The Battle of Boomhill

[BenevolentManacles 2232]

 

 

 

The Battle of Boomhill

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I awoke today, prepared. To the mirror. Dawn the uniform. A warbow. A kaedreni longsword. A medal, a Nauzican badge, two hundred years old. It is tarnished by the centuries, unrecognizable, but I wear it proudly all the same, though underneath my breastplate. The Captain does not allow it otherwise.. I see myself in the mirror. I am still the same.

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I’m on the march, again. I have marched for two centuries now, always in service to the Empire, and this march was no different to me.. The Kaedreni fields shift in the wind as the army crushes the brush beneath them. The flowers throw me into a sneezing fit as I inspect the lines, ensuring the soldiers kept to at least the General’s standards, which are admittedly less draconian than my own.

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The Haensemen, as always, stand stalwart. A strong formation,with strong men. I would be remiss to dismiss their fortitude, even if it fomented a cruelty in war. Though, their armor weighs them down, and would offer little protection from concussive blast, or fire.

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Inspectors are there. Lawmen, under the Solicitor-General, Joseph Adler. I suppose even they would have their use. 

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There are others, in strange leather uniforms. Gunners, they called themselves. They had been assimilated into the Imperial State Army a decade ago, so they tell me. Siegeworks, they would handle. Good, they would be out of the way. I do not know these soldiers.

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The fourth. Out of formation, out of attention. Typical of their status, they need it not. They have one duty, and standing in line is not it. I am jealous, but not as much as I thought. I thought I was born to protect Emperors. I was wrong, I exist to kill in their name, however I can.

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The third. Mounted. I never liked horses. Trusting something to carry you into battle that can’t even tell you what sort of pain it’s in… Dangerous, maybe. Though I consider myself a fine horseman. I often recall John Sigismund’s jousts when I see the third. I miss those.

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There are doctors. Vital. Few armies in Orenian history, or at least my history accompany an organized medical corps. I am glad my injured men will have beds for them.

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A prayer is called. Many speculate, being a wood elf, I am not particularly faithful. I bow my head, and said amen, and recall the glory of God, when Henry Joseph plucked me from the street to serve John Sigismund. 

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Finally, the march continues. I am familiar with this part. I love this part. The trot of hooves, the rumble of a massive force, gone forth to destroy the enemies of the Empire. God save our foes.

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The camp is crowded. Typical. I am at home here, though. My men, the Emperor, the General. All we can do now is wait, though the soldiers around me are restless. We saw the target on the way into the camp, and even I admit all I want to do is charge up that hill and bring them the Emperor’s fury.

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A Prince of Haense, Nikolas, I heard his men call him. Young, a twentieth of my age. He asks his soldiers gathered as I pass by, “What is hardtack?”

 

A novice, but to be expected. He will learn war, if he gets this head start. I tell him the answer.

 

“Bread for marching. It keeps longer. It tastes like wood.”

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I rejoin the 1st Brigade in the encampment. They are at ease, and they have earned it. March is new to many of them, and the tension of impending battle is difficult to comprehend when you are new to it. I attend them and offer them a salute.

 

The soldiers salute in response, though they remain at ease. Fine, then. I will not drill them now, green as they are. I squint my eyes at them, and cross my arms. How many will survive?

 

“Your first battle?” I ask them.

 

Two of them speak up. A recruit, named Elene, and an Ensign, named Cade. Elene purses her lips at my question before replying.

 

“I’ve been in skirmishes before, Lieutenant, but nothing so large…”

 

Cade chimes in after her immediately, speaking with a firmer voice. Such fake firmness in the voice is a shield against angst. The man is nervous.

 

“Mine as well, Lieutenant.”

 

I nod to them, and remain silent for a moment. What can I tell them that will assuage their fears? I know the answer. Nothing. I will give them some fake solace.

 

“Stick close to me, and you might live.”

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Hours pass. The dawn has been on us for awhile. The General gives the order, and Captain Illiquin and I rally the first to the ridge. From here, we will wait, till the fort is dessicated by our trebuchets. It is painful, getting the soldiers to space themselves properly so as to not kill multiple of them by a misfired trebuchet. I am forced to seize Vitaly and Cade by their arms and pull them to position. I am furious. I maintain composure.

 

“How long till we attack?,” Elene asks. The recruit is excited. She wants to fight. Or does she want it over with?

 

I exhibit patience with her. I forgive her for her novice example of a soldier, and tell her the truth.

“Being a soldier, recruit, is ninety percent patience.”

 

From the end of the line, I hear Vitaly. He is singing a song, a fighting song.

 

“Come all fighting men, come together, while we may, we may ne’er meet again.” I like this soldier, Vitaly. I like fighting songs. Private Virgil does not. Virgil strikes the closest soldier to him with his fist and tells them “Pass it down till that idiot shuts up.”

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The General gives the order. It is time. The trebuchets fire. I can hear the man wearing the Gunner uniform, Jasper, scream at the top of his lungs. I regret my previous impression. That is a fine siege commander.

 

They stones fly. I hear the explosion of stone against the enemy’s wooden fortress from over the ridge. An hour of this, huddled behind the ridge. I hum the tune that Vitaly sang before Virgil had silenced him.

 

“Vitaly, survey the damage!” commands Illiquin.

 

Vitaly marches up the hill to survey damage.

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An instant later, he turns to a bloody mist as a trebuchet stone hits him. He is dismembered and destroyed. A misfire. Or he was too close. I will miss him.

 

I cannot grieve. Soldiers die.

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 The General calls the frontline over the ridge, and we obey. I am shoulder to shoulder with my men. I am shoulder to shoulder with my comrades. I feel my blood boil. I am alive here, on this field. We advance, and the arrows come. We approach the destroyed wall, and the shieldwall maintains as the General calls us to open fire. 

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From behind the shieldwall, I nock my arrow and draw back my arrow.. The humans I surround myself with have not seen a hunter like me. An Ensign asks me a question. I cannot hear them. I am fighting. 

 

Our arrows decimate the enemy skirmishers. They cannot stand the volleys. We outnumber them heavily. This will be a quick victory.

 

The General is thrown to the ground. Josiah’s shield is shattered. An explosion. The General is unphased. He is a soldier, like me. He bleeds while he fights. He raises his sword in the air and points it forward.

 

“Charge!” 

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I pass Vitaly as we charge the ridge. I see red within the pulverized boulder. His uniform hides the blood. I cannot dally. I am fighting.

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The lawmen are behind us, supposedly to pull out the wounded, but the wounded are few. It is not long before they are alongside us, blade to blade, overwhelming the minute remaining defenders. I set my gaze on the same target as the General, a large man holding a small wooden roundshield and a shortsword. He will be no match. We kill him together. 

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The General moves to the top of the palisade, opposite the enemy keep. He surveys the battlefield. He knows we are winning. His commands are from the Emperor now. No prisoners. No mercy.

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I charge the keep. The Haensemen skirt the other side of the palisade, dangerously. Brave, or stupid. They do not die, so at least lucky. I am surrounded by corpses. This is not a glorious battle. It is a slaughter.

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The mine has been destroyed by our trebuchets, entirely collapsed. There is nothing of value here for us anymore, except a few more kills in the Emperor’s name. I oblige myself. A man is fleeing the fight. He finds my arrow in his throat when he reaches for his neck. I am not proud of this kill. 

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Outside the Keep, the army scales the walls. The defenders are all but destroyed, most are fleeing or dead. Fire. A bottle was thrown from the keep to the scaling attackers. Several catch on fire. A Corporal, doused in fire, flails towards me. I take a step back to avoid him. A step too far.

 

I fell no ground beneath my foot, and fall down, feet first, into a trap prepared on the edge of the keep. A spike pit. My leg is numb. Now it’s on fire. Am I dying?

 

I lean against the earthen wall of the pit to view the wound. I am pierced through my calf. The wound will be tough to heel. I cannot think straight. I scream. The pain has struck me full now, like a boulder.

 

I feel myself torn from the spike. I scream again. I am bleeding, too much. I leave a trail of blood from the pit to the spot where I am thrown to the ground. There are no medics nearby. I think I might die, but I can barely think at all.

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Everything is fuzzy. I am fading in and out. My leg is numb. I scream. The Captain attempts to cauterize my wound. He fails. He is a poor medic. Where are the medics? I go silent. I go dark. I think I am dead.

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I awake. My leg is numb. The medics have treated me, but I am not safe. I can barely move. I seize the doctor’s sleeve and declare that the enemy is nearby. I am thinking of the wrong battle. 

 

Captain Illiquin denies my protests of assistance. He rolls me off the bed, and I land on his shield. Drags me, on his shield, to marching formation. I have never marched like this. We return to Helena.

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I awaken again. I am alive. We have done our duty, we have succeeded. I was injured, not by the enemy, but by some trap, which cares less to kill me than an insect does. I am embarrassed. I must be here for the next few weeks, they tell me. I decide I will not. I take the crutches they gave me, and leave. I return to my office. The Battle of Boomhill is over. I am still the same.

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