their bloodthirst is boundless. They may shirk our orders and advance on the enemy."
Ramon grimaces. He can't dismiss the possibility out of hand.
"The orcs appear simple minded, but I believe they are more sophisticated than they seem at first look. Their leader, Grum, is cunning," you declare.
Uncle Ansur raises an eyebrow and gives you a doubting look. "As you say, nephew," he concedes the argument without agreeing.
It is getting late and there is a great deal more to do tomorrow. You need to be rested. "That is all for tonight, my friends. We shall reconvene in the morning to discuss matters further. Rest and relaxation is in order tonight."
The men in the room nod their heads and leave. One by one they exit the tent until only you and your brother remain. He has purposefully remained behind while the other departed. He stands where he has been for the past hour with his arms crossed and looking at you expectantly.
Clearly he wants to talk. About what? You have no idea. "Something trouble you, brother?" you ask, prompting to speak finally.
Ramon shakes his head, "No, brother, but something is troubling you. What is it? Speak."
This is one of the things that annoys you about family. How irritating to be read so easily. You hope the others do not pick up on it. A king must be seen as strong especially while on campaign. Your mood filters down the ranks. An indecisive king wavers the faith of his subordinates and his anxious subordinates waver the faith of your common troops. Projecting strength is absolutely vital. It is something you must do. Always.
You sigh and sit down in your chair, sinking into the sturdy oaken frame and leather backing. Your brother stands across from you and places his hands on the table, leaning forward. "How often, do you wager, that a man is in absolute control over his fate? I mean truly."
Ramon considers your question and after a moment's thought answers, "Almost never, I would say."
You nod. It's as you expected. "Exactly. Every man's fate is subject to the whims of God and the machinations of other men. The world can be random and often cruel. Yet there is a comfort, I think, in one's ultimate helplessness. A lack of control is a lack of culpability. The Gods and their order can be cruel, but it can also not be one's own fault. It is simply the way of the world. Yet a man utterly in control of his fate? What solace may he take should he fail? It is his own failure. His own culpability. His own inadequacy."
Ramon is confused, "Alonso, what does this have to do with anything? We are about to march to war and you speak to me of the whims of the Gods and the machinations of men."
Your hands squeeze against the polished wooden armrests of your little makeshift throne. The weight of the crown has never felt heavier than now, combined with the weight of your talent. Neither of which were asked for but given nonetheless and you must be a good steward of them. King and Mage, the strongest mage on this battlefield. Perhaps even the most skilled mage sworn to military service anywhere on the peninsula. By all rights, you should win this battle if you perform to the level that is expected of you and it will be because of you that the day is won.
"Our armies are evenly matched," you begin to explain, "Neither side should be rushed into an unfavorable fight. We straddle the border. Either one of our armies could retreat into our homeland and resupply if need be. This battle will only begin on even terms. The only advantage either side possesses... is myself, the True Magus. The most powerful single combatant between the seven thousand men nestled in these plains. The whims of fate... the machinations of others... they are null. The only appreciable factor that shall swing the fortunes of this battle are mine own actions. It is a heavy burden to bear."
You confess your anxieties to your brother who listens patiently. When you have finished speaking, he sighs and sits down beside you.
"Brother, listen to me, and listen carefully," Ramon begins, "You are the most brilliant man I know. It pained me to admit this in my youth and long did I envy the ease with which you excelled in all aspects of our study. You have no need to worry, however, for I have grown wise and accepted that there are things a man simply cannot compete against. I am a competent commander. No more, no less. You, however, are a prodigy. If our fate depends upon your magic, then I shall toast to our victory tonight for it is already decided."
You smile and clap a hand on his shoulder, "You have a gift for words. Have you considered politics? Or becoming the court poet?"
Ramon chuckles, "I would sooner join Uncle Ansur in his nightly ritual flagellation."
"Now that's an image I'd like to avoid," you grimace, "Do not become a monk. We'd all miss your wit too much."
"Aye, and I'd miss the company of women too," Ramon admits, "But I am serious, brother. You brood too much. Always have. Have some faith in yourself."
Brooding has always been your greatest weakness. Given time alone to think, you always imagine the worst, envisioning all manner of catastrophe no matter how unlikely. It is something you've had to depend on others to snap you out of at times. You are glad you can count on your brother to help you in this manner when you need it.
"Thank you, Ramon. I will try," you reply.
Ramon claps a hand on your shoulder and pats it. "That's all I can ask, brother. Now let's get some rest."
With that, he departs and you are left to your own devices.
The next morning, the camp is abuzz with activity. The camp followers are making breakfast for the men, the army is forming up, and the scouts are being sent to observe the enemy. There is perhaps two miles between each camp. Each army is going to form up in their battle lines at a position they find advantageous and then... you will see.
"You called for me, King Alonso?" Sir João enters your tent and salutes you respectfully.
You have dressed yourself in the royal regalia— a big showy doublet made from silvered linen thread with your house symbol proudly embroidered on the front and back. Beneath that, a layer of mail that isn't too thick. Really, if you're getting hit by something that your magic fails to protect you from, the mail won't help, but you'll still have your armor on. You wear a sword on your belt that you can pull out and use if your magic ever fails you. It's just an ordinary sword. Kings are expected to carry around swords even when they are, to put it mildly, untrained with their use.
And then beneath the mail you have some underclothes to prevent it from rubbing up against your skin, of course. For accessories, all you really have is your ring of protection and your crown. Of the two, the former is more impressive. You quite like the black tourmaline holding the enchantment together on your ring. It's an exotic stone from a distant land.
Sir João is dressed in a full mail hauberk and carries his helmet tucked beneath his arm. In his other arm, he carries his own sword. His shield is strapped to his back. He is ready for war.
"I have called for you. I have an important mission for your men," you announce, "One which could tip the balance of the coming conflict."
"Oh?" Sir João perks up, curious to hear more.
"Your men will not be deployed with our main battle line. I intend for you to hide your presence in this battle from our enemy to lull them into a false sense of superiority," you explain.
This does not seem to please him. Sir João's mustache furrows with his displeasure and his grip tightens on his sword, "King Alonso, my men are not cowardly. They are here to fight in the name of the Son and smite the elfbloods. Do not think them cowards."
"Sir João, would I think your men cowards if I was entrusting them with the most decisive action in the battle? I would not," you answer your own rhetorical question as you pace around the room, "Instead, I intend to entrust you and your men with the task of flanking the Saraqustans if they are overeager and pursue our cavalry too far."
"And if they do not?"
You shrug, "Then you will reinforce my knights and all will be as it would have been. Rest assured, Sir João, I have no intention of sidelining your must needed men."
You thought the man would be happy to hear this. After all, reinforcements from a foreign kingdom that you have no reason to care about? The obvious impetus is to use them as your fodder. Sell their lives to buy your own men's. It would be a callous but effective tactic. Instead, you are all but assuring him that his men will not see the most violent and dangerous fighting and he seems troubled by it.
Knights are a difficult lot to understand.
Sir João takes a deep breath and bows his head, "Yes, King Alonso. I shall inform the men and we will prepare accordingly."
You nod your head and dismiss him. Once he's gone, you walk outside of your tent and find the camp in a state of organized chaos. All around you, soldiers are rushing back and forth carrying supplies and equipment. Men are assembling and arming themselves with their shields, spears, and crossbows. Knights are donning their armor and the archers are checking their arrows and bows. You can see the orcish contingent on the far side of the camp where they've set up their tents. From the look of things, their camp is already broken and the men are waiting for your signal.
It is time to march out and form up.
Nearly thirty four hundred men march out in the river plain along the Estrella. Already the elfbloods are set up in more or less the exact formation you expected them to be. Five hundred elfblood archers are perched atop the hils and have set up anti cavalry stakes near the base. In front of them, over two thousand infantry of elfbloods and humans hold the line. To their left flank is a company of four hundred elfblood knights, and to their right is the river Estrella
Ramon order the crossbow men to situate themselves in front. They dig their heavy pavises into the ground and kneel behind the wooden barriers, loading their crossbows. Behind them, your infantry form a long battle line. Then there is your three hundred knights on horseback on your right flank and the river Estrella on your left. Ramon does not predict an enemy advance into your position, but if they do, there is ample room for your infantry to slip between the gaps and reform in front of your crossbowmen.
Both armies stand at attention and wait. It is a tense situation. Both sides have the upper hand if the other should advance on them. You are situated atop your horse behind the infantry line observing everything through a scrying window. Uncle Ansur is nearby riding back and forth along the line of infantry. Ramon is with the knights. The royal banner of House de Alfida flies proudly above him, attached to his horse. Grum is determined to fight in the frontline with his boys as is typical of his race. Orcs will not follow a leader who does not lead from the front.
An hour passes like this. Then another. Your infantry begin to grow restless. A third hour goes by and you feel the first stirrings of hunger in your gut. You should've eaten a heavier breakfast. You could fly back to camp and eat, but it would look bad to your men. It wouldn't be kingly. Or maybe it would but in a bad way.
The monotony is broken shortly after the third hour, however, as a handful of riders break from the enemy formation waving the flag of parley. They approach the middle of the field and wait. Ramon rides away from the head of the cavalry formation and trots toward you to discuss the matter.
"They seek a parley, brother," Ramon says.
"I am aware of what the flag means, Ramon," you quip somewhat sarcastically. Did he really need to state the obvious?
"... shall I meet with them?" Ramon asks.
"Hmmm. I believe WE shall," you decide, "Sir Luis, Sir Santiago, and Sir Jose. Come."
From the crowd of knights assembled around you, your chosen attendants trot over. They are all good men and you know you can trust them to protect you if the parley is perfidious.
"Ride with me. We are going to parley," you explain, "I do not suspect anything to come from it, but it seems as if we have little better to do, hm?" you joke before beckoning your horse to move.
Your retinue follows as you ride out from the safety of the army to the field where the enemy riders are waiting. When you get closer, you recognize Amir Walid among them. Good, you can speak commander to commander.
He is joined by one of his sub commanders and three trusted knights, the same as you. This is your father's archnemesis. Amir Walid Bajjah in the flesh.
Amir is dressed in a magnificent suit of elven mail, the metal links shimmering under the sunlight. Beneath it, he wears a silk gambeson. Around his waist, a fine leather belt wraps around the curve of his belly, and at the small of his back, he carries a finely forged and exquisitely crafted shortsword with a jeweled pommel. Pointed half-elven ears poke out from his green turban. His tan white skin is lined with scars, but he is still a handsome and proud looking man.
"King Alonso... well met. My condolences for the loss of your father. I would have come to pay my respects if such hateful lies were not spread concerning his killer," Amir Walid declares as a way of greeting.
"Hateful lies?" you question, "Perhaps you were not involved in the plot, but that he was poisoned by Saraqustans is an incontrovertible truth. Regardless, your condolences are noted, Amir Walid."
Amir Walid remains silent for a few seconds before nodding his head. "Well, let us discuss the matters that are before us. Our armies are at a stalemate. If you intend to fight, you know where we stand and I know where you stand. You will be destroyed, your army scattered and broken, and your men killed. Return home to Alfida and abandon this foolish crusade before we are forced to do the bloody work."
His words are spoken plainly and bluntly, as if he is merely stating facts.
Bluster. Pure bluster. Men often engage in these posturing contests as a method of mental warfare. He wants you to believe he is so confident in his victory so that you will become unnerved. What does he know that you don't? That sort of thing.
"Would such paltry threats have moved my father?" you challenge him.
Amir Walid chuckles, "I would not have met your father in the field to deliver such threats. He was the Devil of the Central Plateau. You, a mere boy. Too foolish and green to grasp what he is throwing away with his impetuousness."
You do not take kindly to his insult but you do not let your irritation show. Instead, you hold your head high and smirk confidently, playing the part of a cocksure sovereign. "You were wise to tuck tail and run from my father. In the coming days, you will curse the Gods that such wisdom evaded you when I stand over your corpse."
Amir Walid narrows his eyes at your bravado and scowls. His horse snorts and paws at the ground. It seems to sense his frustration. "Very well. We have said what needed to be said. Whatever more will be said by your father when you meet him in Death's embrace."
Amir Walid turns his horse and departs. He gallops away with his escorts back to the Saraqustan position.
You turn your horse and ride back to your own lines.