Supply Train Ambush - Empire Camp northwest of Pont 1257 (2023 in our calendar), Grigori (June) 22

A Hadovean Supply train is ambushed by Geldheim forces

Lord Mikhail Orlat, First-Marshal of His Imperial Highness General Lord Pitar Callingber's Regiment of Heavy Dragoons, Paladin of the Lord-of-Hosts, Margrave-de-Jure of Biff, Shieldwarden of Flugelburg, and Viskio-Somelje of its Hinterlands, had a seriously banging headache. The headache never really left him unless he was fighting. Which was worrying in itself, on several levels. A head-doctor or confessor would likely have a field-day with that one. He probably should go and see one. But alas... There was always something. Not always bad somethings, but something, nevertheless. At the moment, that something was paperwork. Requisitions. Training schedules. Audience lists. Correspondence. Reports. All marked for him, and all marked with urgency flags ranging from 'urgent' to 'immediate'. It was logical, on one level. If they weren't urgent, and serious, they'd either be near the back of the pile, or on someone else's desk. That was inexorable nature of being the sod with the name on the door. Most of the reports were from the Marches, which was no surprise. The bulk of Imperial and Kingdom forces were still dug in there, a scant 40 km from West Pont. The city had come within a hair's breadth of falling to the last concerted Imperial push, and it still might. The Geldheimers had made much of ejecting the Hadoveans from their streets and had trumpeted their victory as loudly as they could. But even their greatest bards and storywriters would struggle to mask the truth. Pont was shattered. The Geldheimers had barely any of their orginal their holdings west of the Escondida, barring a toehold within a day or so's march of Pont. The clerics of Doomsayers had drawn some new lines, but it wasn't due to advances made by the Geldheimer, that much is sure. The question in Mikhail's mind at least wasn't whether the Empire would push on Pont again, but when. Although even Mikhail would concede that on more than one occasion he and the Imperial high command had differing view on the next best course of action. That being said, Good soldiers follow orders. The Geldheimer were many things, but stupid wasn't one. They knew that as well as anyone. The advances had led to some interesting quirks of circumstance, however. The Imperial Army's supply lines were maintained primarily overland, but the corridor of control was narrow, and relatively exposed. Scouting efforts to the north and east, into the contested and independent territories were routine, and Mikhail knew full well that many of the local militias they encountered were well sponsored by the Duke of Moridale. Sooner or later, they'd have to do something about this supply situation. If the main body of Imperial forces were otherwise occupied, it might fall to Lord Orlat's forces, though it'd be a tall ask for their regiment alone. In the interim, their close-escort of caravans of rations, fodder, medical supplies (including pelicans, elevators, drills and bone saws, in this shipment), pay for the troops, and arguably the all-important Flugelburg-branded wine and beer, would continue. The stronger spirits served dual-use as anaesthetic for the healers, and seemed to help keep infection at bay, for reasons that were beyond the First-Marshal's ken. There were a number of routes for Imperial supplies to reach the army. From the north, drawing from Gazta Denda, Sparsdale, or Flugelburg itself, either by boat down the Fluss, then east to Foe's Folly, and on through the crossroads at Ristey's Hamlet, and then into the Marches. Or from the West, drawing from the wider Empire over the long south road through Allenia, crossing the Fluss at One Shoe, then hugging the lake up to Foe's Folly, then east. Either way, Ristey's Hamlet was critically important. Just over 50km due north of Doomsayer's, the crossroads had, almost overnight, gone from a sleepy backwater to one of the most critical strategic junctions west of the Escondida. When the Doomsayer's Grant was accepted, established logistics had to be completely re-routed. And Ristey's Hamlet was the only viable overland supply route. For the moment, the inhabitants were not hostile. Having the main body camped not a week's march from their homes made accepting Dragoon promissory notes and the relatively benign and intermittent Imperial presence a far easier choice than outright opposition, but the situation was by no means relaxed. The hamlet was not under Imperial control and had no desire to give any impression to the contrary, as two recently hanged members of the Stillwinds Levy had found out. They had assumed that their liege-lord's status within the Imperial Senate would translate to their being able to take liberties with the local population and had found out to their short-lived horror that that was very definitely not the case. Their horror was not the only thing that was short lived because of those life choices. And to be honest, Lord Orlat was entirely ok with that. Count Gerhardt von Sudsee had a rather unsavoury reputation, and his reports, including the one that Lord Orlat was holding right now, seemed to indicate that some apples at least were not falling far from their trees. Illness had been ravaging Flugelburg for the better part of a fortnight, and Mikhail suspected foul play. That the ailment showed tell mere days after their last sizeable engagement with Geldheim forces had not escaped his notice. That the ailment bore a marked similarity to Drymire Greenlung also was notable. Nothing for it, at this point. It didn't seem fatal, merely debilitating, and the supplies must flow. He affixed his seal to the requisitions and rubbed his temple. He'd need to get word to Mirthstone to reinforce a push on the hamlet. The situation was too tenuous. Battle would be had there, and soon, one way or the other.