Empire of Men

The General is the senior officer of an Imperial campaign — appointed by the Seneschal in the Emperor's name, usually after several decades of command in one of the Five March-Duchies. He carries no blood of Alderickk, and claims none: he holds the sceptre the way every Imperial holds what is not theirs, while waiting. His office is temporary, his authority absolute, his tone dry.

In battle, the General distinguishes himself less by the blade than by the voice. "Hold the line!", a short order heard from the back of a regiment, suffices to stiffen a formation that is folding. When combat bogs down, his rallying cry carries over the melee and brings the fleers back to the standards. He wears light armour, sometimes a shield, sometimes a pistol; he may ride a barded charger, a Pegasus or an Imperial Griffon according to the rank of the army. But it is rarely the mount that is remembered: it is that he is still there, at the end, when other generals would have fallen.

The Grand Master is the Head of one of the Knightly Orders of the Empire — each vowed to a virtue, a heraldic beast, or a promise made in the days of Alderickk. The Orders depend neither on the Court nor on the Lectorate; each holds its fief, its levy rights, its own roll of heirs in title. The office of Grand Master is won by challenge: a postulant in arms before the seated Master, before the assembled Order. Defeat does not always mean death, but rarely signs a return.

In battle, the Grand Master is in plate armour, mounted on a barded charger, on a Pegasus for the aerial Orders, on a Demigryph for the dragonic Orders. He rides at the head of his Inner Circle Knights — his mere presence renders the unit immune to fear: one does not flee while the Grand Master is seen charging. His blade is almost always a relic-weapon of the Order, passed down since its founding. When a Grand Master falls, the Order halts its charge for as long as it takes to choose the next — and that is the only moment a Knightly Order is seen to pause on a battlefield.

Bertrand of Verdmont is the Grand Master of the Falcon Order — one of the oldest Knightly Orders of the Empire, whose seat is held in Verdmont, the eastern March bordering the forests of Eraban and Beast incursion. Born to the ruling House of Verdmont, Bertrand passed the Inner Circle trial at twenty-five, inherited the office of Grand Master at forty-three through a challenge he still refuses to recount, and has led the Order since.

In battle, Bertrand is in full plate armour, on a barded charger, Eagle's Beak in hand — a heavy axe with curved beak, marked with the Falcon seal, cut to cleave horned cuirass in a rising stroke. His charge opens the Order's engagement; his blade settles the single combats enemy Champions impose. Master of Battle — when he joins a squadron of Imperial Knights or Inner Circle, the unit fights without fear; Skilled Duellist, he survives clashes no Captain would have taken. His Hatred of the Ruinbearers is not up for discussion: Verdmont has been on the front line for three decades, and Bertrand has forgotten nothing of what he has seen.

Renaud of Tournac is the Iron Marshal, one of the Empire's most respected military strategists — and one of its most ambiguous. Born to Tournac, the south-western March that borders Albion, he has in turn served Aldérium, several Cadet Houses of neighbouring Duchies, and — during the ebbs of the Wars of Albion — mercenary companies bearing neither lion nor falcon. The Emperor recalled him to the Imperial banner about a decade ago; since then, he has commanded the armies the Seneschal dares not entrust to his own Generals.

In battle, Renaud wears plate armour and the Griffon Helm — a helmet given by a grateful Margrave after a campaign in the septentrional marches, which protects him from blows that would be judged fatal to any other man. With two hands, he wields the Sentence of Alderickk — a ritual war-hammer forged of iron drawn from the forges of the Great Sanctuary, capable of cleaving an armour and the spirit that inhabits it. Strategic Mastery: Renaud reads the terrain before the enemy, and his army often begins the battle having already chosen the moment of the charge. Mercenary Commander: he is one of the rare Imperial officers mercenary companies will follow — a heritage he does not deny.

The War Lector is a senior priest of the Lectorate — the religious authority of the Faith of the Return, keeper of the texts from the time of Alderickk. Not all Lectors accompany the armies; those who do received the military investiture at the Great Sanctuary of Aldérium, where they swore to carry the prayer onto the battlefield. The distinction is earned by campaigns: a living War Lector has survived several wars, and his word has held where others have broken.

In battle, the Lector walks at the front of the regiment he accompanies, liturgical book in hand, heavy axe at his side. During the command sub-phase, he chants one of the Prayers of War — Hammer (redirect strokes that would have missed), Shield (grace against arrows), Soulfire (the sacred fire on the engaged enemy). High-ranking Lectors ride the War Altar — a consecrated chariot drawn by two horses, which changes the range of their prayer as a general changes the direction of a charge. The Sermon is also a blade: that is the first teaching received at the Great Sanctuary.

The High Priest of the Wolf is the highest cleric of a rural faith as old as the Empire — the faith of the Wolf, veneration of the northern beast that, it is said, accompanied Alderickk on his last marches. The Lectorate tolerates it without recognising it; the villages of Lorinne and the septentrional marches have kept it intact since before the Faith of the Return, and have no intention of letting it go. The title is won by the Solstice Cry: a single night alone in a northern forest, unarmed, until a living Wolf accepts the postulant's presence. Many do not return. Those who return never speak of that night again.

In battle, the High Priest of the Wolf chants the Prayers of the Wolf — Battle Howl (which drives a troop to charge faster than a captain's cry), Winter's Chill (which ices the enemy's strokes), Wrath of Winter (which makes each wound deeper, sharper). His axe is heavy, his armour light, his voice carries far. He walks with the regiments of Lorinne, sometimes with Imperial Knights of the North — rarely much beyond the septentrional marches, but when he is seen in an army, one knows that the war is in the north.

The Captain is the field officer of the Empire — one rank below the General, but directly above the sergeant who shouts the orders in the mud. He commands a regiment, sometimes two in a modest battle, and bears the responsibility of their formation as much as of their retreat. The office is earned by campaigns: a living Captain is one who has spent at least a decade on the front line without breaking his regiment.

In battle, he wears light armour, sometimes a shield or a pistol, and the sword of the Duchy that trained him. Like his General, he has at his disposal the short orders that stiffen a line; but he gives them at man-height, in the melee, where one hears one's own men breathing. Many Captains serve as Battle Standard Bearer — the Imperial banner in hand, they hold the line better than a sergeant and fall before a General. It is one of the deadliest offices in the army. It is also one of the most respected.

The Wizard Lord is the Magister of one of the Eight Circles of Magic of the Empire — millennium-old institutions established in Aldérium and in the Duchy capitals, independent of the Court and of the Lectorate alike. Each Circle is devoted to a single Breath, passed down through chains of apprenticeship since the time of the first Mage-Smiths. Wizard Lords reach their office after several decades of study. For a man, that is nearly half a lifetime.

In battle, the Wizard Lord wears no armour. His flesh is defended by his magic or by his guards — rarely by anything else. His blade, an accessory; the Breath he channels, the weapon. Generals who secure a Wizard Lord pay dearly for it; they know that in exchange they hold an asset few human armies have: a man capable of sweeping an enemy regiment in three words, or of turning the enemy's strongest spell against the enemy himself. The Circles do not serve the Emperor. They serve what the Emperor awaits.

The Master Mage is the Adept of a Circle who has finished his initial training but has not yet received the charge of Magister. About a decade of study in the tower of his Circle, then the Breath-Trial; those who pass receive the robe and the staff, and are sent on the campaigns the Magister deems formative. Many perish there. Those who return study a second Breath, sometimes a third — but few men manage it.

In battle, the Master Mage holds behind the line, accompanied rarely by a guard, more often by a single apprentice carrying his notes. He never channels as much as a Magister — his Breath runs out faster, his concentration breaks sooner. But well-led, a Master Mage can wrest a victory from a well-placed spell where no Captain could have done so. The Circles know it. The Generals who accept a Master Mage in their service pay less than for a Magister, and are aware of it with every spell.

The Chapter Master is the regional commander of a Knightly Order — one rank below the Grand Master, but directly responsible for a Chapter: that is, a territorial commandery or a specific banner. Most Orders count several, scattered across the Five March-Duchies: a Chapter at Aldérium for the central seat, others at Tournac, Verdmont, Valdéric, Lorinne. The office is won by feat of arms, by fief grant, or by challenge — according to each Order's customs.

In battle, the Chapter Master wears plate armour and fights mounted, like every knight of his Order. He commands his personal banner — often a squadron of Imperial Knights or Inner Circle Knights — and receives from the General objectives distinct from those of the Grand Master. Every Chapter Master guards his fief; many will guard the Order, one day: the line of Grand Masters is almost always drawn from Chapter Masters who have survived several campaigns.

The Witch Hunter is the wandering agent of the Inquisition — the militant arm of the Lectorate, charged with purging the Empire of all that might soil the return of Alderickk. Wizards outside the Circles, creatures of the Veil, agents of other worlds: anything that might corrupt the sceptre the Emperors hold in waiting. Each Hunter swears his oath before the altar of his Duchy and leaves the road no more. He chooses, at enlistment, a specialism — witchcraft, undeath, mutation, daemonic — that will shape his entire career.

In battle, the Witch Hunter walks in light armour, pistol in hand, consecrated blade at his belt. He does not hold the rank, does not lead a regiment; he attaches himself to a troop for the time of a battle and pushes it toward the target he has marked. His hatred is not up for discussion: it is written in his oath, in the stone of the Lectorate. When he strikes, his blow lands with the authority of a whole charge — what is called a killing blow. And when his target falls, he hunts the next. There are no Hunters in retreat; there are living Hunters and dead Hunters.

The War Priest is the field agent of the Lectorate — a priest who is not yet a Lector, but who has received the benefice and the prayer. Many are young: training takes about a decade in a Duchy chapel, sealed by a public sermon and a probationary military service. Not all return. Those who do may claim, after several campaigns, the full investiture of Lector.

In battle, the War Priest is where the regiment needs a word — at the foot of a banner that is folding, behind a line that has been broken, beside a Captain who hesitates. He chants the same Prayers of War as the Lectors — Hammer, Shield, Soulfire — but his voice carries less far and his prayer runs out sooner. He has no right to the War Altar; he walks, like the men he accompanies, and falls when they fall. Every War Priest begins by walking with a regiment. Many will never advance beyond that stage.

The Priest of the Wolf is the wandering cleric of the Wolf-cult — junior, without cathedral, without parish. He comes out of the Lorain villages where the faith has been held across centuries, and takes to the road when his elder judges him ready. The Solstice Cry is not yet his charge: he will claim it later, if he lives long enough. The Wolf chooses its priest, not the other way — the elder appoints, but in the villages they say the beast decides.

In battle, the Priest of the Wolf chants the Prayers of the Wolf, the same as his elder — Battle Howl, Winter's Chill, Wrath of Winter — but his voice runs out faster and his chant carries less far. He accompanies regiments of Lorinne, sometimes those of the northern marches; he often carries a short axe, sometimes a shield, almost never a Circle weapon or a book of the Lectorate. When he falls, the village that trained him sends another within the month. The faith of the Wolf does not stop for a dead man.

The Engineer is the diminished heir of the Mage-Smiths — the human-dwarven caste which, in the time of Alderickk, produced the rune-engines the Empire still keeps running. That caste has died out; the Dwarven Builders who formed its other half no longer teach humans, and have not for centuries. What remains are the Engineers — trained in the Duchy workshops to maintain, calibrate, sometimes patch, but rarely to make.

In battle, the Engineer attaches himself to a cannon, a mortar, or a steam tank. His charge is less to fire than to keep the engine fireable — to replace a cracked rune, to calm a boiler that is overheating, to retighten a firing cable. He wears, at best, light armour, sometimes a pistol, sometimes pigeon-bombs that his Circle peers consider whimsical but that he, for his part, knows perfectly well how to trigger. When he guides the aim of a piece, the shot lands truer; generals who know this place him within range of their battery and do not stray.

The Provincial Infantry is the standard levy of the Empire — soldiers each March-Duchy maintains on its own revenues, organised by local regiments and sent on the campaigns the Court demands. They are armed by the ruling House of the Duchy: hand weapons, light armour, sometimes shields or halberds according to local custom. Service is four years for young men of the farms, the towns, the markets; it is not a vocation, it is a debt.

In battle, they hold the rank. That is not little. Framed by their Sergeant, supported by a standard bearer and a musician, trained in the tight discipline of the Imperial phalanx, they neither shine like a Knight nor strike like a Wizard — but they hold. When pulled from a regiment to form a detachment (a sub-squad attached to a parent regiment), they can flank, charge an enemy flank, harass a formation. The Empire has never stood on its Generals. It has stood on them.

The Provincial Marksmen are the shooting levy of the Empire — Duchy soldiers trained at the crossbow and, more rarely, the matchlock arquebus. Like the Provincial Infantry, they come out of the farms, the towns, the markets; but they are kept in the weapon workshops longer, because a poorly-trained crossbowman rarely wounds the enemy and frequently wounds his comrades. The March-Duchies with the best forges field more of them: Aldérium for arquebuses, Tournac for heavy crossbows, Verdmont for barbed bolts against the Beasts.

In battle, the Marksmen establish themselves behind the line or on the flanks, in close formation like their sister infantry, and shoot in salvos coordinated by their Sergeant. When they are detached from a parent regiment as a detachment, they flank an enemy charge or cover a retreat. They do not engage in melee if they can avoid it; when they have no choice, they draw the hand weapon and hold as best they can until they are relieved. The crossbow bolt has done more for Aldérium than the cavalry.

The Free Company Militia is not a Duchy levy — it is an irregular gathering the Empire arms when it no longer has time to train. Veterans come home without pensions, cadet sons without inheritance, amnestied deserters, peasants rebel-rallied at the last minute: the Free Company Militia takes them all, as long as they will fight. The Captains who lead them speak of them the way one speaks of fire — useful as long as one masters it, dangerous when the wind turns.

In battle, the Militia does not hold the rank. It does not know how. It runs, shouts, charges before being authorised to — Impetuous is the word officers use in reports, but in the field they simply call it uncontrollable. Armed with whatever has been found — short sword, woodsman's axe, mace, belt knife, sometimes a stone tied to a rope — they strike in a horde, hurl their thrown weapons, and sometimes hold longer than one would expect. On the frontiers, the Empire arms whoever will fight. And it rarely buries the Militia alongside its regular regiments.

The Archers of the Empire are not workshop-trained like the crossbowmen — they come from the woods and the marches. Hunters of Lorinne, frontier-wardens of Tournac, trackers of Verdmont who have followed Beasts through the forests; they are recruited because they already know the bow, because they already know how to keep silent at a wood-line, because they already know where to step so the branch does not crack. Service is shorter than for the Provincial Infantry; one does not need to teach them how to see.

In battle, they take loose formation, often ahead of the lines — Imperial doctrine allows them to deploy before the main deployment, where the Provincial Marksmen wait in a block. They shoot the longbow, strike and pull back when the enemy comes for them; some regiments are allowed fire-and-flee, letting them loose a last volley and slip away before a charge connects. They are not made for melee. They are not made for the rank. They are made so that one never reaches them.

The Imperial Knights are the heavy cavalry of the Orders — those who have sworn the oath, received the lance and the barded charger, but have not yet earned entry to the Inner Circle. Most will serve this way for fifteen or twenty years before they are distinguished; some will remain so for their entire life, and will be no less proud nor less respected for it. Each Order arms them in its colours: open helmet for Tournac, fur cloak for Lorinne, plumed panache for Aldérium.

In battle, the Imperial Knights charge in close formation, lance forward, on the orders of their Preceptor — the squadron's champion, who opens the charge and holds the line when it comes back. Their charge has not the mass of the Inner Circle; it has the rhythm, and it has the numbers. When Imperial doctrine plans two charges in a day, it is the Imperial Knights who are asked for the first.

The Greatswords are the infantry elite of the ruling Houses of the March-Duchies — soldiers selected from veterans of the Provincial Infantry, withdrawn from the ordinary rank and armed in full. Plate armour, two-handed sword, tight-discipline formation: a Margrave who fields a Greatsword regiment displays his power, because one does not train a Greatsword in six months. Every man among them has spent at least a decade in arms.

In battle, the Greatswords hold the centre. Where the Provincial Infantry forms the mass, the Greatswords form the wall. Their two-handed sword, longer than a spear, strikes over the enemy shield and cleaves armour that would resist an ordinary blade. They do not break — Stubborn in military reports, mulish in plain speech — and their Count's Champion bears the blade that decides the melee when an adversary hero comes to challenge them.

The Inner Circle Knights are the mounted elite of the Imperial Orders — those who have passed the Order's internal trial, sworn the second oath, and received the ornamented lance that Imperial Knights do not yet bear. Passage is won by feat of arms: a single combat won against an enemy Champion, an enemy regiment personally broken, a city taken under one's command. No Inner Circle has been named without a story accompanying the decision.

In battle, they charge ahead of the Imperial Knights; their armoured mass and barded chargers break what the first charge has not sufficed to cleave. Full plate armour, lance and shield, they are so disciplined that their Preceptor commands them by sign — not a shout, a sign. When they miss a stroke, they know how to land another in the same second.

The Pistoliers are the young horsemen of the Empire — cadet sons of ruling Houses, scions of Knightly Orders who have not yet earned the lance, heirs of merchants rich enough to afford a charger and a brace of pistols. Their service is short, their training shorter still: they are taught to ride, to reload a pistol from the saddle, to shout the order to fall back. What they are not taught is patience.

In battle, the Pistoliers gallop in loose formation around the enemy flanks, discharge their pistols at point-blank, and slip away before they can be caught. Impetuous — they charge when they should not, flee when told to hold, come back when no one asked them to. The Captains who command them use them as a veil: to harry, to distract, to open a flank. Not to decide a battle. Many do not survive their first campaign; those who do become Outriders or Knights, and never return to the Pistoliers.

The Outriders are the veteran light cavalry of the Empire — Pistoliers who have survived their initial campaigns and chosen to remain in the saddle rather than swear the oath of an Order. Service is voluntary, paid by stipend, and many make a career of it. They leave behind the brace of pistols for the weapon that defines their squadron: the repeater handgun, a multi-barrel firearm cut for cavalry, capable of spitting five or six rounds on a single reload. A craft inherited from the Mage-Smiths, still maintained in the workshops of Aldérium.

In battle, the Outriders open the way for an army — Imperial doctrine allows them to deploy before the main deployment, like the Archers on foot. They scout enemy positions, harry the flanks, discharge their handguns from twenty paces and pull back before they can be charged. Disciplined where the Pistoliers are not — they listen to orders, they do not charge from impatience, they do not forget the retreat. That is what distinguishes them. It is also what makes them live old.

The Demigryph Knights are the beast-riders of the Knightly Orders — Inner Circle knights raised to a rank apart, those who have passed their Order's second trial: to capture a living Demigryph, tame it, and survive it. The Demigryph is no horse. It is a beast of prey the size of a charger, cut for the hunt, demanding a Pact rather than a breaking. Most candidates fail. Those who succeed never receive any other mount again.

In battle, the Demigryph fights of its own. The knight who rides it fights with the lance as any Inner Circle does, but his mount strikes in parallel — heavy talons, curved beak, sometimes both. The combined charge of a Demigryph squadron tears through an infantry line like nothing else in the Imperial arsenal; and the beasts cause fear in any adversary who has never seen a beast of that size charging at saddle-height.

The Great Cannon is the keystone weapon of the Alderian arsenal — a rune-engine of massive bronze cast in the workshops of Aldérium, mounted on a wheeled carriage capable of bearing the recoil of a salvo. Its manufacture dates from the time of the Mage-Smiths, when humans and Dwarven Builders worked rune-casting together; the pieces still in use today date almost entirely from that era, and each Great Cannon lost is rarely replaced.

In battle, the Great Cannon fires straight: an iron round-shot launched at flat trajectory, capable of piercing an entire formation if well aimed, or cleaving an enemy chariot in a single shot. It is served by a crew of three gunners; an Engineer attached to the piece notably improves the aim. Its rate of fire is slow — one shot per phase — but each shot counts. When it misses, it misses the fight. When it hits, it decides a battle.

The Mortar is the Empire's indirect-fire engine — a short, squat piece with mouth pointed skyward, loaded with a fuse-bomb that is lit before being dropped in. Here too the craft comes from the Mage-Smiths; the calibration is done by firing tables engraved on the piece itself, inherited from the First Artilleryman of Aldérium. Today's workshops can still cast the bronze, but the calibration table is no longer engraved.

In battle, the Mortar does not see its target. Its crew sets the angle, calculates range out loud, and fires in arc over friendly lines to strike the rear of an enemy formation. The bomb bursts on the ground — fragments three paces around the point of impact, several dead if the shot lands true, little damage if it falls aside. An Engineer notably corrects the trajectory. The Mortar is less spectacular than a Great Cannon, but it has killed more enemy commanders than most charges.

The Flagellants are the Alderickk-mad — pilgrims, broken veterans, illuminated peasants, sometimes defrocked priests who have lost the measure and found a certainty. All believe the Return is near, nearer than the Lectorate admits, and that anything still delaying the resurrected Emperor deserves the blade. They walk bare-chested, lash their own flesh in rhythm, chant the verses their Prophet of Doom has been repeating since morning. No one recruits them officially. They attach themselves to an army, and they are tolerated because they ask for no wage, no food, no return.

In battle, the Flagellants do not hold the rank. They throw themselves forward, flail in hand, screaming the prayer of Ruin. Immune to fear, unbreakable when a Lector or a War Priest accompanies them — the presence of a man of the Lectorate sanctifies their madness and makes it impossible to break. They charge before the order, sometimes without an order, and are killed in great numbers; but they also kill in great numbers. No Imperial army loves them. No Imperial army turns them away.

The Volley Gun is the Empire's multiple-fire engine — a block of five to seven narrow barrels mounted fan-wise on a single carriage, fired by a single fuse that ignites them almost simultaneously. It is one of the last innovations of the Mage-Smiths before the caste died out; current workshops no longer produce them, and every surviving Volley Gun is maintained as a relic.

In battle, the Volley Gun lacks the range of a Great Cannon, but has the numbers. A single salvo can sweep half a dozen men from the front of a formation, break the first line before the main shock arrives. Its accuracy is unpredictable — some barrels fire true, others deviate, sometimes two or three do not fire at all — and a bad shot can jam the entire piece. Engineers watch over it: they calm the fuse, realign a misaligned barrel, save what can be saved.

The Rocket Battery is the most erratic engine in the Imperial arsenal — a bank of bronze tubes loaded with rune-propellant rockets, lit in series from the rear. The technique comes from Verdmont, developed there to saturate the Eraban-infested and Beast-haunted forests; it has spread to other Duchies, but Verdmont still fields more of them. No rune-table specifies their range. One learns to serve the Battery by surviving the first firings.

In battle, the Battery fires in a spray — three projectiles, sometimes more, that go out fanwise and explode on impact in templates of fire and fragment. No crew knows precisely where its rockets will land; one shoots over a zone, one hopes, and one congratulates oneself when most reach the intended sector. When a rocket strays, it can land on friendly troops; it happens. But when the Battery fires true, it scatters an enemy formation across an entire field in a single phase.

The Steam Tank is the most precious relic of the Mage-Smiths — an armoured bronze engine, driven by a rune-steam boiler, capable of rolling by its own power, firing a short-range steam cannon, and spitting a tongue of scalding steam upon the first enemies it meets. The Lectorate speaks of them as mobile cathedrals. The arsenal counts eight across the entire Empire; six are still in working order.

In battle, the Steam Tank is unstoppable in the literal sense — Unbreakable in the reports, uncrumpleable in the soldiers' tongue, terrifying to those who see it for the first time. Its charge crushes infantry; its grinding wheels render even light obstacles irrelevant. But it is temperamental — the boiler dislikes blows, the engine voices its mood with noises no Engineer truly translates — and a Steam Tank lost in battle may be lost for good. Aldérium weeps every time.

The War Altar is the sacred engine of the Lectorate — a chariot consecrated at the Great Sanctuary of Aldérium, drawn by two barded chargers, bearing at its centre the Flame of the Return and the sealed Seal of the Lectorate. No chariot rolls without a War Lector mounted on it; no Lector mounts it without direct authorisation from the Seneschal and the elder of his Sanctuary. Which is to say the Altar is rare. Which is to say its presence is an event.

In battle, the Altar terrorises by its mass alone. Its charge crushes infantry that has not had time to avoid it — D6+1 impact hits in the reports, more dead than a cannon in the soldiers' tongue. But the Altar's main role is not to strike. It extends the Lector's voice — his Prayer carries further, his order stiffens more regiments. It extinguishes adversary spells in a radius enemy Wizards detect before even seeing the engine. And it sanctifies all around it: nearby troops feel no fear, and their panic redeems itself through prayer.