EdgarFig
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25. The Battle
🕑 Added 2024-07-19 20:25:48 +0000 UTCWanting to make his followers a proper army was one thing; seeing their sorry state lined up in formation was another.
The acolytes stood straight at attention, but they were kids. Meanwhile, the ferals slumped in every direction, wearing mismatched rags and furs and picking at their teeth and nails as they waited for Mark to address them.
They had managed to gather a force of just over forty troops—twenty of which were acolytes led by Henric, while Jaryox led the rest.
Mark had wanted to make Reida a commander but had been advised against it. Sexism was a strange topic among the ferals, Mark thought. They were okay with her being recruited as a tribune, working for her to build her cabin, and even fighting beside her. But making her their temporary commander was a step too far. Actually, it wasn’t that strange.
Trumus had been fuming ever since the decision had been made, but his influence was already becoming a little concerning. Of those training under him, eight men had taken to following him around when he walked the streets and were behaving like his own little retinue.
If it wasn’t for his own growing status and renown within the fort, Mark would have probably had to put a stop to it. But for now, decided just to keep his eye on it. Besides, he wasn’t actually doing anything he hadn’t asked him to do.
Mark had watched them on occasion from the walls when they approached and interrogated ferals. The entire purpose of the tribunes was to enforce the law on the ferals, but Trumus’s swagger and the way he and his men marched around the fort reminded him of some kind of mafioso, which sent cautionary shivers down his spine.
But Jaryox's appointment to commander wasn’t just to undermine Trumus’s growing influence. The man was as good a fighter as any. He also had plenty of his own skills that could be shared and passed down to others.
None of this reassuring stopped Mark from grating his teeth, though. And he prayed that Jaryox would win some influence through the coming battle to offset Trumus.
In a perfect world, all of his tribunes would remain equal. It wasn’t that he was necessarily scared of them. But he had little doubt that ruling Fort Winterclaw would be easier if he remained the obvious number one. And ultimately, he wasn’t a barbarian but an outsider.
As he scanned the swaying group of ferals, his eyes settled on Trumus momentarily. He stood at the center of his little posse.
He’s certainly got a way about him. But it’s too early to tell if he’s actually going to be a problem.
Walking along the formation, he nodded at Jaryox and Henric and moved to the middle to address them. “Commanders, are your units ready?”
“Yes, sir!” Henric and Jaryox barked. The feral tribune still lacked Henric’s disciplined shout, but he was getting better.
“Alright, we march out,” Mark said, pulling himself atop a black horse and leading them through the narrow street of partially built cabins. Crowding along the alleys that led from it, the women and children gathered to cheer and wave their husbands and fathers off to battle.
All but four acolytes were recruited to fight. It was the bare minimum they needed to guard the walls. Mark could have spared extra, but he wanted as many of the young acolytes to experience a real battle as he could.
Of the four within the fort, Dober was left to rest and work in the warehouse. Callum and Elowen were on the walls. And Erin was still banned from carrying weapons at Henric’s request.
Henric had pleaded with Mark to keep Erin banned from weapons after a few acolytes came to him saying they feared for their safety around her. It was likely a play by Radic. The big boy often got his way; an aimed fist was often all it took. But Mark and the masters had enough on their plate as it was and decided to go along with it for now.
To free up manpower for the battle, Mark had ordered the two acolytes to remain on the inner wall and had the wives of the tribunes guard the outer wall. They weren’t armed with much—mostly rocks and hatchets, but it was just a backup measure. If any luck, the main battle with the heretic force would be over quickly, and a detachment could be sent back to the fort while they finished up.
Radic marched proudly alongside his fellow acolytes. For all the commotion Erin’s attack had caused, the boy had healed up nicely. The wound had been easy to clean and patch up. And with the help of Mira’s medicines, he had been walking for over a week now.
Marching two abreast through the snow, Mark kept an eye on their surroundings. The plan was relatively simple. Set up near their base and force them to attack. And even though most of the ferals carried bows from what they had seen, he was confident that between his lightning bolts and the acolyte’s crossbows, the enemy would choose to engage in a melee as soon as possible.
Mark and Henric planned to line up their forces so that the acolytes could fire off two volleys of bolts and then fall behind a row of spears held by the ferals. This meant horses wouldn’t play a part in the battle. Not that either side had the numbers for them to make much difference. The result was that the only two following the army on horseback were Mark and Mira. This way, Henric could command the acolytes at their side.
As they reached a snowy clearing not far from the cultist encampment, Mark brought them to a halt with a raised fist.
The mostly flat clearing of snow led straight to the cultist camp, with dense forest covering their flanks on both sides.
“Alright, prepare your forces, Commanders,” Mark shouted over the bustle of activity as he rode out in front.
“Good luck, Imperator,” Mira said as she caught his eyes and retreated behind the line of troops.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make your job easy today,” he called at her back as she galloped away.
It took several minutes for the small force to organize themselves, and both Henric and Jaryox nodded to Mark as their forces were readied into their rehearsed positions.
Mark glanced back at the readied row of crossbows and spears behind them and kicked his horse into a gallop.
Motes of smoke trailed up from the scattered camp as Mark rode toward it. Scanning the desolate war camp, he spotted only four raggedy guards moping about.
This place really went to shit, didn’t it?
They had killed quite a few cultists during the raids, and he knew their strength had taken a hit from it, but this seemed like too much.
Bodies had been left wrapped in cloth around the camp, blood soaking through. And the huts had their blown apart, and charcoal remains left untouched.
Only two horses, he counted. That wasn’t good. There should have been four, based on their last count. Maybe they fled… or went to try and recruit replacements for their dead.
Mark’s thoughts rushed through the possibilities as he pulled back on his reins.
His brow rose further when a couple of the cultist guards spotted him. They didn’t attack, call for reinforcements, or even warn their comrades. Instead, they just dove behind whatever fortifications they could find and cowered.
This isn’t right. What the hell is going on here?
Mark raised his hand to fire at the hiding cultists but curled it back into a fist and shook his head.
No, no, no, something’s up.
Pulling on his reins, he turned the horse back around and whipped them as he tapped his heels into its sides.
They’re up to something. Those men… they were waiting for us.
Fort Winterclaw!
His eyes widened as he drove his steed faster. They must have spotted their attack.
Mark realized he had let himself get caught up in his success. Most of the ferals that hadn’t yet moved either into the fort or to huts surrounding it probably still held allegiance to the heretics. It was only natural. They were the ones outside the walls, after all. And they probably had spotters all over the place.
We’ve narrowed our influence to a tiny area by containing ourselves to our walls. We need to expand. Become part of the wilderness… it’s the only way.
Murmurs sounded across the line of troops as they saw their Imperator running toward them, waving his hands above his head.
His eyes narrowed on the formation as he rounded the blocking line of trees that shielded it from the cultist camp and began waving an arm above his head.
The cultists raised their crossbows.
Wrong hand signal, idiots. They still needed more training.
“Go, go, prepare to march!” He shouted, but none could make out his words from here. “Pack up, we march!” he shouted again as he neared, and the acolytes lowered their crossbows with confused expressions twisting back to Henric.
“Imperator, what’s going on?” Henric pushed to the front of the line as Mark reached them.
“Gather everyone up now! We march for Fort Winterclaw immediately.”
“Imperator?”
“It’s a trick. They knew we were coming.”
“You heard him, we march now!” Henric swung back around to the acolytes.
“Get ye damn spears, ye all,” Jaryox barked, pushing the slowest ferals. “Come on, come on.”
Jumping back atop her horse, Mira whipped it toward Mark, “What’s going on?”
“The camp’s deserted.”
“Maybe they fled?”
Mark shook his head. “No chance. The guards knew I was coming,” Mark said with a crossed brow and shouted at his army to hurry up.
Bursting into a disorderly march, they did as they were commanded, and Mark rode up beside Henric.
“You think they’re going to attack the fort?”
Mark opened his mouth to reply, but his breath caught as they marched around a line of trees.
A fire climbed a section of the inner wall on the other side of the fort. It looked to be only a couple of yards wide, but it would quickly spread across the timber palisade.
“We have no time. Take the acolytes and secure the walls. And put that damn fire out!”
“Yes, sir,” Henric turned back. “Acolytes, with me.”
“Jaryox, we ride around,” Mark said, turning his gaze on the feral commander.
The two groups split, and he led the shielded and spear-wielding feral army along the outside of the wall toward the fire.
As they rounded the walls and spotted the fire. The cultists had built a literal fire beside the wall itself—which its flames were now climbing up.
Three bodies lay around the fire with bolts protruding from them, no doubt shot dead by the acolytes as they built the thing.
Mark looked up at the wall and spotted one of his acolytes running toward the fire. When they reached the fire, the acolyte threw a bucket of snow at it.
Good, focus on the fire. We can deal with this scum.
He turned to the forest. He could see them. Dozens of cultists jeered from beneath the trees as if they were chanting for the fire to grow quicker.
“Today, we teach those sick, child-thieving cultists a lesson. With me!” Mark waved the ferals to follow as he turned to the forest.
“You ‘eard him, move ye asses,” Jaryox shouted.
With his feral army at his back, Mark steadily marched toward their enemy, giving his troops time to reform their formation at his back.
“Burn,” he sneered at the taunting line of cultists as they approached, raising and pointing his palm at them.
Lightning crackled out, arcing a bluish light and bursting into a tree. It didn’t directly hit them, but the thunderous clap sent several flying backward. “Charge!” he roared, kicking his startled horse onward.
Arrows whizzed past as lightning burst free from his hand again, slamming into several cultists as they nocked their next volley. The blast was deafening, causing several cultists to duck and cower.
He fired again, and the horse bucked widely, sending Mark crashing down into the snow. But it didn’t affect the snaking beam of energy as it crashed into its target.
Spitting snow, Mark jumped back to his feet and shot again—and again—as his suit turned into a furnace.
The dizzying heat blurred his vision as he stumbled forward. “Stupid, annoying, scumbags!”
Ferals charged past him as he fell forward. The building spark in his hand fizzled as darkness enveloped and he fell face-first into the snow.
Comments
Rodmin
Had to immediately get the patreon, to immersed in the story!
Edgar Fig
If you've already caught up and noticed my blunder swapping between Tribune and Tribute, then sorry. All fixed now. They are tribunes.
