Tactical Warfare

The dawn sky was barely visible beyond the thick, billowing smoke rising from the battlefield. The battering rams, crude yet effective, rumbled forward under the relentless push of Count Cobry's rebel-sweeping corps.

The air was filled with the twang of bowstrings and the sharp, shrill screams of the wounded as crossbow bolts and arrows crisscrossed the battlefield in deadly arcs.

Despite the chaos, the first battering ram had been set ablaze by a well-placed barrage of fuel jars and torches from the defenders atop the encampment walls. The flames engulfed the construct, turning it into a pyre that consumed both wood and men alike. The soldiers pushing it scattered, their bodies ablaze, some rolling on the frozen ground in futile attempts to extinguish the fire, others screaming as they hurled themselves into the icy river—only to succumb to its merciless depths.

Yet, the enemies did not waver. Suppressing fire from the enemy bowmen had forced the crossbowmen on the walls into a desperate defense. Arrows rained down with punishing frequency, striking their marks faster than the crossbowmen could retaliate. Serena's report to Allen was grim—only seventy of their hundred-odd crossbowmen remained.

"We're losing too many," she stated urgently.

Allen's gaze swept the battlefield. The balance was tilting, but not beyond control. When Stroud volunteered to draw fire, Allen simply nodded, trusting in the warrior's resilience. A single glance at Seraphine was enough for her to act—magic surged as she strengthened Stroud's body and shield, while Elrod stood by, ready to intervene if things went awry.

Stroud took a deep breath, steadied himself, then surged from cover.

For a split second, the enemy hesitated. Then, their collective instincts took over—ten, then twenty, then hundreds of arrows streaked toward him. He raised his shield. The first wave deflected off harmlessly. The second and third tested its limits. But when the sheer weight of five hundred arrows came, the shield trembled in his grasp.

Fuck!

Stroud barely managed to dive back into cover before he was overwhelmed. His shield was no longer a simple defensive tool—it was a porcupine of broken shafts and lodged arrowheads. His arm throbbed painfully, blood trickling down where the impact had torn through his grip.

A warm sensation coursed through him as Seraphine's magic sealed his wounds. He nodded at her in silent thanks before glancing at the battlefield. His reckless move had not been in vain—forty more enemy bowmen lay dead, struck down in the brief reprieve his distraction had provided.

Yet, the enemy was relentless. As the first battering ram lay in smoldering ruin, the rebels quickly rolled forward the second and third rams. These were better designed, shielded on the sides and accompanied by soldiers ready to douse any flames with buckets of mud and water.

Within half an hour, the second ram reached the encampment's gate. A dozen men heaved at the rope, releasing the massive log in a coordinated strike. The thunderous impact sent shockwaves through the walls, causing dust and debris to rain down on the defenders.

Arman, focused on hurling another fuel jar, barely had time to register the tremor before he lost his footing. His hand jerked, and the jar slipped. A split second later, an enemy arrow found it midair.

Shit.

The jar shattered, its contents bursting into a spray of fuel—right onto Arman's face and chest. For a single heartbeat, he stood frozen, his mind racing. The fuel had not yet ignited, but if a single spark found him…

"Greg, take over!" he shouted, forcing himself into motion. He had to get this off before it became his death shroud.

As he staggered back, wiping furiously at his body, he couldn't help but curse his carelessness. He had been too eager. He wanted to prove himself, to seize an opportunity in Allen's growing army.

Allen was not a blind leader—he rewarded competence, even from those outside his immediate circle. And Arman needed to rise. A successful performance here could elevate him, bring him closer to the ranks of those truly trusted by Allen. But one foolish mistake could cost him everything.

No. He couldn't afford to be reckless again. He was soon to be Vice-captain of Allen's Knights.

As the battlefield roared with another impact from the battering rams, Arman made a silent vow. He would not be just another soldier. He would stand out. And when this battle was over, Allen would have to recognize his worth.

...

The sound of the camp gates being hammered at rang out at a steady rhythm.

"It's on fire!" cheered a soldier from the walls.

Turning his head to look, Allen could see clouds of soot and smoke rise from outside the walls. However, the hammering continued incessantly.

The battering ram was aflame, but that didn't stop the infantry who operated it from behind, using the rope fastened to the hammering log.

"Patt, get two fuel jars. Jasper, hold a torch ready," Allen instructed.

Aiming for the infantry at the back of the battering ram, Allen hurled both fuel jars into the midst of the soldiers. Jasper followed up instantly, tossing the torch after them. Flames erupted, consuming men who barely had time to scream before the fire engulfed them. The acrid scent of charred flesh filled the air.

The hammering finally stopped as the rope of the ram burned away. Another glorified bonfire now flickered in front of the camp gates.

"Master, I think the gates won't hold for much longer," said Hilter.

Allen descended the walls with Hilter, Seraphine, and Elord, leaving Stroud in command. Examining the gates, Allen frowned. They were battered and bent inward by almost half a meter—wide enough that a man of slight build could probably squeeze through. The topmost iron bar securing the gate had been deformed into a bow-like shape. The middle bar had a dent, while the bottom one still held firm.

"We're done defending the gates. It's not like we need them to secure the camp anyway," Allen remarked. "Honestly, I doubt we could even open them ourselves."

The enemy, however, refused to yield. More garrison troops rushed to extinguish the flames and drag the ruined battering ram aside, clearing a path for a third one.

This new battering ram was a monstrosity—practically a wooden fortress on wheels, with a sturdy roof and reinforced side barriers shielding the soldiers within. A thick layer of damp mud covered its exterior, designed to resist fire.

Unlike its predecessors, this ram inched forward at a glacial pace, taking nearly two hours to reach the gate. That gave Allen's men ample time to rest and eat.

Up on the walls, Stroud observed the enemy's preparations with Patt. Seeing the battered state of the gates, Patt frowned.

"You're just gonna let them push the battering ram all the way here without trying to stop them?" he asked Hilter.

Hilter, knowing Patt's loyalty despite his limited strength, patiently explained, "Defense isn't about stopping every attack head-on. We could slow the battering ram, sure, but at a heavy cost. Instead, we'll let them do the hard work for us. That ram will become their own obstacle."

As if to prove his point, the third battering ram struck. The already-weakened iron bars snapped, the top one flying off completely. A large hole yawned open, revealing startled enemy soldiers on the other side.

Seraphine's archers, positioned in advance, unleashed a relentless volley of arrows. Bale's spearmen, along with crossbowmen and javelin throwers, followed suit, filling the gap with a storm of projectiles. Screams rang out as bodies fell.

The enemy scrambled to shield the breach, stacking up wooden barricades. A tense half-hour passed as they adjusted the ram's position before resuming the hammering.

Inside the camp, Allen's soldiers grew impatient.

Twenty strikes later, the gate collapsed. Hinges snapped loose.

"The gate has fallen!" The soldiers within the battering ram's enclosure cried out in triumph.

At that very moment, Bale and Hilter surged forward like twin storms, crashing into the wooden barriers flanking the battering ram. The operators, defenseless with their hands occupied, were slaughtered wholesale—over sixty men perished, their blood pooling inside the enclosure. A few survivors at the rear managed to flee.

While Bale and Hilter carved through the enemy, Elord and Stroud moved swiftly. They secured thick ropes to the battering ram, tying them to sturdy stakes driven into the ground.

Seeing this, Patt finally understood Hilter's strategy. "That ram... it's a trap, isn't it?"

"Exactly," Allen smiled and confirmed.

The enemy commander, watching in disbelief, turned red with rage. "This is absurd! Why aren't they following proper warfare conventions?! They should be forming ranks, not turning our own siege weapon against us!"

But reality cared little for his outrage. The enemy troops struggled to clear the broken gates and haul away their dead. Yet, the battering ram remained stuck firm.

A pike cavalry company lined up, facing the camp, tying their own ropes to the ram. Soon, a desperate tug-of-war ensued.

For over thirty minutes, the battle raged. Then, reinforcements arrived—another squad of cavalry and a thousand fresh horses from the enemy's main camp. At last, sheer numbers tipped the balance, and the enemy wrestled the ram free.

But Allen had been waiting.

The instant the ropes reached their maximum tension, he gave the order.

"Now."

His Knight Squad sliced through the ropes.

The battering ram, suddenly unrestrained, rolled straight into the enemy ranks.

Panic erupted. Soldiers and horses screamed as the massive siege engine crushed those too slow to react. Dozens died in an instant.

As the enemy reeled from the disaster, Hilter barked out, "Bring the cart!"

Jasper's men hurried forward, securing a wooden cart vertically at the entrance. The enemy, finally snapping out of their daze, rushed to stop them—but they were too late.

The cart was firmly planted. Another blockade.

"The hell?! They're still not done?!" Frustration exploded among the enemy troops.

Some, unable to contain their fury, charged the cart recklessly.

A fatal mistake.

Three spears were installed at the front of the cart. The soldiers assumed they were merely decorative deterrents.

They were wrong.

As the first attackers slammed into the cart, the spears shot forward, skewering them in an instant. The others froze, horror dawning on their faces.

The defenders stood ready, the battlefield once again in their control.