“Don’t believe anyone who says that willpower and patriotism can allow people to fight well past their capabilities. That sort of shit makes for pretty passages in the history books, especially when they made for glorious last stands of miraculous victories, sure. However, for every one such passage, there are ninety-nine forgotten ones where neither willpower nor patriotism resulted in anything other than getting people killed needlessly.
All because they’re too stubborn to accept defeat and give up.” - Xi-Ba Qin, famed general from the last days of the Huan Confederacy, circa 280 VA.
“Everyone go for your designated zones! Loose at will!” yelled Branka while standing on the sturdy branch of a massive poplar tree a couple hundred meters away from the road. While normally she would be quite exposed on top of the massive tree that jutted out from the forest’s canopy, her skin’s natural brownish-green coloration blended well with the tree, while her vibrant reddish hair blended with the remaining few leaves that remained on the branches.
Her voice echoed clearly in the silent morning, to the point that the Podovniy soldiers marching on the road could hear her. They were in no position to react however, as moments after her yell sounded a hailstorm of arrows flew from within the forest into their ranks. Some archers within the Podovniy formation attempted to shoot back, but with their enemies inside the forest, it was difficult for them to even spot any targets, much less shoot accurately at them.
Screams of agony sounded out as arrows found flesh. Many of the arrows from the less-trained volunteers from Levain bounced off the armor worn by the Podovniy soldiers, or if they penetrated, didn’t do that much damage. However, the arrows loosed by the archers from the Free Lances and the more experienced volunteers found flesh more often than not. Given how the soldiers were mostly armored around their torsos, said flesh usually meant they found arrows sprouting out of their faces all of a sudden.
Branka and the few orcish archers amongst the bunch could care less about said armor though.
The hefty arrows they shot – each easily as thick around as an adult human’s finger – pierced through multiple soldiers at the same time, usually only stopping in the body of its third or fourth victim. To make things worse, they were using broad-headed flesh cutter arrowheads to cause larger wounds, since the armor the soldiers wore were mostly gambesons with some chainmail here and there for the wealthier ones who could afford it.
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Not even mild steel plate armor could withstand a bodkin arrow fired from an orcish heavy greatbow at five hundred paces.
As soon as some of the Podovniy commanders managed to regain the presence of mind to gather some soldiers to retaliate, however, they were stymied and frustrated as Branka sounded a horn and signaled the retreat. By the time the Podovnian soldiers were prepared to move, the mercenary and volunteer archers that tormented them were long gone.
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“Now! Hit them from the sides and scatter them!” commanded Alycea as the Podovnian soldiers – around a few hundred strong – went far enough into the forest that they reached a prepared ambush zone.
After a couple days of being pestered repeatedly by arrows from the archers, some of the Podovnian commanders arranged a response in the form of a quick strike team. Said team chased after the archers when they retreated, only to blunder straight into the waiting ambush forces anchored by Alycea’s, Alvaro’s, and Zyd’s platoons.
Alvaro’s Warforged showed their mettle by holding the center of the line and blocking the advance of the enemy strike force. Despite fighting in the forest, the Warforged showed their seamless coordination and discipline and held their ground without much trouble, which kept the enemy in place for the others to make their move on.
Zyd and Arne’s third strike platoon smashed into the left flank of the enemy force moments later, scattering the Podovnian soldiers before them. Alycea’s platoon followed through on the other flank at the same time, the youths of the platoon fighting with courage and skill that made the veterans proud. Alvaro’s platoon followed suit and pushed forward rather than stand their ground as the enemy formation unraveled into a messy and bloody rout before them.
Out of the Podovnian strike force, around a third escaped with their lives. Another third lost their lives under the blades of the mercenaries, while the rest went missing, probably met with unfortunate fate within the forest.
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Meanwhile, in the dead of the night, the small figures of goblins could barely be seen crawling carefully in the undergrowth of the forest as they approached the tense Podovniy camp. The encampment was well guarded, with sentries deployed in groups and working in shifts, which made infiltration and sabotage nearly impossible.
Still, having guards meant little when they were dealing with expert slingers who were confident enough to hit their target from five hundred paces away through a forest.
Egil chose his most talented slingers for the task, and that night, they hurled many clay urns into the enemy camp, which broke apart on impact and spread their contents to the surroundings. What most people didn’t know was that this time, the orbs weren’t filled with their usual nuisances like horrifying stenches or flammables, but something more insidious.
The goblins of the northern jungles had long discovered that there were some things that they found edible or even delectable that most other races often had difficulty enjoying, and even if they did, it often had ill effects on them. Based on that logic, Some of the alchemists from the tribes had since discovered ways to extract the essence of whatever it was that the other races found so unpalatable.
That odorless, colorless essence was what filled the clay urns that night, and by the next morning, their less than pleasant effects should start being noticeable. It was something the goblin tribes often used against human invaders, which worked fine since the majority of Podovniy’s troops were humans.