Alvina dug her fingers into her hair as she stared at the parchment in front of her – her analysis of Falton’s final battle. She’d hoped that a cold, pragmatic analysis would put things into perspective, make sense of the defeat, but all she felt was an aching in her soul, and the fire of determination to see the Roamans chased out of Falton once and for all. How dare they! How DARE they even THINK of doing such a thing!!!
Alvina dug her fingers deeper, as though the tension on her curls would relieve the pressure of her thoughts. In the back of her mind was the little righteous voice that said Roamans were just people, and it wasn’t right to be so mad at them – or was it saying that it wasn’t right to hate them? Was it possible to want to fight someone with every bone in your body, to be willing to kick them out or die trying, and not hate? This was too deep, and Alvina turned her attention back to her Analysis.
- The temperature should never be underestimated. Much of the Faltonian forces stood in the sun for almost an hour (there was not enough shade to go around) while King Van Helsing, God rest his soul, laid out his battle strategy. By the time we started marching, we were tired and thirsty, and we then had to cross a shade-less plain. The Roamans, on the other hand, SAT or STOOD in their fort, IN THE SHADE. Our forces were exhausted before the battle even began.
- Ranged Weapons. We had perhaps two individuals in our force skilled with ranged weapons (compared to their many) and, more importantly, no way to defend against their trebuchet. Our forces were decimated before we could even reach their fighters.
- An important part of this was our formation – as a large group, clustered behind the shield wall, we made a large and easy target for ranged weapons, even though it was a strong formation for hand-to-hand combat.
Alvina shifted in her seat, sending pain searing through her back. The other healers had done what they could for her wounds, but the lacerations hurt more now than when she lay on the battlefield. Then, she had been seething with righteous wrath, and in shock over the Faltonian defeat. She was still seething, and still in shock, but those feelings had faded – unlike the pain. She gritted her teeth as she dipped her pen in the inkwell. From the way the pain lanced down her arms and across her back, she doubted she would ever be able to fight again, but she felt strangely relieved. She had become such a devil during the battle. A rage she didn’t know she possessed had swept over her, so that even as she collapsed to the ground, she threw her body in the path of a Roaman soldier, trying to trip him. Her fellow wounded had been forced to hold her down, to keep her from crawling back into the battle, even as blood poured from her back and side.
Alvina shuddered, making the cold ink from her quill drip onto her fingers. What had been her third point? Ah, yes. She re-inked her quill and began to write again.
- The skill of our forces. Almost two-thirds of our main attack force were unseasoned fighters. We had perhaps two, maybe three, truly skilled fighters on our front lines, and a handful of fighters with previous experience. The rest were Faltonian civilians, brave but untrained, and could not lend the strong support our front line so desperately needed.
Images of the battle flashed before Alvina’s eyes. The shield wall crumbling. The dead Faltonian on the ground. Her hand seizing his shield. Taking his place in the Shield Wall. The helplessness as she realized she was a totally incompetent fighter. She could catch blows on her shield, but she could not fight back! The longing with which she had gazed into the woods, hoping the mercenaries, the spies, or the Watch would do something, as her comrades fell around her, one after another, into the dust.
- The main force had no way of signaling the other parties for help, and no way of knowing what was happening to them. At the very least, each group should have been equipped with a horn, and signals established. Even better, every member of all the groups should have known the signals, AND know who had the horn, so that if the horn-blower was cut down, someone else would have been able to take the horn-blower’s place.
There. Alvina laid her quill to rest as she gazed at her parchment. She had covered the most important elements of the battle, and she did indeed feel a kind of peace. She understood what had happened now, why they had lost. The Faltonians had never before gone up against a truly organized adversary. Brutal, yes, ferocious, oh yes. But organized? Only the War Boys had come close, and the Faltonians’ bravery and the Spirit Walker’s intervention had saved the day. If the Faltonians were going to oust Roam, they would have to be organized, and prepared. Alvina frowned. It would be difficult, without the king to pull them together, but Alvina could already feel the wheels turning in her mind. Falton wasn’t strong enough to meet Roam in pitched battle yet. Guerilla warfare and sabotage would be the best bet, until reinforcements came from Westar or elsewhere. If nothing else, it might make the Roamans wonder if Falton was worth holding on to. Alvina nodded to herself. If the Faltonians approached the situation warily, cannily, they might just stand a chance.
-Alvina the Brave