"War. War never changes." That was a quote from a popular series of games I used to play, but as I stared at the scene before me, I felt like I could finally understand what it meant.
It was hell on Earth… or, well, hell brought to whatever world I'd found myself on.
The sound of screams echoed across the battlefield, the clanging and shattering of steel on steel, shouts and cries. A cacophony of suffering, the music to which a thousand men on this field danced.
This was war. Not the modern war I'd grown up imagining, the one with gunpowder and advanced technology, where you could kill a man with a drone from countless miles away.
No, this was a world of fantasy. One with spells, special skills, monsters, and magical tools. One where wars were fought with iron against iron, flesh against flesh. A true medieval melee.
And I would have to dive into that melee very shortly.
This wasn't my first time on the battlefield. Being conscripted from my life as a farmer at the age of eighteen in this body, I'd spent the mandatory one month of training before being thrown into battle.
On-the-job training was either how you got stronger or died, and it had been three months since I'd been conscripted. During that period I'd participated in three minor skirmishes against the current enemy nation we were fighting, the Libertoa Trade Federation.
Most of the conscripts from my batch were dead or sent away with debilitating wounds, their lives forever ruined, and now I'd been fully separated from the survivors. Transferred to a different battalion, and once more being thrust into a life-or-death battle.
"Ethaaaaan! Stop daydreaming, you lazy bastard!" A rough voice called out to me, shaking me from my thoughts. "Get ready to move! Earn that paycheck, you sorry sops!" Krantz, the man in charge of my squad, a stout man dressed in the standard garb of our military, screamed at me before shoving me aside with a rough hand and pushing a new recruit face-first into the dirt.
I looked at the men surrounding me. Young, scared men. Hell, they were hardly men at all, they were practically boys, some no older than sixteen. Their hands trembled on their spear shafts.
And yet, when the trumpet was blown by the company commander, all of us charged as one. There was no turning back. If you refused to die by an enemy's blade, you would find the blades of your comrades, or more likely, their boots, ending your life instead.
Sprinting down from the short hill we'd maneuvered behind, our armor rattling and our hearts thumping the beat of war, our time was fast approaching. The ground shook beneath hundreds of boots.
It took a minute before I could begin to make out the features of the enemy ahead of me, and with that realization, the men around me began to yell. To embolden themselves and instill fear in the enemy. Joining in, I too let out a yell, feeling my throat go raw.
"RAAAAAGHHHH!" We unleashed our war cry, gathering courage as we pointed our spears forward like a forest of steel. We were a company that had flanked the enemy army. Now we were to crush their morale and deal a hefty blow by striking from their flank.
That meant death.
The enemy spun to face us, their faces registering shock and fear. Most were caught off guard, but a couple of squad leaders had heard the trumpet of our charge and had begun rapidly organizing the men surrounding them, shouting orders and shoving soldiers into position. It wouldn't be enough.
"Kill 'em all!" one of my comrades yelled as the slaughter began.
Lifting my spear and adjusting my aim, I locked eyes with the first enemy in front of me. He was just a kid, maybe seventeen, his face pale beneath his helmet. I screamed as I roughly angled his shield aside and plunged my spearhead through his throat.
I didn't have time to pay attention to the boy I'd speared. Quickly twisting my weapon free, I tilted backward as a soldier attempted to deliver revenge for his fallen friend.
"YOUUUU!" he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, but was quickly silenced as one of my allies clobbered him over the head with a mace. His helmet dented inward with a crunch, and I saw his eye rupture from the sheer force.
Shifting focus, I let out a gasp as a soldier with a longsword attempted a thrust that would have skewered through my chest. Taking a couple of steps back, my boots slipping slightly on the blood-slicked grass, I collided with somebody behind me, but didn't have time to figure out who.
It was absolute chaos. Men screaming, dying, killing. But the swordsman in front of me had deemed me fit to die by his blade, his face twisted with determination.
Quickly changing my stance, I thrust my spear toward his throat, only to be predictably parried with a clang of metal on metal. Changing the trajectory of my spearhead mid-redirection, I instead settled for piercing through my enemy's chainmail-protected shoulder.
"Aaargh!"
He cried out in pain as my spearhead found purchase, punching through the links and into flesh. I quickly applied more pressure, twisting the blade. The man stumbled backward, his face contorting, before tripping over a corpse and going down hard. Yanking my weapon from his arm with both hands, I quickly thrust down into his throat and twisted.
The man gargled and began drowning in his own blood, his hands clawing weakly at the spear shaft. But I shook myself from staring in horror. Another soldier was filling the gap, and he wasn't keen to let me catch my breath or let me puke.
My hands were shaking. Sweat poured down my face.
Parrying the new soldier's spear thrust to the side, the impact jarring my arms, I noticed the fear in his eyes, his pale face. We'd gotten lucky that our enemies were poorly trained militia, just like me.
But that didn't mean I'd show him mercy. Stabbing downward, I aimed to pierce through his thigh, only to miss my thrust as he stumbled backward. I took the soldier's crude retaliation in the form of his spearhead scraping across my metal chest plate.
A loud screech of metal on metal scraped through my ear, making my teeth ache, but his spear found no purchase. Swatting his weapon aside with the shaft of my own spear, I aimed to reward him for the generous art he'd chiseled into my armor with three rapid thrusts.
The first two aimed at his left arm, he desperately dodged the first with a panicked jerk, but his unprotected wrist caught the second. The spearhead opened a gash that immediately began pumping blood. Then came the coup de grâce. Rushing forward while he clutched his wrist, I jammed my spearhead through his eye socket during his moment of weakness.
With a crunch that I felt vibrate up the spear shaft, I pierced into his skull. His body went rigid, then slack. The soldier dropped dead, my spear coming free as he fell.
Now sweat was pouring down my face, mixing with blood, whose, I didn't know. I was desperately trying to catch my breath, my chest heaving. Three kills in such a short time was a new record for me, not one I was particularly proud of either, but this was war.
I gasped for air as I stood over my third victim, my legs trembling from adrenaline. But an active battlefield was no place to rest. I lifted my head and surveyed the battles around me.
The enemy was beginning to rout. I couldn't see over the sea of soldiers, but less and less of the enemy force was fighting back. Instead, they focused on running, their formations breaking apart, while their comrades held the line and died with no reinforcements coming to save them.
A large explosion of flames bloomed over the ridgeline where our main force had been pushing from, the fireball mushrooming into the sky. With that realization, the enemy completely crumbled. Orders were shouted to retreat. Men threw down their weapons and fled.
Haha! I didn't even need to fight until I was about to pass out this time.
I thought with relief as I watched my comrades surge past, chasing down fleeing soldiers. A couple of men I knew from previous skirmishes patted me on the shoulder as they passed, their hands leaving bloody prints on my armor, and gave me nods for my survival.
With a grin, I knelt down, my knees popping, and began the practice that would soon start in earnest after the remainder of the enemy forces were either captured for ransom, killed, or had fled: looting.
It was grim. Disgusting. But necessary if you wanted a better chance of surviving the next battle. The more loot you could find, the better equipment you had, the more food you could eat, the more likely you were to have the strength to kill the enemy when you faced them.
At least... that's what all the veterans tell me, I thought with a wry smile before prying the longsword from my second dead opponent's hands. His fingers had already gone stiff, and I had to bend them back to free the grip. It was a thin blade, typical of the Libertoan Trade Federation we were at war with, but the quality looked decent, well-maintained edge, good balance. Far better to have a spare weapon than not.
I'd been making do with my trusty spear loaned to me from enlistment, and somehow it hadn't shattered yet. But I feared the day when it did, and I was left with nothing but my fists against an enemy soldier.
Fiddling with the leather straps for the man's scabbard, my fingers slick with blood making the work difficult, I pried it from his cooling corpse and began looping it around my hips. The leather was still warm.
Suddenly, a loud whistle echoed across the quieting battlefield, followed by the rapid beating of drums and the abridged version of the national anthem from a trumpeter. We'd officially won.
"OOOORAAAAH!!!" I heard the bellows of my comrades from around me and over the ridge, and I felt myself grin despite the corpse at my feet, even despite the revolting battlefield I was in.
Scavenging a little more, I picked up a steel vambrace for my right arm, better than the leather one I'd been making do with, a pair of lamellar gloves in good condition, only drenched in blood, and finally, a pouch with a couple of silver coins and a small bag of roasted nuts that clinked and rustled satisfyingly.
Nice!
I cheered internally while standing up, my back aching from crouching. Today I'd really gotten a haul. Almost made the near-death experience worth it.
Looking around, I noticed soldiers from my company picking through the remains, some arguing over particularly good pieces of armor, or beginning to haul wounded comrades off to wherever we were making base for the night. Medics moved through the field, checking bodies for signs of life.
Glancing around one last time, I picked up a decent-looking shield with a steel boss, only a few dents, still serviceable, strapped it to my back with a grunt of effort, then hurried off to join a squad of men carrying stretchers.
"Hey! Need another hand?" I called out, noticing that I actually knew three of the men. "Duran, Milo, and... what was it? Garrett, right?" I greeted them with a friendly smile, though my face felt stiff with dried blood. It was good to see comrades alive after a battle, even if I didn't know them that well.
"Yo! Ethan, yeah?" Milo waved me over with a thumbs-up, his other hand wrapped in a hasty bandage. "We could use another set of hands. Help us carry these poor bastards back to camp, yeah?" He gestured down to a pair of groaning men.
One had a nasty wound across his left arm, the muscle visible through the gash, while the other had taken a spear to the leg and then had the spear snap off, leaving the shaft still embedded in his thigh.
"Ouch," I said with a wince. "Of course I'll help. You get the legs and I get the arms?"
With a nod, our makeshift squad got to work and began hauling the men back over the ridge we'd charged from, where a series of tents were quickly being erected. The wounded groaned with every jostle, and one kept apologizing for being heavy.
"You're fine, brother," Duran muttered. "Just stay with us."
Getting our wounded settled into the medical tent, the air thick with the smell of blood and herbs, I stepped out when a loud call caught my attention.
"Rally up, Krantz squad! Rally up if you're still breathing!" My squad leader called out, his voice cutting through the general noise of camp, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The man was a bit of... no, he was totally an asshole.
A complete advocate of the war and desperate to gain achievements, he hurled our squad at any opportunity he could get, even midnight scouting missions, so long as it got his name listed somewhere for the company commander to see.
At least he fights on the frontline with the rest of us, I thought as I trudged toward his voice. A coward, Squad Leader Krantz certainly was not. Eager to die, on the other hand? I'd certainly say so.
With one more sigh, I wiped some of the blood off my face with my sleeve and trudged my way over to his loud voice. I lined up with straightened posture alongside the rest of my surviving squad, my boots squelching in the muddy ground.
Looks like we lost... Petyr and Aldric.
They were replacements, fresh-faced kids who'd barely known which end of the spear to hold. It was expected of them to die pretty quickly. But it still felt a little sobering to have a name and a face in your mind and now to understand that the person was dead. Gone. Just meat on a battlefield somewhere.
"Good work today, ladies," Krantz began as he paced up and down our line. There were five of us remaining in his squad now, down from seven this morning. "Because of Company Commander Ellart, we've made good ground today. With the routing of the Western Libertoa Division, we've helped clear the path north."
He gestured broadly toward the horizon, where smoke still rose from the battlefield.
North... are we really going to strike into the heartland of Libertoa?
I wondered while trying to remember the map I'd seen at one point back in basic training. It had been drawn on a chalkboard, smudged and incomplete.
I was a soldier in the Highserk Empire. One of four nations located in the Northern Archipelago, and our Empire was at war with the Libertoa Trade Federation. Why? I had no clue. Something about trade disputes, maybe? Territorial claims? But I did know that the further inland we pushed, the harder the fights would become. More soldiers, better equipped, and fighting for their homeland.
I'd heard that the Federation was mainly a nation of commerce, trading among the nations in the archipelago and making bank by selling their goods on the main continent. Whether that was true or completely made up was unknown to me, but the soldiers who'd claimed it were older men with campaign scars, if that meant anything.
"What that means for our company," Krantz continued, clasping his hands behind his back, "is we're going to continue skirting the western region of Libertoa, hitting key villages here and there, and generally causing chaos and mischief." His grin widened. "We leave at dawn, so get some rest."
He put his helmet back on with a metallic clunk before pausing and making a gesture like he'd just remembered something, snapping his fingers.
"Right, right. Ethan, Milo, and... Finnegan." He squinted at us. "You three are on watch duty. You know what to do. Any questions?"
I shook my head, more out of annoyance at the fact that I would have to do extra duty after all the work I'd already done today than for a lack of curiosity. My whole body ached. I just wanted to sleep.
But another member spoke up, shifting his weight.
"What's the word on our supply line, Squad Leader?" I think the man's name was Rolf, a soldier who'd taken to wearing a cloak like I did. We were the rare few in the army with such a preference.
"Our lines are looking great, actually!" Krantz said with apparent joy, spreading his arms. "Expect decent rations tonight. I've heard we caught the enemy supply division with their breeches down and bent over, so some wine being distributed might not be out of the ordinary." He wagged a finger at us. "Don't get too shitfaced though, we've got towns to burn tomorrow."
"Yes, Squad Leader," we all intoned in unison, our voices flat with exhaustion.
And with a nod and a satisfied smirk, Krantz was off, headed in the direction of what was likely where command was getting set up, his hand already moving to adjust his armor. He was probably going to brag about how he was instrumental in the routing of the enemy company, inflating his role with every retelling.
I watched him go, then looked down at my hands. Still shaking slightly. Still covered in blood that wasn't mine.
Just another day in the Highserk army.
—
Standing in the chilly darkness a little ways away from the main camp, I adjusted the hood of my cloak further over my helmet and pulled my gray scarf up to cover my face. Late-night guard duty sucked, and I fought not to fall asleep standing up, my eyelids heavy.
Glancing over at Finnegan, the squad member assigned to guard duty in this area with me, I noted with mild disdain that he clearly didn't have such apprehensions. His chin had dropped to his chest, and I could hear soft snoring.
Bastard. If you get chewed out or have your throat slit, that's on you.
I grumbled while deciding to snack on my bag of roasted nuts I'd looted earlier. Adjusting the hold on my spear and pushing it into my armpit, I reached for my pouch... but then froze.
Out of the corner of my eye, just as I had tilted my head down, I spotted a shadow creeping up behind Finnegan. Low to the ground. Deliberate.
You've gotta be fucking with me, right?
With a single deep breath, I snapped into action. Spinning around, I flicked my spear out into the darkness behind me and forced a figure to trip backward in surprise, his feet tangling.
"Enemy attack!" I screamed out, my voice cracking. Looking over at Finn, I saw him jolt awake, his head snapping up, only to catch a sword through the chest and be pushed to the ground with a wet thunk.
Fuck! There were survivors?!
Dashing toward the man I'd caught off-guard, I plunged my spear into his abdomen in a brutal fashion, the blade sinking deep. I didn't care to properly finish him off, just left the spear in the now-thrashing and screaming man, his hands clawing at the shaft.
He'd serve as my alarm for the rest of my comrades. Dropping my hand to the hilt of my new longsword, I drew it in an awkward motion, the blade catching slightly in the scabbard, just in time to raise it and roughly divert a vertical slash that had been aimed at my head.
Sparks flew and illuminated the enemy soldier before me for a fraction of a second, his face twisted with rage. Sliding my right boot back in the dirt, I aimed a slash at the man's wrist, only for him to use his vambrace to let the strike slide with a screech of metal and give him the opening to slam his boot into my chest plate.
"Oof!" I staggered backward, the impact driving the air from my lungs, but managed to catch myself and not fall, what would have surely resulted in a quick execution.
Instead, I recentered myself, my sword held in a white-knuckled grip, and went for a series of quick thrusts. It worked only in that it bought me time, forcing him to give ground... and that's all I had to do.
THWACK!
In the time it took for me to blink once, a massive arrow, half the size of me, pinned the soldier in front of me into the tree several feet back. The impact was so powerful it lifted him off his feet before slamming him into the trunk.
I could see the man reach for the shaft of the colossal projectile that had pinned him in place, his mouth working soundlessly, but he quickly lost strength and I watched his hands fall limp.
The thudding of several pairs of boots meant my reinforcements had arrived, soldiers pouring out from the camp with weapons drawn.
How lucky. All I had to do was lose a man and almost get gutted while snacking to be able to turn in a couple hours early.
I looked over at Finnegan, still very much dead, his eyes staring at nothing, and gave a small sigh that misted in the cold air.
I didn't know the man very well, only meeting him a couple weeks ago, but a comrade was a comrade.
Moving to retrieve my spear from the man I'd pinned, I noticed that he'd fainted from blood loss. There was still faint, labored breathing coming from his lungs, bubbles of blood forming at his lips.
Lifting my longsword, I plunged it into where his heart was, feeling the blade slide between ribs, praying that the man went peacefully in his unconsciousness, and that he didn't suffer much more.
War was disgusting.
—
And yet war was my life now.
A cool gust of wind blew through the valley, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. Continuing westward into the countryside of Libertoa, it had been two days since we routed their western division, and had since begun looting and burning villages as we came across them.
With little resistance from the townsfolk, who we let run away to spread word of our destruction as a distraction for our northern armies, we ran rampant through the towns. Smashing doors, taking what we wanted, torching what we left behind.
But eventually we began running into problems. We'd pushed rather far. Without letting our supply lines fully catch up with us, thanks to being a company of light infantry, we'd become forward scouts, and that meant we had to deal with any trouble that awaited the rest of the battalion.
The column was marching down a dirt road that cut through a wooded valley, trees thick on both sides casting long shadows, when the first arrow whistled past my ear.
"AMBUSH!" someone screamed, but the warning came too late.
A storm of arrows erupted from the tree line, shafts hissing through the air. Men cried out as projectiles found gaps in armor, punching through leather and chainmail with meaty thunks. A soldier three men ahead of me took an arrow through the throat and collapsed.
Then came the fire.
A crude fireball, more like a flaming glob than the refined spears our mages threw, arced out of the trees and slammed into the middle of our column. The explosion sent two men sprawling, their clothes catching fire as they screamed and rolled in the dirt before one of our mages doused them in water.
"SHIELDS UP! FORMATION!" Our platoon commander's voice cut through the chaos, bellowing orders that somehow carried over the din of screaming and combat.
I yanked my shield off my back, my fingers fumbling with the straps, and crouched behind it as another volley of arrows clattered against wood and steel. The impacts jarred my arm. Around me, soldiers were scrambling into defensive positions, the disciplined training kicking in despite the surprise.
"Cut 'em down!" a squad leader yelled out while throwing a spear of flames into the hills. The magical projectile screamed through the air, leaving a trail of embers, and detonated in the foliage with a CRACK that made my ears ring, followed by a man's agonized shriek.
More spells followed, fire, mostly, our mages returning fire with brutal efficiency. The tree line erupted in flame and smoke, branches cracking and popping, and I heard desperate screams from our attackers as they were forced out of cover or burned alive.
"FORWARD! INTO THEM!" The order came, and we surged as one, a wave of steel and fury.
Charging into the tree line with the rest of my comrades after the barrage of spells from our side softened them up, my beat-up chest plate, two sizes too large and probably Libertoan, rattled noisily with each step, and I hastily adjusted the seating of my helmet on my head, pushing it back from my eyes, just before we burst through the foliage and met our enemy for today.
They weren't soldiers. Not really.
Farmers with pitchforks and axes, their hands calloused from work, not war. Town guards in mismatched leather armor. A blacksmith still wearing his soot-stained apron, swinging a hammer with desperate fury. Maybe a handful of actual militia with proper spears and chainmail, but most were just... people. Angry, terrified people who'd had enough.
It seemed that not all of the villagers we'd simply let go with their lives were willing to accept the destruction of their homeland. And with little active response from the nation's military forces, we were dealing with guerrilla fighters.
"Kill the invaders!" they cried out, voices cracking with rage and fear. "FOR OUR HOMES!"
They threw themselves at us with the fury of the desperate, no formation, no coordination, just raw emotion.
A man in a torn tunic rushed me with a woodcutter's axe raised high, spittle flying from his mouth. I sidestepped, my boots sliding slightly on the leaf-covered ground, and drove my spear through his ribs, feeling the resistance as the blade punched through cloth and flesh. He gasped, eyes going wide with shock and pain, and I yanked the weapon free as he crumpled, hands clutching the wound.
Around me, the fight devolved into brutal close quarters. Steel rang against steel with sharp clangs, wood splintered with wet cracks, men screamed.
A Highserk soldier to my left cleaved a farmer in half with a halberd, the body falling in two pieces. Another took a pitchfork to the shoulder, the tines punching through his pauldron, before responding by gutting his attacker with a knife, his face twisted with pain and rage.
A grizzled man with a hunting bow managed to put an arrow through a soldier's eye before me and two other men charged him and impaled him with spears, our weapons crossing through his body.
Then a woman came at me with a butcher's cleaver, her face contorted in grief and fury, screaming incoherently until someone's sword decapitated her. Her head rolled, expression frozen.
Try as they might, these civilians weren't very combat effective.
On the other hand, we were trained. Highserkers fought as units, covering each other, working together with practiced efficiency. The guerrilla fighters were brave, maybe even righteous in their wrath, but bravery didn't stop a spear thrust or deflect a sword.
The skirmish was over in minutes.
In the end, I'd taken down four of the fighters, and like usual, the looting quickly began. But this time... I couldn't bring myself to join my comrades as they rifled through the dead.
There wasn't much to take from these people. We'd already stolen their homes, and it just felt wrong to take even more from them. It wasn't like I was doing too poorly either, I'd gotten a windfall a couple towns back. Being the first to break into the headman's house, I'd ransacked some good food and made out with a bag of silver coins and some dried potatoes.
After catching my breath, my chest still heaving, I looked around at the carnage. Bloodied bodies, dismembered limbs, and burning trees surrounded me. It was quite the gruesome scene.
I stood idle, wiping blood from my spear with a rag, watching a pair of our mages casually summon writhing globes of crystal blue water that they used to put out the burning trees.
With the hissing of the flames going out, steam rising into the air, I snapped free of my reverie and decided to be useful.
Trudging back to the road we'd been walking down before the ambush, my boots heavy, I found the nearest wounded Highserker and knelt beside him. I began applying first aid with hands that were steadier than I felt.
Taking strips of cloth from their packs or making use of my own supply, I made my wounded comrades press down on their wounds, applying pressure, and generally tried to slow their dying while our actual medics with both skills and magic made their rounds.
The soldiers screamed, groaned, and moaned. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, metallic and thick.
Surveying the area, it seemed we'd only lost maybe seven men in the ambush, and the rest were minor flesh wounds, arrows in arms, cuts from wild swings. Not too bad considering the enemy had time to set up and caught us off guard.
"Is this what we're going to be facing as we continue forward?" I heard Milo, a man from my squad, mutter as he approached me from behind, his footsteps crunching on debris. "A bunch of housewives with pots and pans trying to do our army in? I almost feel bad for the bastards... but it's not like they had to come back and fight us to the death."
I glanced back and saw that it seemed he was mostly talking to himself, his eyes distant, maybe trying to convince himself that we were in the right.
We weren't. We were torching the homes of these people. We were the invaders. Though I'd heard from a couple of squad leaders that Libertoa had started this mess by attacking our trading caravans first, I wasn't foolish enough to fall for such simple propaganda.
But in the end, what did it matter? I was a soldier, and a soldier had no right to veto the actions of the nation.
I turned back to the wounded man I was helping, pressing a bandage against his bleeding side, and said nothing.
—
Being relieved from duty for the day, I slunk off deeper into the camp and away from my squad, my body aching in a dozen places. I wasn't particularly close with any of the men there, and instead tended to wander about and mingle with other squads in the platoon.
"Ethan! Come and sit with us!" a loud voice shouted out, and I smiled as I approached the Squad of Destiny, warmth spreading through my chest at the familiar greeting.
Their squad leader wasn't actually called Destiny, it was just what they'd collectively named themselves after claiming they were chosen by destiny during a scouting mission when they stumbled into the middle of an enemy encampment, supposedly pissed in their pots of soup, and then lit the place on fire.
It sounded like a load of bullshit, but it certainly drew a laugh.
"Hey, Ethan. How many did you kill in the big battle?" a lanky soldier named Mattias asked while pulling me down by my shoulder and sitting me next to him as I found myself in a circle around their campfire. The flames crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows across their faces.
Quickly, I found a warm bowl of soup pressed into my hands, the heat seeping through my gloves.
"Ehh, I got four. A guy with this longsword," I patted the trusty blade in its scabbard with a dull thunk, "two spearmen, and some guy who tried to jump me after the battle." I muttered while focusing mostly on the soup, breathing in the steam.
It was actually good food for once. All the raiding of farmsteads meant we had a decent supply of potatoes, vegetables, and on rare occasions, meat. This batch had chunks of something that might have been horse.
"Woah, woah, woah! Little Ethan's growing up so quick!" Mattias joked while patting me on the head roughly, his hand heavy, and the rest of the eight-man squad all laughed at me.
I half-heartedly tried to dodge the patting, ducking my head. "I just got lucky. Most of them were poorly equipped militia. Only the swordsman was actually armored properly."
"Luck's part of it," the squad leader chimed in. His name was Viktor, a skilled mage specializing in water magic. He had always been kind to me in the few times I'd spoken with him, never treating me like just another rookie. "But you must have skill to capitalize on luck. Four kills is four kills, doesn't matter how they were dressed."
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise, my shoulders hunching, and focused on my soup.
"Hey, speaking of kills," Mattias leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice even though there was no real need for secrecy in camp, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. "You hear what we're hitting tomorrow?"
I looked up from my bowl. "Tomorrow? I thought we were resting for a few days, letting the supply lines catch up."
"Change of plans." Viktor grinned, though there wasn't much humor in it, more of a grimace. "Fort Reddrin. About half a day's march north of here."
My stomach dropped slightly, the warmth from the soup suddenly feeling cold. A fort. Not a village, not civilians in the woods, but an actual fortified position with soldiers.
"Fort Reddrin?" I repeated, trying to recall if I'd heard the name before. Nothing came to mind.
"Libertoan border fort," Mattias explained, gesturing with his spoon. "Controls one of the main roads into their interior. I've heard rumors that Command's been itching to take it, but we didn't have the numbers." He paused for effect, his grin widening. "Until now."
"A couple more battalions are converging on our position tonight," Viktor added, poking at the fire with a stick, sending sparks spiraling upward. "By dawn, we'll have close to two thousand men ready to storm the place."
Two thousand. I'd never been part of an assault that large. The flank attack from today had maybe two hundred of us, and that had felt massive. I couldn't even imagine working in concert with that many soldiers.
"That's... a lot of bodies," I said carefully, my throat suddenly dry.
"It's gonna be a proper siege," another soldier said, one of the quieter members of the squad whose name I hadn't caught yet. He had a scar across his cheek that pulled when he spoke. "Actually trained soldiers instead of farmers with pitchforks or poorly trained militia we've been tearing through recently."
"Yeah, but we've got mages and siege equipment coming with those battalions," Mattias said confidently, waving his hand dismissively. "Plus, the fort's not that big. Maybe three hundred defenders at most? We'll overwhelm them with numbers."
I nodded slowly, processing. Three hundred trained soldiers behind stone walls versus two thousand attackers. The math favored us, but storming fortifications was brutal work. I didn't need actual experience to tell me that, it was simple logic. Men would die on ladders, at gates, crushed in chokepoints.
"You worried?" Viktor asked with a grin as he studied my face, his eyes sharp despite the casual tone.
"Wouldn't be human if I wasn't," I muttered, meeting his gaze. "Attacking a fort sounds like a whole different thing compared to skirmishing in a field."
"True enough." Mattias clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to make me rock forward. "But hey, you've survived this long. Just stick with the veterans, keep your head down during the initial assault, and loot the good stuff after we break through."
Mattias said it with supreme confidence and a calm smile that helped ease my worries, his certainty was infectious. Four battalions was an insane amount of men. Surely we couldn't lose with those numbers.
"When do we get the official briefing?" I asked, taking another spoonful of soup.
"Company and platoon commanders are meeting with battalion command right now," Viktor said, still poking at the fire. "I expect us squad leaders to get briefed in an hour or two. You'll hear about it from Krantz after that, probably with extra shouting."
A few of the squad members chuckled at that.
I nodded and returned to my soup, though my appetite had diminished somewhat. Around me, the Squad of Destiny continued their banter, moving on to other topics, who had the best loot from today's skirmish, speculation about whether the fort had a decent wine cellar, crude jokes about Libertoan women that made some of them snort into their drinks.
I half-listened, my mind already turning toward tomorrow. Fort Reddrin. My second major battle, and this time against actual soldiers in a defensive position.
The fire crackled. Someone laughed at a joke I'd missed. The soup had gone lukewarm in my hands.
What a drag.