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The moment the Imperial army was sighted on the horizon, Sylvain knew he was well and truly fucked.
Most of his lieutenants thought differently. The scouts had not sighted the emperor or her right hand with the column, and that gave the men hope. This wasn’t the Black Eagle Strike Force; this was the lumbering main body of the Adrestian forces. Brave knights of Faerghus that they were, the prevailing attitude was that they should ride out and give those arrogant Imperials what for. Maybe if he'd been born courageous or chivalrous, Sylvain would have agreed.
But he was damned to be clever, instead. And he knew, bone-deep, without yet knowing how, that they were all fucked.
No matter how chivalrous his men were, the fact was Fort Styx just wasn't defensible against an army of the size he was facing. Why would it need to be? Erebus had long been the primary northern gateway from the Kingdom to the monastery, the fort little more than a glorified checkpoint where pilgrims were politely waved through. It wasn't positioned in a way that let its defenders block the road.
A big problem if, say, the enemy had controlled Garreg Mach for the last five years and had a well earned reputation for smashing through seemingly impenetrable defenses.
Yeah, this was the engagement Sylvain had been dreading ever since he'd been dumped here. He'd tried to argue that it wasn't doable, that any march on Fhirdiad would have to go through Tailtean and Camulus anyway and they should focus there, but they hadn't wanted to hear it. What did a layabout like him know about strategy, anyway. It wasn't as if he'd consistently beaten Edelgard at chess back at the Officers Academy, or had higher grades in the Blue Lions on the field tactics exercises than even Annette.
It could be worse, he'd told himself. He could be stationed at Conand Tower.
Given the impossibility of actually succeeding at the mission he'd been given, Sylvain had spent his entire posting here working to salvage the situation, planning for the inevitable day that he had to fight the Empire. He couldn't actually halt an Imperial advance, but could he blunt it somehow? He’d settled on waiting until they were down the road and having light cavalry sally out after them, harassing them as they advanced.
Now, looking at the size of the enemy force, Sylvain was forced to admit his most desperate plan wouldn't work. Edelgard’s buddies wouldn't just walk on past and give him a nice, easy target. They'd just assault the fort directly, never mind the casualties. They had the men for it, including what looked like the Bergliez War Group. He wouldn’t bet on his own walls against those brawlers or their commander.
So what could he do?
“The men are waiting for your order, milord,” his second reminded him.
Milord. Like he was someone to respect, not some dastard who lucked his way into a position of command. Like he had the right to make decisions about the lives of real people, proper knights like Joan, like he deserved to be treated with respect and deference. He would have laughed, if there was anyone who cared.
“Still no sign of the emperor?” Sylvain asked.
The knight shook her head. “Nor the heretic, Eisner. Could be they're biding their time for a surprise attack.”
“Could be,” Sylvain murmured doubtfully.
Truth was, that worried him more. It wasn't that the Empire couldn't be beaten; they absolutely could, and indeed none of the territory they'd seized in eastern Faerghus had held longer than two moons. But the prof—Eisner had been key to the recent string of Adrestian victories that had toppled the Alliance. Was he supposed to believe the tyrant’s right hand had just decided to take a nap?
The fact that the scouts couldn't account for the former professor didn't mean there was a chance of victory. It meant, not to belabor the point, that they were all fucked and he just didn't know how yet.
“Your orders, milord,” Joan repeated, more urgently this time.
Sylvain blew out a breath. He'd have to try something really crazy to salvage this.
“We're going to go talk to them,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Assemble two dozen who won't do something stupid under pressure.”
She paled, but did not openly contradict him. Felix would have, he thought bitterly. Felix would have told him what a damn fool he was being. But Felix was safe behind the walls of Arianrhod, a positively cushy assignment, so there was no one to stop Sylvain from making this disaster even worse.
But maybe, just maybe, he could make it worse in a way that didn't get them all killed.
“My, my, this is a surprise,” Hubert grinned unpleasantly. “Have we found the one commander in Faerghus who doesn't have more pride than sense?”
“Good morning to you too, Hubert, how's the conquest going?” Sylvain said lightly. “I'm feeling a little oppressed, thanks for asking.”
Marquis Vestra, Minister of the Imperial Household, looked less than comfortable in the saddle, Sylvain noted with some satisfaction. The smug bastard probably couldn't even dismount on his own. A thought that would be more comforting, if he wasn't sure to have the ability to kill Sylvain's own horse with only a gesture and a thought.
“What an unlikely coincidence,” Hubert mused, “for a nation still under the thumb of the Church.”
Hard laughter from some of his men, Sylvain knew, and probably wolfish smiles under their helmets. Not that the bravado was going to last.
“Where is your emperor, anyway?” he asked. “Usually it’d be her telling us we’re being trampled for our own good.”
“Her Majesty sometimes charges me with discharging minor duties,” Hubert said mildly. “Sweeping aside trash on the road, for instance.”
“So you're the Minister of Garbage Disposal now,” Syvlain drawled. “That explains the stench.”
But his mind was racing. They weren't denying that Edelgard was elsewhere. Probably Eisner too. Whatever their plan was, the pivot wasn't here. And that should have emboldened the Gautier heir, inspired him to win, but all he could think was that the battle he was preparing to fight didn't warrant the Empire's full attention. Like it didn't even matter to them who won.
How many people would die here for an afterthought?
“—recieve your surrender, if you’d care to give it,” Hubert was saying. “The usual terms, which I would go so far as to call generous.”
Well, he'd already established that they were all fucked anyway.
“An agreement not to attack or hinder your forces," Sylvain proposed, "and hostages for assurance. I just need a few minutes to talk the men into it.”
He could feel the shift in the knights behind him, even if they said nothing. Hubert studied him for a moment.
“Half an hour,” the dark mage eventually said, “after which you will surrender yourself and the Lance of Ruin.”
“It's a date,” Sylvain smiled, fake as anything.
He’d found a way to keep his men alive. All he had to do was sell them on what was arguably treason.
“It's a load of dung, is what it is,” his second spat. “We're to just roll over for the Empire?”
That was a better reaction than he could have hoped for from loyal knights of Faerghus, to be honest.
“We can't beat them, Joan,” he said tiredly. “I've been planning for this day since I first took command, trying to find a path to victory. There isn't one, not with their numbers and our equipment.”
Maybe if they had siege equipment or a pegasus flight, it could be turned around, but they weren't that lucky. The cavalry trap was the one card Sylvain had up sleeve. How hateful, to know that even his most desperate gamble wouldn't work. It would just get people killed.
“At least we know they’ll keep their own rules,” he went on. “We let them through, maybe let them leave an observer here, and nobody has to die.”
“Better to die free,” someone growled, “than to kneel.”
That kind of attitude, Sylvain thought, was why Faerghus was losing. They weren’t special for not caring about their lives. Even a waste of air like him could see that, he didn’t care either and it had never gotten him a damn thing, so why in the hell couldn’t they see it too?
“Enough of that talk,” he barked, not hiding his anger. “This isn’t up for debate. I’m still in command here and I gave you an order. Shut up and fall in line.”
And for a moment, one glorious instant of hateful clarity, Sylvain hoped he’d finally pushed them too far. Come on, he thought. Come on, you whoresons, this is the excuse you need. A reason to turn on the hateful coward who sold you out. Kill me and be done with it. Yeah, you’ll die, and it won’t be on my head for once.
But they knelt instead, one by one, and it sickened him to watch. There would be no battle for Fort Styx, no glorious last stand. Another piece of the Kingdom lost without a drop of blood spilt. When Sylvain dragged his sorry carcass and his wretched weapon out the front gate, right into Imperial custody, he had gotten everything he could have hoped for and not a thing of what he wanted.
He found himself wondering whether or not Felix would be angry when he heard. Didn’t matter, he eventually decided. At least they’d both be alive.