Marshal Maxime didn't yell when he read the dispatch. He merely stared at it, the single tallow-fueled lamp on the campaign table flickering in the damp drafts of his tent. His eyes were bloodshot, his stubble growing unkempt, and his uniform caked with dirt and grime. He looked inappropriate for his station, but there was no place to wash laundry in a siege.
Across the map stood Intendant Moreau, pristine in his high-collared blue coat that looked like it had been pressed that morning in the capital of Bellemont. Moreau calmly adjusted his spectacles, smoothing a crease in his cream-colored parchment ledger.
"The Treasury is quite specific, Marshal," Moreau said, his voice entirely devoid of inflection. "Every keg of powder you burn against the granite of Vallecastillo costs the Republic forty denar. The accountants in the capital note that your siege has already consumed the quarterly budget of an entire infantry corps. They view your requisitions as... creative accounting on your part."
Maxime didn't look up. He slowly rubbed his temples, his thumb pressing hard into the skin as if trying to physically crush a migraine.
"An engineering train, Moreau," Maxime whispered, his voice dangerously flat. "That is what I asked for three days ago. Three thousand shovels, two thousand pickaxes, and six wagon-loads of timber. Basic iron tools and lumber so my sappers don't have to claw through shale with bayonets while grape-shot takes their heads off."
"Iron is reserved for the artillery foundries, Marshal. The priorities of the state-"
"My men are shitting blood in the trenches, Intendant!"
Maxime slammed both palms down onto the oak table with a crack that sounded like a musket shot, rattling the brass inkwell and sending parchment sliding into the mud.
"Don't talk to me about priorities while my men rot!" Maxime snarled, leaning entirely across the table, his face inches from the bureaucrat's nose, spittle flying from his cracked lips. "Dysentery has half the third line crippled! We have no gabions for the sap-heads, the recoil platforms for my siege guns are turning into pulp, and we don't have the tools to fix either of them! Your accountants in Bellemont treat every cartridge like it's a robbery of their personal savings!"
Moreau didn't flinch, though a tiny muscle twitched in his jaw. He slowly reached into his leather satchel, pulled out a single, heavy vellum envelope bound in black wax, and laid it neatly on the center of the splintered table.
"The state," Moreau said, his voice dropping an octave, "understands your frustration. Which is why a Commissioner has bypassed the logistics committees entirely."
Maxime froze, his chest heaving as he stared down at the black wax seal, the unmistakable crest of the General-en-Chief.
"There are no additional siege guns coming," Moreau continued smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. "The roads turned into quagmires, and reserve 24-pounders are needed on the Rhenis frontier. You will receive only ten supply wagons. They will deliver three cases of musket flint, two hundred cartridge crates, six medical chests, and half your food rations."
Maxime slowly straightened up, wiping a stray bead of sweat mixed with soot from his forehead. His breathing was heavy, ragged.
"Then we die in the ditch," Maxime muttered bitterly.
"Not necessarily," Moreau added, tapping the vellum envelope. "The Commissioner of Defense has approved your emergency petition. The Vanguard Cell attached to this Corps has been released to your discretion."
Maxime stared at the black seal for a long, silent moment. The distant, rhythmic thump of the enemy's mortar shook the tent poles.
"God help us," Maxime whispered, his anger instantly replaced by a hollow, chilling dread. "Clear the third trench!"
YOU ARE READING
Sons Of The Republic
ActionFORGED IN BLOOD, BOUND BY IRON. The First Republic was built on high ideals, and secured by monsters. Henry and Marcel are Vanguards, heavy alchemical super-soldiers who survived guaranteed death to become the state's ultimate weapons. Locked insid...
