Arcane Mercenaries: Insurrection, page 25
The start of the march was an exercise in frustration for the experienced commanders. Units grappled with finding their designated routes and adjusting to the transition from the comfortable confines of Ardwick Castle to field conditions. Grant's cavalry force was too small to cover their advances and couldn't screen the movements. Observant riders on their trail caught glimpses of dust clouds billowing up from the marching forces.
Dominick entrusted the command of the four thousand troops on the eastern route to Grant. This path, known locally as Waetling Road, was an ancient pathway steeped in history, a conduit for armies over centuries connecting distant cities. Despite its evolution from a dirt trail to a developed road, it clung to its original name from a civilization long forgotten.
By midday, they arrived at a crossroad that linked several villages while Waetling Road continued its stretch towards Coworth. The scouts' reports of a blockade ahead triggered the first ripple of unease in Grant and Ez. Crowding an army on the march was a textbook maneuver to set up an ambush, especially when the enemy held the advantage of numbers.
Upon approaching the source of the delay, Grant discovered Catrin's cart overturned, its axle shattered and wheels splayed to the side. The cart was never meant to travel along Waetling Road, the path closest to the Duke's forces, and certainly not in front of Grant’s column. Her escort got lost on the wrong road, but there was no time for regrets. The soldiers from Grant’s column attended to the wreckage, doing their best to make Catrin as comfortable as possible.
"Ez, get riders out to inform the next column of our delay. We must rally our forces here at Waetling Crossing while we fix the cart. Send word through our ranks for any past or present wheelwright."
"They're mobilizing, Grant," Ez's voice carried an undercurrent of restrained energy. Her hand found the familiar grip of her first musket resting across her saddle.
Grant spun in the direction she was facing. “How bad is it?”
“I can’t see them all.” She jumped out of the saddle and looked up and down Waetling Road.
Riders thundered away to request help. If Ardwick pressed them at the crossroads, help wouldn’t get to them in time.
Ez methodically loaded her primary musket before doing the same with her backup weapon.
Soldiers attacked a nearby tree with axes, attempting to hew a makeshift axle from its trunk. Shouts wouldn’t make the work go faster. The careful work required time - a commodity they were quickly running out of.
Grant felt they finally caught a break when a rider found a wheelwright near the front of their column and brought him forward to oversee the cart’s repairs. Under his expert guidance, the soldier’s efforts became more purposeful and less frantic.
Grant wasted no time deploying his forces along the road, positioning Waetling Crossing as the center point of his defensive lines. Heavy infantry hustled forward at Grant’s call and formed the bulwark of his hasty defense. Scouts and archers fanned out toward the flanks. A single company of mercenary musketeers integrated seamlessly with the central infantry units.
As the troops found their assigned positions, Grant nudged the center unit to advance into a shallow gully, the wooded hills providing natural barriers to their flanks. Archers scaled the nearby elevations, fortifying their defensive stance.
His immediate priority was getting Catrin’s wagon out of harm’s way. If reinforcements arrived, he could expand his defensive positions north or south and avoid encirclement. Grant had faith in Dominick’s archers, but losing his command like Lord Howard weighed on his spirits.
The nearby call of a bugle broke the tense silence. Grant quickly unsnapped his spyglass to inspect the impending threat. Ez's ominous prediction held. A vanguard of five hundred nimble cavalry mounted a low rise. It spearheaded the march of ten thousand heavily armored infantry, their polished armor gleaming under the afternoon sun, their arsenal of poleaxes and swords ready for battle.
Grant knew it wasn’t bad luck or a fickle fate that led to a massive force on Dominic’s flank. Treachery was the only answer - someone had divulged Dominick's planned route. The race for Waetling Crossing had a clear victor, and it wasn't Grant.
Ez gestured towards the figure commanding the formation, a nobleman astride a white horse armored in steel plates. Squires held his banners high, fluttering in the afternoon breeze, while more bugles echoed, orchestrating the formation as it shifted formation to orient toward’s Grant defensive lines.
Duke Arwick risked an afternoon assault to seize another victory. His troops were an imposing sight, their numbers dwarfing the scrambling rebels. Ez’s riders didn’t have enough time to reach the adjacent column. Reinforcements wouldn't arrive in time, and Grant faced a dwindling window to order a withdrawal.
He couldn’t retreat or race to the forest. The workers laboring on Catrin's cart required more time, and the opposing cavalry could decimate Grant's forces on the road.
The decision was made. It was time to stand their ground. It was time to fight.
46
CROSSING
“Think you can take out the duke from here?” Grant asked as he scanned the assembled host.
Ez scoffed at the notion. “I’d love to end the war for you and Dominick, but he’s a mile away and encased in a sea of his soldiers. I’ve got a musket designed for fifty-yard shots. Even with our powers and the world’s biggest dose of luck, the round would bounce off his armor.”
“So yes?” Grant joked, shifting his gaze toward the hilly trees and the hidden archers racing to finish their deployment. His infantry lines stood steady under the watchful eye of their leaders, but they were edgy at the sight of the expanding army deploying in front of them. Grant thanked himself for keeping an infantry battalion nearby as his reserve.
Ez hefted the musket onto her shoulder, her eye squinting down the forged steel barrel. A surge of her powers swept through the air, strong enough to make the hairs on Grant's arm bristle.
She let her weapon drop. “Not a chance.”
A voice from the rear called, "Where's Captain Gwydian?"
Pivoting on his horse, Grant forced himself to retrace his steps through the ranks. The last thing he wanted was for his men to see him seemingly retreat towards the rear lines, but he had to stay in command of his fragile defense.
"Over here, soldier," Grant called out.
The messenger rode to meet him, his hand idly patting his horse's flank. "Sir Roger de Mowbray sends his apologies."
Apologies? The word hung heavy in the air. Grant swallowed hard, fighting to keep his rising anger in check as he forced his clenched hands to relax on Hope's reins. "What apologies?"
"He finds himself unable to lend his support. He’d need to make a full turn with his forces to do so. He sends his warmest regards, and he wishes you good hunting.”
Grant unleashed a stream of expletives. These imbeciles were treating this as if it were a war game in an academic setting. Dominick was on the brink of sacrificing another hefty portion of his forces if Duke Ardwick pressed his attack against Grant’s inferior forces. Grant couldn’t maneuver away from the threat with the Mage of the Mists stranded in a stretcher on the side of Waetling Road.
"Find the prince," he commanded. "Inform him we're holding our ground until Catrin reaches the woods. This could be our final message.”
The rider repeated the message back to Grant, then wheeled his steed around. Hooves pounded against the earth, echoing as the horseman sped off. For a moment, Grant imagined he could glimpse the sanctuary offered by the wooded hills and the weaving trails from Waetling Crossing, but they would never make it.
The wheelwright and soldiers strained to maneuver the newly crafted axle next to the wagon. There was more swearing and lifting as the soldiers struggled to move the broken remains and fit the new axle.
“We can’t leave her,” Grant muttered to himself. Ez was the only one within earshot, and he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or her to stand and fight against the duke.
“Maybe she won’t yell at you so much,” Ez said, laying her primed musket across her saddle. “We should leave the horses here with the wagon team.”
Grant nodded and swung his leg over Hope’s back. Their bond ran deep, forged across too many battlefields, but he understood the safest place for his faithful steed was leading the exodus towards the forest. The imminent combat on the frontline promised to be ruthless, and any mounted officer would be a prime target for a hail of crossbow bolts and musket rounds.
The time had come to take their places on the line.
Grant and Ez forged a path through the dense infantry, cheers erupting around them as they transitioned from the rear to the forefront. Grant swept his hat through the air in defiance as he advanced. He spun around to face his troops, ignoring the ominous wave of enemies advancing.
The sight of their commander joining the frontline breathed courage into Dominick's troops. They were his this afternoon. Their leader was with them, standing shoulder to shoulder, sharing their trials and tribulations. Captain Grant Gwydian, the renowned leader of the Arcane Mercenaries, was a man who refused to leave his soldiers behind.
He could only hope that he might manage to save a few of them.
“Deploy the musketeers!" Grant's command pierced through the uproar of his front line.
His soldiers sprang into action, arranging themselves into three ranks. This technique could maintain a constant barrage of firepower but demanded considerable training. Few units could sustain the volley fire once the rounds began flying. Grant held onto the hope that these mercenaries were among the exceptional few.
"Archers ready!” The command resounded in a chorus of echoes along the tree-lined hills. From Grant's vantage point, the legendary archers of Dominick's forces were out of sight, their bows drawn and arrows nocked onto taut strings concealed by the dense foliage.
"Fifty yards.” Grant's voice was casual to the musketeer commander as if they were engaged in idle conversation over lunch. The surrounding soldiers seemed to draw confidence from their leader's apparent calmness in the face of the looming battle, his safety of no concern. "That cluster of shrubbery seems about right, wouldn't you agree?"
The musketeer commander laughed at the absurdity of their situation but nodded in agreement.
"I'm not waiting for fifty yards," Ez interjected, her cheeks glowing in a mischievous grin.
"Ez, you may fire at will.” Grant projected his voice, ensuring the soldiers nearby could hear. Their response was an enthusiastic cheer. Ez's reputation as a StarTouched sharpshooter was now firmly established within Dominick's army.
Her musket belched flames, sending the deadly projectile across three hundred yards. Grant wouldn’t have thought twice about her range or accuracy if she had been armed with her rifled muskets. Her smoothbore musket, now firing well beyond its effective range, required Grant's intervention to guide the shots to their intended targets.
The flight path of each round was impeccably flat as Grant lent his power to propel the projectiles across the expanse. The collapse of an enemy soldier punctuated each shot. Cheers rang out across the frontline infantry units with each minor victory.
She primarily targeted the officers and senior non-commissioned officers. Any who dared to assume command met a swift and fatal end.
The duke’s forces continued their grim march toward Grant’s lines.
The archers loosed their volley when the enemy was within two hundred yards. The yard-long arrows soared into the afternoon sky. They ripped through raised shields and armor at the end of their arcing flight.
The combined force of Ez's merciless gunfire and the archers' deadly rain unsettled some advancing units, but they continued their march against the prince's outnumbered forces. Each barrage, whether from musket or bow, took time to reload, and even Ez, as formidable as she was, could only eliminate them one at a time.
“Ready,” the musketeer commander's voice rang out. The first line dutifully dropped to one knee while the second line readied their muskets.
The gruesome toll of a hundred lives marked the relentless march of the duke's forces toward Grant’s line. The archers maintained their lethal assault. They abandoned the commands for volley fire and fired as quickly as they could lay arrows to their strings. Not a single shot went astray.
“Aim. Fire."
A billowing plume of white smoke momentarily obscured the first line of musketeers. The first rank of soldiers stepped back, transitioning behind the final line. They maneuvered their ramrods and ammunition bags with practiced maneuvers.
"Reload. Fire."
The next rank unleashed a devastating salvo into the advancing enemy ranks. Dozens fell.
"Reload. Fire."
The third line discharged into the approaching mass of soldiers. The projectiles, driven by the explosive power of gunpowder, rent through flesh and bone. Armor offered little protection, and arrows and crossbow bolts found their way into the weak spots and gaps.
Despite hundreds falling, thousands surged forward.
Grant's tactical selection of the battlefield paid off. As the duke's front line converged into the natural bottleneck, they were met head-on by Grant's tiered infantry defense. Waetling Crossing was a crucial junction surrounded by towering hills and near a stream. If the duke pressed his head-on assault, Grant stood a chance of living to nightfall.
The duke's forces halted twenty yards from Grant’s ready soldiers. Ardwick’s officers barked orders to ready their weapons. Grant's musketeers continued their relentless salvo, and Ez kept up her gunfire, her face now streaked with the residue of unburnt gunpowder. The archers began to conserve their dwindling ammunition, but the line held firm.
The enemy infantry unveiled heavy crossbows, their springs coiled and winches primed. Grant bellowed orders to focus on the crossbowmen, but his forces had depleted much of their ammunition in the initial assault. Grant called forth a surge of StarTouched energy as the duke's soldiers raised deadly crossbows.
He couldn’t deflect a thousand crossbow bolts loosed at such close range. He saved countless lives from certain death, but he couldn't shield them all. The toll began to mount among Dominick's ranks, and their lines wavered as the steel shafts claimed their targets.
The duke’s officers ordered their forces to reload and prepare to fire. Winches cranked back on the steel springs.
Grant didn't hesitate. Twenty yards could be the difference between maintaining their defensive position or facing a massacre. The duke would cut them down by the hundreds if they stood in place.
He hoisted his sword above his head, rallying his soldiers with a battle cry. Grant charged across the sixty feet as soldiers tried to crank the winches to their weapons. Those sixty feet felt like an eternity as the duke's forces took in the audacious spectacle of the StarTouched officer leading a headlong assault into their ranks.
Bursting into the center of the crossbowmen, Grant slashed and cut. Blood sprayed in every direction, transforming Grant into an avatar of death. Ez exhausted her gunpowder and joined the melee alongside Grant.
Dominick's forces rallied to his side, seeking the relative safety provided by Grant's gravity well. His powers ebbed and flowed, healing his wounds during battle. Grant shattered three swords in the brutal combat, but the battlefield was littered with abandoned weapons.
The duke's lines wavered and finally buckled. Commands to retreat echoed through the ranks, and the units shifted to a hasty withdrawal covered by the duke’s cavalry.
Grant committed his reserve an hour ago to plug the gap, and his infantry was too exhausted to challenge the riders. Empty quivers and spent powder casing meant their ranged efforts were done.
A thousand friendly soldiers lay strewn across the field, and countless more suffered from their wounds. The sky darkened to grey, and the armies took stock of their positions.
The stars bore silent witness to the standoff at Waetling Crossing. Infantry units from both sides stood up their watch a mere hundred yards apart. After hours of waiting, Grant finally received word that Catrin's wagon, its precious cargo secure, had been successfully repaired and was now safely hidden within the forest.
He gulped down water and bit into the hard tack distributed amongst the troops while the nocturnal creatures serenaded the night with their various songs. Grant's forces remained hushed, their minds grappling with the aftermath of the harrowing charge.
A thousand dead and wounded. That was the grim figure the commanders presented to Grant. Most of the injured would never wield a sword again. Their days of fighting for the Bastard Prince were decisively over.
Nightfall swept across the sky, chasing away the lingering reds and oranges of the day. The enemy soldiers kindled fires for visibility and warmth. The number of fires was a chilling testament to the strength of their surviving forces. They would undoubtedly return come morning, seeking retribution for their fallen. Grant knew his troops were cut off from resupply, and there was no guarantee that Dominick would send reinforcements.
Grant issued the order to retreat, emphasizing secrecy. Units collected wood to feed their fires and stripped off their armor to move silently. As the fires grew, Dominick’s forces turned their backs to the flickering flames. By dawn, the duke's infantry would find themselves staring at the deserted expanse of Waetling Crossing.
47
ASSESSMENT
Grant led his weary survivors through the moonlit night. Dominick’s seasoned scouts forged a path across the terrain to guide the soldiers to the safety of Coworth’s thick trunks and rolling hills.
The first glow of dawn peaked over the horizon as Grant’s vanguard brushed past the sentries watching the approaches to the forest. With the lead elements safe within the forest’s embrace, Grant and Ez swung back to the rear of the line to help the stragglers.
