“If you encounter a battle mage, you’d better pray for your salvation. They’re more dangerous than anything you’ll likely ever know. I’ve seen them fry battalions in heavy armor, a single bolt, and they all lay on the ground, smoking and sizzling. I’ve seen hails of arrows blown away with wind’s like a tempest. Elite warriors turned to stone in an instant. Granted, an arrow to the neck will take them all the same. The real problem is that arrow is probably going to cost you. Is your life a fair trade for the death of a single man?”
* A lecture from a veteran soldier overheard before the battle of Rykard’s Ridge.
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The next day saw us get our first bath. I say that with a not small amount of sarcasm. It was less a bath and more of a clothed wade into the freezing river that ran through the training camp.
We were briskly hurried in, in a line, as per usual, where we were told to walk out in a loop before coming out of the water onto the bank a few feet to the side of where we first entered.
The cold water was a shock to my system. The days had been fairly balmy, so the sudden influx of something that wasn’t heat was an unpleasant surprise. The shocked gasps of the people in front and to the rear of me indicated that their bodies felt a similar sense of betrayal at the icy plunge.
I hadn’t realized how bad we smelled until I emerged from the river to find a scent that I had grown accustomed to greatly diminished. We hadn’t used soap or any such cleaning measure, so I’m sure we still smelled worse than I thought, but it was a marked improvement from our previous state.
I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised. Exercising in the same thick clothing every day would have been considered extremely nasty back on earth. I suppose here the standards of hygiene were lower.
I wondered if there was cleaning or sanitation magic, or anything of the sort. Did people learn magic to remove dirt or dust, like some sort of super mage? Were spells even a thing? So far, all I had really seen was enhanced physical stats, golems, magical fire, and what seemed to be analogous to a skill.
If people could do these things, why wouldn’t they be able to cast spells? I’d never seen it happen, so I shouldn’t be too quick to judge, but it seems like something that would be reasonable, given the setting. Perhaps I shouldn’t get my hopes up too soon, though. This place operated off of strange and incomprehensible rules.
We were once again brought to an unfamiliar place. This time, it was a large open field, the trees cleared for nearly 200 meters. On the opposite side of us was another group of trainees, already raptly paying attention to the instructor in front of them.
We were too far away to make out what was being said, but I figured we would soon be clued in on what was going on. With a roll of his neck, Harker stepped forwards, the broad man finally ready to clue us in on what exactly we were doing.
“So far, when you’ve been practicing, it’s been by yourself, or against an opponent. That was so you maggots would learn how not to drop your spears at the slightest hint of a challenge. Now, you’ll be doing something that might actually keep you alive. Formation fighting”.
He paused, surveying us. He let the silence soak in for a moment, before continuing.
“The spear is considered the king of weapons. Do you know why?”
The man standing next to me started opening his mouth to answer what was obviously a rhetorical question. I lightly hit his arm with the back of my hand, shaking my head when he turned to look at me. That was enough to remind him what was going on.
“The spear is considered the king of weapons for a few reasons. First; it’s cheap. We can afford to make 3x as many spears for you peasant bastards as we could swords, and when your body is eventually lost on the battlefield somewhere, we won’t be down a valuable weapon”.
He was walking, now, around the outer side of us, looking into our faces, as if daring us to make eye contact back.
“Second, they’re easy to use. Just stand in a line, hold them out, and occasionally let out a half-assed stab and congratulations, you have a formation that would pressure an army of highly trained swordsmen. Of course, you’d lose, but if someone halfway competent was in your place, well, it’d be a force to be reckoned with.”
He was back in front of us again, standing still once more.
“So, you’ll be lining up in a formation, 10 wide, as deep as you can make it. The first two rows will have spears forwards, the third will have them up until they are the second row. If you get marked with a hit that feels lethal feel free to walk off of the field or curl up on the ground in pain. Any questions?”
There were, unsurprisingly, no questions. We all made into rows. There were technically 5 of them, but the final one wasn’t full, only containing about 6 people instead of the expected 10.
I was back in the third row. It was uncomfortably crammed. We were packed in like sardines. I’m sure it was optimal for a spear wall, but I sure hoped I wouldn’t have to march like this. I don’t think I could survive in the press for longer than an hour.
We quickly were taught the basics of formation fighting. How to hold our spears for maximum weapons pointing at the battlefield at once. How to move forwards if the person ahead of us was taken out. How to brace ourselves against an enemy charge.
The instruction, was, unfortunately, extremely basic. In fact, it was nothing more than the bare minimum. Each concept was given a brief verbal explanation, before we were given a few minutes to clumsily run it through with minimal help from Harker.
Soon enough, we were out of time. It seemed like the other trainee company had been waiting for us, as they were standing in formation on the other end of the field, spears at the ready.
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Where we had unsteady lines, they had tight, orderly columns and rows. In fact, their organization was nearly perfect. Had they been here longer than us? I hadn’t seen anyone else when we were being marched into camp, although even had they joined us at a time that was technically “the same” they may have had a day or two’s difference, or at least a few hour’s worth.
Looking them over, they looked very similar to us. They had the same worn and faded uniforms, although theirs were even dirtier than ours. They looked serious. Focused. A far cry from our mess of nervous, hopeless, or angry faces.
Soon enough, we had marched close enough that we were nearly face to face with them, with only 100 or so feet separating us.
We were told to hold. Harker stood off to one side, nearby the other companies' trainer, arms crossed over his chest.
Soon enough, we were given the order to engage. My heart pounded in my chest. I wouldn’t normally have been nervous for something like this, but it almost seemed like some level of injury was expected. On our other side, there were a number of attendants, including at least one with what looked to be a medical symbol on their arms.
Thoughts of what would happen if I were to be knocked onto the ground flashed through my head. I had seen videos, back on Earth, of what happened to people caught in crushed, or who had been trampled. It was never pretty.
I didn’t get much more time to dwell on my thoughts, because we had been given the signal to go. With a disorganized lurch, we set off towards the enemy team, unsteadily approximating a march.
We held well until about 20 feet before contact. There, some of our front lines made the brilliant decision to break off and charge straight at the waiting spear lines. A series of painful sounding grunts later, and then they were walking off of the battlefield, heads held down in shame.
It left our lines disorganized. Although only about three people had broken off, it meant we had to shuffle some of our second row forwards, far before they were ready. This shift slowed us down, and allowed the other team to close in on us while we were still disorganized.
The only thing that saved us from being completely decimated was a series of shouts from people in the front row warning us on what was to come. Thanks to that, most of us were able to get our spears into position on time.
They hit us, sending many staggering. One person dropped to the ground, writhing in pain and holding their stomach. They were immediately swallowed by a swarm of feet.
Our first line was starting to go down. The limited mobility of formation fighting and the skill and ferocity of the unit that was coming down on us was surely overwhelming them. Soon enough, we had only 3 or 4 people on the front line, forcing the second to advance. Someone finally took down one of our opponents, but it did nothing to stem the tide of bodies falling on our side.
I was now in the second row, being jostled and jarred around. My spear was lowered over the should of the person in front of me. It nearly lept out of my hand, the shaft bending under the pressure suddenly placed on the tip. Somebody in the other company had rammed into it, their torso pressing directly against the tip.
I grasped hard, as hard as I could, knuckles turning white as I fought to keep my grip on my weapon. Eventually, with a hard shove, the man attempting to impale himself on the dull wooden tip of my weapon dropped to the ground, perhaps finally realizing that he had taken a fatal wound.
The lack of pressure allowed me to adjust my grip. I was soon confronted not with more bodies, but instead the weapons of our enemies. I had to bat their spears out of line, trying to create openings for our front to strike.
The rate at which we were falling was decreasing, but it was still high. It seemed that every ten seconds or so we lost someone, causing a constant stream of bodies moving towards the front.
Our line was only two men deep at one point. Luckily, the enemy didn’t seem to be capitalizing on this, or we could have had a problem. It didn’t look like the people on the outside of them were interested or even aware that they should be looking to shift inwards to try and preserve the integrity of our spear wall. Perhaps our opponents were not quite as experienced as they seemed.
My attempts to defend or create an opening were unsuccessful, and soon enough It was my turn to step up to the front line. Stumbling on a body on the ground, I nearly lost my balance entirely. Luckily, I was able to save myself, but not before taking a stinging blow to the left arm that rendered it almost unusable.
I tried to fend off a flurry of attacks from the man across from me, but it was a loosing game. He wasn’t quite a Rogier, but it didn’t matter. I was down and arm, and he was more skilled than me regardless.
A blow to the shin made by bend over, and completely miss the blow to my stomach. I didn’t miss the pain, though. That part sent me reeling towards the ground, making my best poisoned bug impression.
I didn’t really get much of the battle after that point on. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself and trying to avoid getting kicked in the head (at which I was mostly successful).
I did catch a glimpse of Rogier, standing tall, one of the last few people on our side, whirling around and fending off what seemed like a dozen people all at once. But even he couldn’t hold out forever. It started off with a strike that got a little too close. Then they started to graze. Then one connected, hitting his arm, slowing him down. After that, more connected. He soon fell under the barrage of spears, all the same as the rest of us.
It took me a few more minutes to get back to my feet. Looking around, It was a disheartening sight. I knew that we hadn’t won. I knew going into this that we wouldn’t be winning. But the level at which we were crushed was simply disheartening. They had a few more in their company than we did. But that didn’t account for the massive difference in those still standing tall, and those sitting off to the side.
As the instructors proclaimed the victors, and went about offering them a brief congratulation, I counted their number that were sitting out. 16. We had only taken out 16 of them. Less than half of their number.
Was the difference between us really that pronounced? How long had they been here?
We split off, back into our original groups. Our walk of shame was marked by scuffing boots, lowered heads, and a lot of limping. I was certainly in the limping category. Sonnava bitch had gotten me good in the shin.
I had the feeling we were in for another lecture, later. No matter how new we were, a performance like that against another squad in training seemed like the sort of thing that got you reamed. Harker didn’t exactly strike me as the forgiving type.
We quickly found out that he wasn’t. Instead of leading us back to camp, he brought us to the training grounds. Lining us up, he was able to scream out at least one mistake for each person in the line. Honestly, it was impressive.
I knew that he got a bird's eye view, but the level of detail and the amount of things he seemingly remembered was almost mind-boggling. Someone placing their feet wrong, and thus being more easily shoved, causing them to get moved out of formation. Someone not taking a clear opening, and then being dispatched a few seconds later without doing anything.
The details went on and on. I was unsure of how many things he was making up, just to fuck with us, and how much was true. I got criticized for failing to properly support the person in front of me. Even Rogier got criticized, although it was with far less intensity than the rest of us.
It took nearly an hour before we were free to leave, although more running was “promised” later. I wandered over to the mess clearing. Dinner was the same as normal. It tasted unusually good, but I think I was just really hungry.
The people I normally sat with were nowhere to be found. At least, that’s what I thought, until I spotted Ryan walking over into the bush. Curious, I followed him. I found Jerald as well, standing over Rogier, who was crouched over his spear, doing something to it.
After a few seconds, he noticed our approach, pausing from whatever he was doing to look up at us. He had a rock in his hand, a flat sort of one, almost with a point edge. There were wood carvings on the ground.
“I have a plan”.