Condor's arms burned with pain. His chest plate weighed heavily, pressing down on him. The air felt elusive, as if refusing entry into his lungs, leaving him gasping. He gripped his left forearm, trying to stem the bleeding from a shallow wound. Staggering, he paused to regain composure, before casting his gaze over his shoulder, drawn to the moonlit expanse of the forest behind him. The full moon's radiance painted the scene with a sublime glow, its brilliance pushed back the encroaching darkness that would have otherwise swallowed the forest whole.
Grimacing, he wondered how badly he had messed up the intended plan, calculating the potential consequences of it. The plan was a slow withdrawal upon engagement, yet, the chaotic fighting had upended their intentions, propelling them forward instead. They had no other choice, the initial Imperial assault had shredded their cohesion, leaving them with no recourse but to counter with equal force, seizing the initiative to stem the relentless assault.
His mind wandered to thoughts of rest, sleep, and a warm bed, while the gentle voice of his wife's echoed deep within him. He never felt more homesick than he did now, prompting thoughts of retirement.
A concerned soldier made his way over to him. "Lead Sergeant, what's our course? Another wave and we might just break. Ah, shit, I just had to open my mouth. Look."
Condor swore, squinting ahead. Another Imperial formation approached, each man standing shoulder to shoulder clearly disciplined, like a moving wall. His brows furrowed as he strained to make out the finer details, the darkness and their considerable distance conspiring against him. Yet, even in the dim light, he noted the glint of steel. Each soldier bore what appeared to be a short spear, held high in slow procession. Oddly, their approach lacked urgency.
"Have you heard any words from Officer Raiden or Lady Fable?" Condor asked, his words hopeful.
"Nothing Serge. They still haven't returned, perhaps the others have made contact with them. Should I send a runner to ask?"
Condor released a weary sigh, desperately warding off the clutches of pessimism that threatened to consume him. "No need, we'd know when they return, Lady Fable especially. She isn't one for a subtle entrance. Where's Sergeant Gastrul?"
"1st Serge sent a runner saying he's leaving to patch a breach. Our right was getting pushed back faster than expected, progressing deep into the forest."
"Great, so our lines are all over the place. So much for an organized withdrawal, they really messed us up good aye? Alright, listen. Get the injured back to the 2nd line, we'll continue to hold this position for a little longer, can't run with our backs to them."
"Two stage withdrawal? Understood sir. But Serge, you're injured yourself. Please withdraw to the rear, have someone else take over."
Condor grinned, "I am an officer, the rules apply differently to us. Go, help guide our brethren to safety, I will not repeat myself again."
The soldier paused for a moment, clearly about to protest, but he quickly reined in his selfish desires. "Understood. Good luck Serge, by fate's grace," he saluted, though his unease was evident. His departure felt like an abandonment, leaving his comrades to battle on while he sought safety. It didn't take long for resolve to set in however, leaving in a brisk jog soon after.
Condor marched forth, dispirited, uncertain of survival. Clenching his forearm, he silently apologized to his wife. Death held no fear for him, it was the thought of abandoning her in this world that gnawed at his resolve. Accepting her advances, binding himself to her in union, these choices now weighed heavy with the potential to inflict harm. As a soldier, death in combat was a possibility he always anticipated. He should have retired from the service the moment he allowed her love to bloom in his heart. The day they pledged their vows remained a beacon of joy in his memory, a touchstone he summoned when the world grew harsh.
Yet, this very moment encapsulated why he had enlisted, it justified his entire time within it. His father had kindled within him a fierce commitment to protect, more than mere obligation, a calling. Devoid of lofty aspirations, his wishes were humble. Now enemies trample on his beloved heartland, the very soil that contained everything he had and loved. He had never felt more alive than he did now. If fate ordained his demise in this very place, he couldn't conceive of a more honorable grave.
"Men! Form ranks! Hold this position, we stand as a bulwark for our wounded brethren! Once we deal with the enemy, we'll join our own!"
Guiding two beleaguered soldiers to the fore, forming a line with the two tired men as the mark. As if on cue, others began to join in, gradually forming ranks without needing any further instructions from Condor. That was when the true realization of their substantial losses struck him, so many things were on his mind that he hadn't even had the chance to process the casualties yet. By process, he meant he hasn't accepted their deaths, hasn't reconciled with the fact. He knew so many, spent so much time with them just to lose it before he even noticed their absence. The lack of once-familiar faces created a stark contrast, casting a shadow over the diminished and disorganized ranks of men. The entire cohort consisted of light infantry, their spirits visibly crushed after repelling two ruthless Imperial waves that had exacted a staggering toll. Their resolve hung by a thread, threatening to unravel at any moment.
The 4th Forward Advance Group had a reputation for its quality soldiers. Despite this, the toll of the battle, coupled with bearing the full brunt of the skirmish assault, had pushed them to their limits. During the formation of the rearguard, the group had been divided into four units under Raid's orders, with Condor commanding one. This approach aimed to maximize coverage over as much area as possible, well aware that this action would significantly weaken the entire force as a whole. He turned to face the advancing enemy, bracing himself.
Eager tension gripped the air as they readied themselves, expecting an imminent charge. Yet, to their surprise, the Imperial forces advanced with a painstaking crawl, each movement deliberate as they inched closer. A disturbing unease settled in. They waited anxiously. Still the Imperial forces showed no indication of charging. As time passed, their unease grew, watching the Imperial formation advance ever slower, prompting doubts and raising questions. Was this a calculated ploy to narrow the gap before their attack? Perhaps it was a phalanx, or shield wall.
With patience, Condor awaited their approach, allowing them to draw near enough for him to discern details obscured by the shroud of darkness. As they closed the gap, the absence of shields caught his eye. A closer inspection revealed that their weapons weren't the expected spears, leaving him uncertain about their armament. Their strategy eluded him, casting doubt over the unfolding scene.
Something was coming. While they didn't know what it was, they prepared for the worst, they felt it in the air, in their guts, an unease fed from experience. But still, they couldn't quite prepare themselves for a volley of musket fire. They didn't even know what a musket was. They showed their fangs with swords and spears as the enemy suddenly halted their advance. Condor heard a shout, followed by multiple sharp cracks.
A whizzing sound flew past him, then one of the men behind him fell to the ground, blood spilling from a gaping wound in his chest. Agonized screams filled the air as more individuals succumbed, while others remained immobilized by shock, grappling with the sudden and jarring turn of events. Complete confusion began to spread. They attempted to regain their footing, trying to retain their now splintering formation, but the musket fire was unrelenting. Condor was perplexed and confused. His instincts screamed at him to strike back, to counter this unseen threat that was decimating their ranks. To him, this was the only reasonable response, ingrained in training; he knew nothing else. Attack was the only course of action constantly reinforced throughout a soldier's career. It was why they had pushed instead of the planned slow withdrawal. In their eyes, aggression was the best defense, the most potent offense. As a senior NCO, Condor embodied this way of thinking.
"Fucking glory to the Rose! Charge!" Condor's thunderous cry rang out, his voice a rallying call that set the air ablaze as he led the charge.
Soon, madness slowly filled them as they charged. Rage consumed them, and they gradually forgot all pain. Adrenaline pumped through their veins. Condor's rage grew into fury as he saw the musket men beginning to fall back. He pushed harder, urging the men to run faster as they all let out a battle cry.
As the musket men fell back, a fresh line of soldiers emerged, moonlight casting a sheen upon their silver armor. As the gap between the two forces narrowed, the glint of their iron-clad bodies came into view. A chilling chuckle escaped Condor's lips, realizing the suicidal situation they had gotten themselves into. A comrade swiftly caught up to him, sharing a brief glance of acknowledgment. What met Condor's gaze was a contorted smile, a particularly ugly one that seemed on the verge of spiraling into hysteria. Madness appeared to have sunk its teeth into this companion as well.
"Greet the dogs!"
Both sides smashed into one another. Their initial charge had given them an edge, but the Imperial heavies rallied, reclaiming their ground with calculated strikes that cut through the Kin's ranks with ease.
Battle High. An unusual, rare and yet unexplained phenomenon witnessed in combat when a group of soldiers go wild, often accompanied by a boost in morale. However, the problem lies in the fact that coordination and effectiveness are often replaced by aggressive, suicidal assaults akin to a horde of starved animals. Unfortunately, their physical abilities do not improve apart from the dulling of pain. The few deeply affected by this in extreme cases are often called Berserkers. Presently, Condor and his men succumbed to this frenzied state, yet it proved to be an ineffective aid to his cause.
His comrades fell like wheat in harvest, cut down in merciless succession. Even he, with his body's condition, struggled against them. His every strike felt feeble, and his body moved sluggishly. Yet surrender and retreat were notions that never crossed his mind. A shared grit that coursed through his brethren, binding them together in an unspoken pact of defiance. His veins pulsed with a mix of thrill and anticipation, the dance of combat fueling his very being.
The sound of metal against metal reverberated. His keen eyes caught sight of two figures locked in a private duel at the distant edge of his perception. Bloodied and bruised, the two fought like beasts, bashing and swinging thoughtlessly. Both sides were resolute in their pursuit of victory, their eyes reflecting fury and adrenaline. Neither side yielded an inch, until the Imperial heavy forced the Kin’s man to the ground, crushing his head beneath his weight in a massive step. With a triumphant yell, he proclaimed his victory to the indifferent masses amidst their own battles, until he too succumbed to a spear that struck the gap between his gorget and full helm, falling in defeat.
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Orbs of resplendent golden light materialized in the night sky. Initially, there were just one or two, then they multiplied rapidly, increasing by the dozens in mere moments. Gradually, both sides slowly ceased their fighting, their swords lowering and anger fading as a growing number among them turned their attention skyward. The orbs, each the size of a coin, hovered a hundred meters above them. They found themselves observing what appeared to be the very birth of stars.
Yet, instead of awe, the faces of those below were etched with terror. The sudden emergence of these radiant, star-like spheres played into their deepest fears, overriding their previous animosity so abruptly that they found themselves momentarily united in apprehension. Those who had tried so desperately to kill one another now stood side by side. Even the frenzied Kin's men rapidly regained their senses.
Condor contemplated the allegiance of these orbs. Were they the result of magic that he heard so much about? It can't be aura can it? But he had never seen or heard of aura being used in such a way. Which means, it must be magic. Was this how he died? Killed by an Imperial mage. Yet, unlike the others he wasn't filled with dread, but awe instead. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. So much so that he even pitied those who were absent from this moment.
"They say death itself is actually a fair maid," he whispered to himself. Beauty is often accompanied by death as the tales go.
As the battlefield finally fell into complete silence, it lasted only for a fleeting instant. Soon after, the orbs descended with alarming speed, homing in on the Imperial soldiers. Each orb targeted a man, effortlessly piercing through them. Some orbs shattered into smaller fragments just before impact, tearing through the soldiers and reducing them to pieces. In a matter of moments, hundreds perished. Condor stood frozen, completely speechless, his mind struggling to comprehend the scene that unfolded before him. His mouth hung agape, mirroring the disbelief that had etched itself onto the faces of his men.
The retreat horn blared. Imperial officers shouted, struggling to maintain order as Imperial soldiers scrambled in panic. Condor and his men didn't erupt in cheers or celebration upon their enemies flight. They remained frozen in shock, still grappling with the surreal sight they had just witnessed. Even after the danger had passed and victory was apparent, their expressions remained devoid of emotion. Weariness, exhaustion, and a sense of defeat were displayed on their features. Despite the triumph, it lacked any sense of accomplishment. Wounded soldiers began to stagger away, clutching their injuries, while the more severely injured were gently carried off the field. A haunting quiet now settled over, intermittently punctuated only by the strained breaths and agonized moans of the wounded.
"Excuse me, you are Lead Sergeant Condor of the 4th Forward Advance Group, yes?" said an unfamiliar, feminine voice from behind him.
With deliberate sluggishness, Condor turned, immediately struck by a pair of warm blue eyes tinged with hazel. They belonged to a woman whose light brown hair fell gracefully just below her shoulders, and a faint scar across her left cheek. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, possessing a fair complexion that made her quite pleasant to look at. Standing closely behind her was a man, who stood almost like a guard. In contrast to her appeal, he was the exact opposite of eye-candy. He appeared to be in his late thirties, sporting a standard military haircut, a close-cropped crown with faded edges, often referred to as the high and tight. His brown eyes, a hue far more familiar to Condor compared to the woman's striking blue gaze, were accompanied by a seemingly perpetual frown. Leaving the impression that he managed no more than two distinct facial expressions a year, at best.
What caught Condor's attention the most though, was their attire: leather armor without plates, duty belts, and embroidered emblems, the distinctive hallmarks of a knight's uniform within the Kundishelm. The woman openly displayed her identification tag, an act uncommon among knights who typically concealed them beneath their clothes. Even with the absence of her uniform, the mere presence of that tag alone would've been enough to reveal her identity.
The man on the other hand, seemed to be missing such a key piece. Yet, it wasn't entirely implausible that he did carry one, perhaps so skillfully concealed beneath his attire that its presence eluded Condor's keen observation. So much so that even a glimpse of the chain that held it escaped him. Curiously, neither of them wore armbands indicating their rank and unit affiliations.
Aside from her rare blue eyes, a trait more commonly found further-most north, and their conspicuous lack of armbands, there was nothing particularly alarming about the duo. Condor felt an overwhelming sense of relief sweep over him, the appearance of these two unfamiliar knights signaled much-needed reinforcements. Their odds of not only maintaining their position but surviving as a whole had just improved significantly.
"Well? Are you Sergeant Condor or not?" she asked again, impatiently.
"Yes, that's me. Those golden lights earlier... was it you two?"
"It was me," she answered with a smile. "They were pretty weren't they? A shame night battles aren't considered orthodox, I didn't frighten you did I? The unit I helped a while ago had half of their men pass out from shock. I just can't grasp why my light show scares them so."
Condor smiled weakly, hearing clear sarcasm at the end of her sentence. Trying his best to not recall the massacre that had just transpired moments earlier. "I didn't know it was possible for aura to be used as such… I was told aura can't function outside of a user's body without a medium?"
"Oh? Seems like you know a thing or two. But sadly, that's wrong, it's possible, just difficult. What you were told is a common misconception."
"So it's possible for all knights to do this?" he asked with obvious concern. They were already frightening enough as they were. But if all of them could shot orbs of death everywhere then wouldn't hell itself descend?
"No," she answered bluntly. "It's difficult enough that most can spend their entire lives trying. An artform needs to be created specifically for its use also. Well… best leave it, you're clearly not an aura user, so there's no point getting into detail, and this isn't really the place for this either. A shame so many Imperials got away though, I'd have preferred using more explosive power."
"Why didn't you?" Condor asked promptly and without thought.
"Sergeant," she uttered, frowning. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but your men were intermingled with the Imperials. Do you know what happens to a man if one of my orbs explodes right next to them? He simply... vanishes, genuinely. Now that I think about it, I guess it's good I didn't do that. The smell afterwards is normally quite horrible, but let's pretend you didn't hear that. I don't want people to start thinking my sensitive nose is what decides their life and death."
Gondor audibly gulped, immediately regretting having asked the question as his mind involuntarily conjured the unsettling scene described.
"Anyhow. Apologies for the late arrival but we're here now. From now onwards, you'll see a constant influx of reinforcements over the next hour or so. If I were you, I'd be crying at the news, you look pretty battered."
"Could be worse, I could be dead. Now if I may Ma'am, who am I speaking to?" Condor inquired, a sudden wave of dizziness sweeping over him as the adrenaline gradually subsided. The pain that he had previously managed to overlook surged back, overwhelming him as he fought to stay on his feet. His left forearm, in particular, became an aggravating source of discomfort, the wound having worsened.
"Right, my apologies Sergeant. I completely forgot, how rude of me. I am Lead Sergeant Iris Rose Fae of the 76th Knights Squadron. This man beside me is Waylen, my retainer. I am here under direct orders from Vice-Captain Alice Rose Kolba-Kadalis, the appointed commander of this entire rearguard."
"So, a command structure has finally been established," said Condor, giving Waylen an obvious glare. Iris had just made a formal introduction, cultural norms dictated that one can't voluntarily omit their clan and last name. It meant Waylen was a foreigner, seeing as he lacked any clan name.
"Yes, and now we also have a new plan going forward, ordained by the vice-captain herself. We're digging in with a change in strategy, not here but deeper into the forest. It's now almost certain that we’ll need to hold for a few days at the very least, the army is retreating a lot slower than expected. I hope your men knows how to crawl Sergeant, we'll no longer be fighting orthodox."
"So… ambush tactics and elastic defense, that sort of thing?"
"Yes, something like that, but later. For now, please continue holding this position until further orders, more reinforcements will arrive shortly to provide assistance. My squadron is already engaged with the enemy, and hopefully this skirmish will end soon. However, I am here for an entirely different reason. Currently, I'm under two orders from the vice-captain. One of them requires me to find two individuals. Problem is, everyone I've asked has told me you're the most likely person to know where they are."
"And who are these two, individuals?"
"2nd Officer Raiden Anyi and Support Officer Nova Anyi Fable. Where are they?"
"I'm afraid I have no idea where they are."
Iris paused stiff for a moment, before letting out a short frustrated sigh, struggling to maintain her composure and suddenly breaking into a smile, her hands clenching into fists. "Say that again? I think I must've misheard you."
Condor paused in turn, feeling a sudden wave of nausea. He had seen the terrors of war and what knights were capable of. He was confident that little would faze him at this point. He had even survived two knight-like attacks on his unit. While true they were farriders, often and wrongfully considered the lesser equivalent of knights, it didn't lessen their brutality. It meant he had witnessed firsthand what they could do to a man.
But even with all that experience, it was Nova that had instilled a primal fear in him. A primal fear of knights, particularly female knights, a fact he'd never admit. He had only seen Nova fight once, and that was more than enough. Despite witnessing even worse horrors and cruelties. It was in that particular moment when he spotted Nova, if only briefly, casually punch a man so hard his head exploded. A moment he knew would leave an incurable mark on his soul. Now, with the sight of Iris clenching her fist in front of him, made him wish he could disappear into the void and cry.
"Lady Fae... Honestly, I don't know where they are."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"As I’m aware, I haven't seen or heard from either of them since the start of the skirmish."
Iris, now visibly losing it, asked, "Did they tell you anything before they left?"
"Officer Raiden said he was going to act as a shield and left. That's all I was told."
"Oh really?" Iris said, sounding as if she was on the verge of tears. "Are you telling me that… those two fuckwits, just up and left, ran out as shields in a skirmish, told you nothing else, and just… haven't returned?"
Meanwhile, Waylen, still stood as immovable as a stone, seemingly undisturbed by the unfolding situation. Unlike his master, he maintained a demeanor devoid of any expression except indifference. Iris, on the other hand, appeared as though she could spiral into an emotional breakdown at any moment. It wasn't the kind of breakdown that involved collapsing into a watery mess, sobbing about personal woes. Instead, it was the kind that could potentially engulf everyone in the immediate vicinity into a permanent medically induced coma called dead or very dead. As for Condor, the intense desire to simply melt away at that very moment, to disappear into the void, consumed him. His fear was palpable as he questioned the reliability of his own hearing. Did she just call both of his commanding officers fuckwits?
"Perhaps 1st Sergeant Gastrul might know something. I can send a runner to ask him," Condor said, now visibly nervous as he fought to maintain a stoic facade.
"No... I've already talked to him. That's how I found your location and identity," she said face-palming, fatigue seeped into her every word as she composed herself. "Well, then. Do you at least know the general direction or maybe the area they might be in? Even a guess would help."
"I have absolutely no idea. Neither are they the kind that stays in one place for long."
"You're kidding…"