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"Which sun?"
Wesley halted with a jerk. How could he have forgotten that significant detail? They'd successfully escaped the castle through the sewers; a route so vile that even mating with a Groosalug had not proven incentive enough for Cordelia to join them. He'd planned to head towards the village where Angel and Lorne were gathering information. However, having neither a map nor local knowledge, he'd relied upon the sun. And, of Pylea's two suns, the sun they'd been following wasn't leading to the village.
For luck, Wesley checked his coat's inner pocket, making sure that a small tin soldier was safely in its usual place. Not the traditional British red dress uniform, but the Greencoat of the scrimmaging and sharp shooting Rifles. He wondered if his father ever noticed it missing from the re-enactment of Wellington's Peninsula battles.
His totem didn't work - they heard rustling in the surrounding underbrush. Suddenly it wasn't only the Palace Guards they had to worry about. They were encircled by a rag-tag group of humans. The rebel forces, he surmised. And the rebels viewed them as collaborators. A quick observation and calculation lead to only one conclusion. Two humans against many: any advantage would not be through fighting. But he did have one card, or rather picture, up his sleeve. So, ignoring Gunn's muttered comments, he offered the rebels his connection to the new princess.
As he and Gunn were tied up, he swallowed the bile taste of yet another failure. He hadn't realized that this culture was too barbaric to appreciate the basic diplomacy that even the Hunns had practiced. The small battered band of runway slaves had only known a harsh existence. They had worked with the knowledge that a device existed which could decapitate them all at any time. They had seen fellow slaves killed with little provocation. They could no longer hide, so they had to fight. Why would these men know of any other approach than that of violence and fear?
However, the appreciation of violence had worked in their favour. Their ability to fight off the guards earned them release, and his strategy skills had turned them from captives to leaders. Or rather, he was their leader. He wondered if this is what his father envisioned when he allowed him to 'play' with the model soldiers.
Battles had been his reward growing up. If he'd achieved an acceptable level of competency on the tasks assigned by Father, such as translating Julius Caesar's battles from the original Latin, then he was allowed access to the War Room. The room contained several large tables upon which one could create different terrains. His father had several thousand model soldiers, not toys, never toys. They included the armies of Rome, of Napoleon, of various Indian troops, and all of the military forces involved in Europe for both World Wars. Of course, there was also an extensive collection of the British Army in its various uniforms through the last three centuries.
It was a collection which was often visited, and much coveted, by members of the London War Museum. At any given time, there would be four historical battles in various stages of completion. His favourites had been Wellington's early battles in India, when no one yet realized his military genius and he was working with few resources against heavy odds. Of course, if his father had found that he had misplaced any of the troops, he would be forced to write an essay on the battle, on which strategy was employed and why it worked and what improvements could be made.
This was how he'd been able to offer the rebels a new approach to achieve their goal. He addressed the men; it was time to find out what resources with which he had to work. "How many of you are there? Who are your strongest fighters? Your quickest runners? Any one with good aim for projectiles?" As they slowly sorted themselves into groups, he added, "And bring all your weapons to Gunn for inspection."
Reviewing battle after battle, one fact was clear. There would be losses. One had to determine what amount of loss was acceptable if the ultimate goal was achieved. Gunn didn't seem to appreciate that fact. A good General realized his troops were tools, and had to maintain a distance from them. As he'd told Gunn, "You try not to get anybody killed and you wind up getting everybody killed." Even young Mr. Harris had realized that.
When he'd volunteered his services to the Slayer to fight the Ascension, he'd rather hoped his military training might prove useful, might mitigate some of the damage that his inactivity had caused.
The Slayer had already appointed Mr. Harris as general of the student troops. And, once Wesley ascertained that there would be an eclipse, and therefore vampires amongst the enemy forces, she'd added Angel to the planning. Wesley had stepped forward to offer the pair some suggestions, but whatever bad blood there was between them, it was nothing compared to the common glare of loathing they both shot in his direction.
He did, however, overhear the strategy. There were to be several waves of defense, each utilizing specific weapons thought to impart the most damage at every stage of the battle. Xander had been ruthless in his decision making, ensuring that each front was strong and deep, and building in redundancies to allow for the unmentioned losses. When the plan was presented to Buffy, she looked sad for a moment, then nodded. Mr. Giles had trained her well.
It was training the small force of Angel Investigations had not received.
But this time they were fighting against the genocide of all the humans on this world. For such a far-reaching goal, the lives of the many must outweigh the lives of the few. Plus, these men were willing and entered the fray knowing the risks. His plan ensured that they had a shot at their goal, rather than the ill-conceived martyrdom of storming the castle gates, enemy's strongest and best-defended arena.
A General was apart from his troops, just as Watchers were apart from their charges. His father's words ran through his mind, "We are called Watchers, not spectators. It is not a group activity." He had failed his Slayer, both of the Slayers. But here, on Pylea, his knowledge was a help. With the proper planning, and a bit of luck, they might actually make a difference on this world, and - a ghost of a smile crossed his face at the thought - they might rescue a princess.
Wesley looked around the circle, so few and their weapons... He wanted to shake his head but he wouldn't dishearten them. He'd never imagined there'd be a day when he wished for Mr. Giles's collection of crossbows.
Pointing to the scratchings on the ground, he explained his plan. The men, his troops, were bristling with energy, still on a high from their first successful scrimmage against the Palace Guard. They needed no fight speech from him. His job was to point them in the right directions and minimize what risks he could.
As he watched them form groups, in compliance with his plan, he knew he wasn't finished. They might not require stirring words, but there was another soldier who needed reassurance. As he'd witnessed with the Slayers, champions fought best when they had an emotional certainty of the task, of their ability to achieve their goal. If they believed, they would succeed. They'd find a depth of resolution unavailable to the average soul. It was what differentiated them from ordinary people, what made them champions.
So he gave Angel what he needed. A speech about a demon in the man, not a demon masked as a man. He told him about his strength to get the job done, and to return to fight again. Allowing Angel to put aside his fears and focus on the challenge without distraction. He played upon their familiarity of almost two years together as comrades, gripping Angel's arm reassuringly. He knew that touch could speak as much or more than words.
If Angel believed, then Angel would win. It didn't matter what Wesley thought. His role was to put the pieces in play. To set up the battlefield to the best of his ability and watch the outcome. Some, like Gunn, might consider it cold, heartless even. But this wasn't about heart. It was about winning against astronomical odds. It was a job for a General.
He wondered if his father would be pleased.
"Get ready to move out. On my signal, then." His hand went to the soldier. He hoped his training would be enough.
"Go."