The Eastern Expedition

Werten was vexed. With 5000 troops accompanied by an additional 500 cargo mules as well as 500 porters, this army was one of the slowest he had ever commanded. They left Santones, the last border town, 4 days ago, and had barely marched 64 milia[1]. Normally, a well-trained army such as this should be able to march at least twice as fast. Thinking of this, he was once again reminded of praefectus[2] Nather, the bastard who dared refused to aid Her Grace. He remembered too clearly their unstifled chuckles once his back was turned. Knowing him, nothing would make that prick happier than seeing this whole army cut down in the wilderness. He would probably be the one to personally waddle to the royal court and report of Her Grace's demise. Werten was slowly spiraling into a rage, when a hand suddenly clasped on his shoulder, and a burst of familiar raucous laughter rang in his ear:

"What are you doing gripping the hilt so tightly?" asked Harkon, slowly trotting to match his friend's speed while turning to the soldiers marching beside them. "Who here was stupid enough to piss off our mighty legatus[3] Werten. He can easily split you in twain with his sword, and I don't mean the one he has on his hip."

The men, who were so scared for just a second, suddenly understood what the tribunus[4] meant and broke out in laughter. One of them, either extremely brave or extremely stupid, which to be fair, in Harkon's experience was quite hard to distinguish sometimes, hollered:

"Sir, I think you do mean the one on his hip!"

The men laughed even louder. For a while, all seemed right. For a while, they could all forget what it was that they were marching towards.

Harkon lightly smirked, seemingly pleased with what he had just done, and turned to Werten "So? Who? Wanna skewered that guy instead? Preferably with your steel sword?"

"Nothing. Just remembering some unsavory characters is all." Werten half-heartedly kept his answer short, pretending to be oblivious of all the ruckus this hooligan of a friend of his just caused. While he valued his honor greatly, and any other day he would have calmly dismount, walked towards Harkon, yanked him off his horse, and gently apply force with his foot to the same metaphorical sword that bastard had just mentioned, just enough so that he would have problems pleasing the future lady Harkon, if he ever managed to find one. Just imagining this relieved a great deal of his frustration. But unfortunately, morale was now a luxuriance. He was content that his men could get any at this point.

Seeing the man suddenly lost in thought, Harkon did not press the issue any further. He knew him too well. He almost never really answered a question from the get-go and always left you wondering. It was some kind of weird filtering mechanism of his, to see if the other party cared enough to phrase the question more elaborately. But this time he did not need much guessing, the abysmal progress they had made in the last few days can only be tied to one 'unsavory character'. Harkon skimmed through the report again and reassured him.

"Don't worry. At this rate, we won't be running out of food for the next two weeks."

"It'd be gods damn fucking strange if we ran out of food. What kind of army marches for half a day then pitch camp and forage for the other half?" Werten cussed angrily, his anger inadvertently flared up again. This was more of a rant, and quite an exaggeration, than a question. They were traveling further into Orckish territory, and the praefectus of Fort Aré had refused to provide them with a line of supply. "The winter months are coming, and the borderland folks will have to eat sparsely just to survive," he said, while sucking the grease from the roasted turkey off his fingers, in Her Grace's presence no less. And managed their food efficiently they did, from the first day beyond the border, when they marched until the 4th hour of day and pitched camp, then sent out a centuria[5] to forage as they usually did. 7 contubernia[6] returned before the 1st hour of night, but 3 never returned at all. The scouting centuria later found them all massacred, some of whom were cleanly cleaved in half from the waist. Since then, all foraging contubernia were tripled in strength and no such incident ever occurred again. It was, however, enough to put the entire army on alert. Despite the scouting centuria's consistent report that there was no trace of a sizable orckish army in the vicinity, the idea of marching into unknown territory with no stable supply line had always been a taboo in warfare, much less into the territory of a mindlessly savage and brutally violent race. The possibility of a gigantic horde of orci could descend upon them at any time prevented even the laziest of soldiers to rejoice from the fact that they could only march for at most 16 milia a day. The greater part of the remaining daytime was used for fortifications, a job which the soldiers took abnormally seriously.

Turrrr!

The cornu[7] was abruptly sounded, grinding the whole army to a halt. "Strange," Werten mumbled annoyingly, "not even 3 hours yet. What now?" The commotion at the front of the column immediately answered his question. Centuriones[8] frantically hollered their troops into defensive positions while savage war cries drowned out the rest of the sonorously ominous note. "Another ambush. Damn it!" Harkon frowned, quickly loosened his rein, and slightly nudged the horse with his heel. "I'm going!" Despite the wind howling past his ears as Áel galloped at full speed towards the fore, he could still hear Werten shouting after him. "I'll join you once the rear is secured!"

The situation at the frontline was not as bad as he had anticipated. Swarms of orci assaulted the vanguard, but their usual unorganized fighting style resulted in them not gaining much ground. He could spot Her Grace from afar in the commanding tent and made a beeline towards her.

"Greetings Your Grace. Why did the scouts…?" Harkon promptly asked as he leaped down from his horse.

"Ah, tribunus Harkon. Finally. I'm still waiting for tribunus Oga's report myself." She then turned towards the young sorceress beside her "Is it ready, Reni? Do you need my help?"

"No, Your Grace. It's almost ready." She forced out a smile, ignoring the beads of sweat rolling down her forehead.

"Lugus dibu, doenti mi belis cue arghath arnernadh ti!"

A ball of light escaped the crystal atop her staff and gradually grew bigger and bigger as it ascended into the air. It only stopped once it was suspended a dozen or so cubiti[9] in the air, resembling a giant eyeball gouged from the corpse of a titan overlooking the battlefield.

A bird's eye view of the immediate vicinity slowly took form before Reni. This spell was one of the most basic incantations a battle mage had to master, The Eye of Magic. Generally, the stronger the mage, the larger and higher the Eye could be, thus providing more information on the field. But as Harkon quickly stole a glance at the young lady trembled ever so slightly, ignoring the sweat which was obviously stinging her eyes, he thought to himself, for a small-scale skirmish such as this, a wider view would almost certainly yield no more valuable intelligence. Not missing the chance to stand next to the young sorceress, he began assessing the situation, almost too elaborately:

"Most of them are coming from our left flank. Just as we predicted, River Covrunach is acting as a natural barrier and secure our right flank. They number around… 1000. Shouldn't be a problem." After devising a quick formation in his head, he shouted at the cornicen. "You, cornicen[10], signal the army to turn left and assume defensive formation, shield wall stance! And follow me!" He quickly turned around and headed for his horse, but suddenly stopped when he realized what he had forgotten. He turned around and awkwardly smiled at the princess:

"Your Grace, their main force should be hitting the end of our column shortly. I'll meet up with Werten and organize the ranks."

"Go." The princess lightly waved her hand, seemingly not offended in the least bit. "I see tribunus Oga had finally mustered up enough courage to come and meet with me. I will have him report to you when this is over."

Following her line of sight, Harkon spotted a tubby nobilis[11] making his way towards Her Grace's tent, wiping his forehead with an already soaked handkerchief. When their eyes met, Harkon smirked lightly at him, not attempting to hide his schadenfreude at the least bit. Oga leered at him hatefully, gnashed his teeth, and proceed to drag himself towards the princess' tent without sparing him a second glance. Harkon turned around, gleefully bowed to Her Grace, mounted his horse, and disappeared amidst the ranks of soldiers.

The cornicen, however, sheepishly looked towards the princess for permission. Upon seeing her complete lack of interest, he confusingly stared at the tribunus' horse galloping ever further away and reluctantly sprinted after him.

"Front ranks! Shields up! Heads down! Hold on firmly to your spear!" A booming voice could be heard from the end of the column, echoing all the way to the middle. The soldiers closest to him, even the most battle-hardened ones, felt their legs slightly went softer, yet their hearts grew firmer. Even after he has dismounted, standing over 4 cubiti tall, Legatus Werten even towered most orci. With a gigantic shield, embroidered with a roaring bear, the insignia of House Arth, and a monstrous broadsword dangling on his belt, his visage alone struck fear deep into the enemy line before the battle had even begun.

Werten heard the sound of hooves pounding ever closer. Through the dust cloud kicked up by the army, he could see the silhouette of Harkon making his way through a forest of spears and shields. He quickly strode towards him.

"Is Her Grace safe?"

"O'course. Hella pissed at Oga though." Harkon chuckled, knowing that the jiggling nobilis was in for one hell of a ride.

Werten wanted to move on to other pressing matters post haste, but the thought of Oga quivering on his knees was indeed an enticing one to mule over. Seeing Harkon's relaxed demeanor, he guessed that the situation was not as dire as he had anticipated. Still, this was not the time to revel in Oga's mistakes. Werten continued with his inquiry, with some effort to stifle a smile. "It's our job to clean up the mess now. Their numbers?"

"Roughly 1000. That was only a detachment at the front. Their main force is approaching here as we speak. The largest horde we have to face yet."

"And yet you have time for jests." The legatus was once again dragged back to his worried mood. "An orcus division that attempted a diversion. You don't find it strange?"

"A diversion?" Harkon broke out in laughter "They're probably too stupid to keep ranks and rushed ahead all by themselves." The closer he was to the end of the sentence, the louder his laughter became. "And they thought the mighty Werten had no sense of humor."

Werten frowned at the sight of his comrade, who, although already a tribunus, was still acting like a spoiled teenage nobilis. He tried his best to repress the urge to compare him to a lame monkey, out loud that was. Still, mockeries aside, he had to admit the notion itself was quite ridiculous. It was well established that while orci have superior physiques, blessed with humongous strength and stamina, their tactical acumen, or rather their intelligence in general, was quite lacking. Irritably, what Harkon said was highly more likely. Having dismissed his own point, albeit begrudgingly, Werten tried to steer the conversation back to the main points, a huge frown plastered his face "How far away are they? Should we have the arbalests advance and skirmish?"

"It's no use. The forest is too thick. Better have them on standby. So is the cavalry. Once the fighting at the frontline starts, I'll personally lead them and flank the orci." Harkon stopped laughing and subconsciously steered his horse away as soon as he saw Werten's darkening expression. With enough effort, he knew that bear could tear him in two with his bare hands. "So, I'll better see to that right away then."

As Harkon quickly made himself scarce, a soldier clutching a brass horn and gasping for air slowly trotted towards where the two men previously spoke.

"What are you doing here?" Werten was surprised seeing the cornicen so far down the column. Had all the praecones[11] in the command center been injured somehow?

"Tribunus… haa…Harkon told me to…haa…follow him." The soldier replied, with both his arms pressed against his knees, panting.

Werten softly sighed, exasperated at yet another shenanigan. "He doesn't have the authority to do that. You know this. Did Her Grace approve of this?"

The cornicen, sensing the displeasure in the legatus' tone, sheepishly answered, not daring to make eye contact. "Her Grace, she, err, did not seem to mind, sir."

Werten furrowed his eyebrows, clearly no longer hiding his disapproval "She did not seem to mind you said? It that how you follow commands soldier?"

"No! No, sir, she… she…" The cornicen was scared stiff and started to babble incoherently. Seeing as he had his hands full at the moment, he curtly ordered. "Return to the command center. I shall have a word with Her Grace later."

The soldier, having been unexpected pardon, hastily bowed and ran back the other direction with magically rejuvenated stamina.

[1]: Roman mile, approx. 1.4 km

[2]: Prefect, or in this case praefectus urbi (urban prefect), is the chief administrator of a settlement

[3]: Commander of a legion

[4]: Tribune, a type of army officer

[5]: A unit of 10 contubernia (80 men)

[6]: A unit of 8 men

[7]: A brass horn, used to relay aural messages

[8]: Centurion, the commander of a centuria

[9]: A measurement of length, approx. 0.4416m

[10]: The person blowing the cornu

[11]: Noble

[12]: Messengers who relay messages on foot