27 Tavorhel. The first day of the ninth month.
‘Keep blowing ‘em up! Don’t falter now!’ Wave after wave of energy blasts crashed into the ground, rocks flying in every direction as smoke billowed into the skies. Another few dozen Foresters collapsed onto the ground, their life force completely exhausted. Their arms were still outstretched forward, as if begging for just one more blast towards the enemy.
The land of Ivhor, Prentdor had been greatly altered since the beginning of the campaign. Craters were formed all across the landscape, some leading to a complete collapse of the ground and opening up an old mine or cave. The quarries and mines, abandoned for five years, were either repurposed into military outposts or blown up to avoid enemy passage. Extensive trench networks were dug across the rocky surface, the soldiers spending entire days hunched over, waiting for a single command to charge. In the far distance, the Irrenl Mountains overlooked the chaotic battlefield, silently observing the carnage below.
This was only a section of the battlefront across West Prentdor, the focus point of Trelven’s summer campaign. Beyond these wastelands was the backbone of Rhinn’s metal resource production. Iron, copper and silver were crucial to the Rhinish war effort and even society as a whole. The province of Prentdor produced nearly a third of all Rhinish metals every year. Even when it was battered year after year from Trelvenese attacks, Prentdor remained strong. When Trelven first attacked the region decades ago, the Rhinish cavalry easily repelled them on the open land. When they advanced more conservatively, Rhinish stone fortresses appeared everywhere, each manned with a few hundred men that could withstand an attack of thousands. When Rhinn counterattacked, the Trelvenese dug in and absorbed the cavalry charges with ease. Even with the Foresters and their magic, both sides hadn’t found a breakthrough in years.
It was said that nearly a third of Trelven’s military resources were spent here in this battlefront, sacrificing hundreds, if not thousands of soldiers for a few inches a day.
‘Charge!’ Thousands of Foresters and Trelvenese soldiers rose up from their trenches, raising their heavy shields as they braved the storm of arrows and energy blasts. Slowly they marched with their spears pointed forward, trampling over the corpses of their dead comrades. This was their third and final charge of the day, a last push before night engulfed the terrain.
Thok, thok, thok. Rhinish arrows landed on the shields, a few slipping through and puncturing the soldiers’ bodies. Several fell down, their comrades behind quickly taking their places. Their boots coldly stepped on the corpses, maintaining their strict formations as they continued marching forward. Behind them, many Foresters continued to fire their energy blasts, striking the enemy multiple times before they ran out of strength to continue their fight.
They were less than a few hundred steps away from the enemy positions now. The Rhinish stone fortresses, the bricks filled with small craters and burns, stood tall above their heads. Rocks rained from the top of the towers, crushing another few dozen soldiers. Arrows rained from various directions in greater numbers as the shield formations gradually shrunk, the Trelvenese ranks thinned.
‘Break formation!’ With the wave of a large red flag, visible from behind, the Foresters dropped their shields and charged while their Trelvenese counterparts began to retreat, linking up and forming a thick shield wall so as not to let the Foresters run back and flee, not that they’d ever done so. Behind, Trelvenese archers finally began to fire their arrows, puncturing deep into enemy formations to cause confusion. Waving their spears in a mad dash, the Foresters ran towards the green-eyed enemy, diving into Rhinish traps without hesitation. They had no other direction to go.
Only Foresters would engage in such a suicidal manner under orders.
It didn’t matter if the ‘Trelvenese’ Forester recognised the ‘Rhinish’ Forester before them. As long as they held a weapon and weren’t on the same side, they were the enemy. Foresters killed Foresters as the battle devolved into a state of chaos, the defending and attacking troops both firing projectiles at the messy melee, regardless of whether they were about to hit their allies or not.
The ground began to shake, the sound of hooves approaching quickly from a distance. Without warning, the Rhinish heavy cavalry crashed into the mess of Foresters, mercilessly running over the bodies of friends and foes, their lances ruthlessly killing any in their path. Unlike the Trelvenese, the Rhinish did not dig any ditches or trenches, maintaining a flat terrain for their cavalry to wreak havoc against the vulnerable Foresters. As the first charge was finished, the cavalry wheeled around for a second charge, again delivering many to their deaths before they retreated back to their headquarters.
Yet the ‘Trelvenese’ Foresters were still relatively organised. Both Trelvenese and Rhinish arrows struck their bodies. Hundreds fell and died, becoming obstacles for the tight melee. And still they maintained a strong fighting spirit, gradually pushing the enemy backwards.
‘Retreat!’ The green flag was raised. Finally relieved of their duties, the surviving Foresters ran back to their positions, diving into shallow ditches and trenches. The Trelvenese shield wall dispersed, the soldiers carrying the heavy shields on their back as the Rhinish continued to fire their arrows. Once the Trelvenese were far enough away, the Rhinish finally stopped firing, remaining in their positions as night began to fall on the battlefield.
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Torches and lit pyres filled the Trelvenese camp with light, the soldiers munching on their rations facing away from the burning of their comrades. In a corner of the camp, the Foresters slowly nibbled on their crackers, careful not to finish an entire night’s worth of food in one go.
Around a month since the summer campaign began, the casualty toll had surpassed ten thousand for Trelven, with Rhinn likely around a similar number. More than half of those were Foresters.
Injured Foresters groaned as they endured the pain inside hospital tents where medics tended their wounds. Just outside, a few squads were circled around a fire, keeping warm in the chilly Prentdor nights. Only a few of them spoke, and when they did, it was with hushed whispers, their voices not enough to even drown out the flickering of the flames.
Unlike the Trelvenese or Rhinish, there were many women in the Forester ranks, fighting on the front lines as well as firing energy blasts in support. They were mostly gathered in a corner of the camp, with a few groups taking shelter in the abandoned mines, away from the main group where they could have some sort of privacy.
‘Hey, Foresters!’ a loud voice boomed, interrupting the solace of the camp.
The Foresters all looked up to find a short Trelvenese soldier, in his hand a scroll. He was the usual messenger from the Trelvenese headquarters, the one who’d deliver all of the general’s commands before the next day’s battle.
‘Just like before, here is a message from General Amiel,’ he announced.
‘Ehem… Foresters, today was another eventful day. We have advanced further into Rhinish territory, the two closest stone fortresses ever nearing destruction. The three attacks today were executed to great effect, slaughtering many enemy troops. Your fallen comrades can rest well knowing how much they had contributed to the overall war effort in this campaign…’
It was the same as before. Empty praises in a poor effort to raise morale, hiding the exact numbers of those fallen so as not to cause panic among the ranks. The new strategy had killed off more Foresters from exhaustion than from battle itself. But naturally the general wouldn’t mention that.
There were then named Trelvenese soldiers who apparently achieved great things in the day’s battle and could earn a reward, resulting in a round of applause from the Foresters. Of course, none of them were named to be part of that reward.
‘... For tomorrow, the battle plan will be about the same. In a war of attrition, we are far superior to the Rhinish. While we have a strong logistical supply network, they only have long supply chains across the wastelands. Before the tenth month, we will break through their defence and finally capture Prentdor! Long live King Tavorhel! Long live Trelven!’
With the Foresters cheering as enthusiastically as they should, the messenger departed back to the headquarters, and soon, silence returned to the Forester camp.
The tenth month. Another month of blindly charging into enemy ranks. Of course, it wasn’t as if they could stage an ambush or anything given the relatively flat terrain and the blocked off mine passageways. There was practically no way to break the deadlock other than by force.
But surely the Trelvenese high command were more creative than this.
Some of the Foresters had been under Rhinish contract a few years ago. They remembered a certain cavalry commander who exuded confidence and youthful energy wherever he went. Even if he wasn’t exactly conservative with their lives, that commander fought with an energy the Foresters could only dream of. While the Foresters faced the enemy head on, the commander and his cavalry corps constantly moved around the enemy formations, bombarding them with arrows and chipping their numbers down until the enemy had to retreat for the day. When defeat seemed certain, the commander would quickly go between the ranks and encourage the troops, even leading them in battle, putting his body on the line.
Those were dangerous days, but at least those days the Foresters felt they were fighting with a purpose.
If only there was someone like that cavalry commander to lead them again. Those gruelling days where they’d clash with the enemy while watching the cavalry run free in the open plains were actually at least barely enjoyable. Even the sight of freedom was enough for them.
Not that they could say it out loud in fear of being executed under martial law. If the Trelvenese didn’t execute them, the Guild would.
Always a numerical minority in armies, the Foresters nevertheless often had the toughest jobs in battles. Fighting other Foresters at the vanguard, they had gotten used to killing their brethren for the sake of survival. Even if they defected, the consequences of disloyalty would be death. Every year, their numbers continued to dwindle with most of their population being recruited by the Guild and contracted to different armies around the continent. They had a birthplace but had no home. Some had siblings but no families. If they were lucky to retire after an injury, they spent the last few years of their lives wasting away in some village, raising up the children before those young individuals were recruited to be the next generation of mage warriors.
Some of the Foresters in the ranks sometimes dreamed of a Forester kingdom of some sort, maybe living in some far corner of the world beyond Trelvenese and Rhinish influence. That was basically impossible. Spread out everywhere, some Foresters even created subcultures within the region which they served in. Along with rotations every few years in another region or kingdom, organised by the Guild, the Foresters had no chance of creating a strong unified identity.
Still, they could dream.
They continued their meal, quietly waiting for the next day to come. Another day where a few of them would sacrifice their purposeless lives in the grand machinations of war.