202 Real War (2/2)
”How dare that bastard!”
”Does Makipura have no honor!?”
”He deserves the harshest punishment!”
While the wastes beneath Pacha paid lip service and pretended outrage, the king himself became more worried the more he thought about the strategic implications of the news. Since the southerners had broken through the Narrows, they would soon relieve Corco's trapped attendant and lead him south. Then Makipura and the southern lords were free to lead their large army west and reinforce Corco's position. Would they be here sooner than Pacha's uncle Divitius? How many men did they have among their ranks? Pacha didn't know the answers, but even if they were in his favor, he didn't want to see the war escalate even further. Only Amautu would profit from more dead warriors.
Again he looked at the battlefield in the distance, and again he saw the commoners make only laborious progress under the intense fire of the defenders.
”Why are they so slow!? Tell them to speed up!” he shouted at his attendant.
”Useless worms,” Herak growled next to Pacha. ”I wanted to wait a while longer until they set up the bags up to the walls, but it seems like I will have to move out early.”
”Duke Herak, what do you suggest?” Pacha knew that the foreigner wouldn't listen to his command and would do whatever he liked anyways. Still, if he wanted to retain some semblance of face, he had to at least frame the foreigner's willful actions as advice to the king. As usual, Herak humored Pacha and showed some basic courtesy, if nothing else.
”Since we are short on time, I will lead my own men to join the battle. The commoners are this slow because those enemy muskets get to fire at our peons without reply. Once I position some of my own muskets behind those sandbags, we can suppress them with our own fire and construction will speed up again.” As he spoke, Herak pulled his giant bow from his back and began to string it.
”Fine, you may proceed,” Pacha played along with the charade and gave his worthless consent. They weren't his men anyways, so Herak was free to let as many of them die as he wished. Rather than the battle plan, he was more curious about the stranger's own actions. ”However, Lord Herak, why do you appear to get ready for a fight? Do you intend to join the battle yourself?”
”Who else would?” the duke glanced at the other lords before he tested the pull of his bow. ”After all, this is the reason I have joined this war. Now excuse me, King Pachacutec. I will go hunt a merchant.”
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As a Captain, Alcer should be in charge of another nine men. Right now however, he could barely take care of himself. All around him, he could hear shouts of uncountable voices. Some soon turned into screams. He couldn't see the enemy volleys that reached them from down the hill, but every now and then he could hear the bullets whiz past him. Though the sounds were disorienting, the sights were no better.
Before him, he could only see chaos. With or without his command, his troop of nine was embroidered in a desperate struggle, together with their entire line. Their front line of halberds blindly pushed, shoved and poked their weapons over the wall, in a desperate attempt to keep the enemy warriors at bay, or to break their push; Alcer did not know which one.
Whatever they were doing, their foes wouldn't let off. Again and again, they would charge at them like waves. Like countless times before, the force of an impact traveled through the rows of soldiers and pushed Paec half a step back as he got up. He forced his way back towards the sweat and iron scent of battle and somehow managed to put his gun in between two bodies. Without any vision on a target, he pulled the trigger and his weapon went off; only the smell of powder confirmed his success. He heard another scream, but he had no idea if it had been his doing; there were screams everywhere.
Shell shocked, he looked around, but saw the same tangled mess of bodies everywhere. Any semblance of order had long disappeared. Another arrow whizzed past just above his head and disappeared somewhere in the crowd behind him. Somehow, Alcer found the space to crouch back behind the wall and his front row allies to reload his flintlock once more. He didn't know how many shots he had fired, he had lost count after around twenty.
How had things gone so wrong so quickly? Only minutes ago, everything had been so easy. At first, they hadn't even faced off against men with weapons. Only some common skirmishers carrying sacks dared brave their gunfire, like fools. However, under threat of the archers and warriors behind them, these living targets had advanced by suffering heavy losses and had soon built their first impromptu wall. Then they had used the cover to leap ahead and create a second, and then a third.
As the enemy got closer, Alcer's accuracy increased as much as the accuracy of all their musketeers, and the progress of the wall builders slowed to a crawl. Yet as soon as they were about to stabilize, the enemy had sent their own muskets to suppress their fire. Hidden behind their new walls of sacks, their enemies could fight back against their own wall of snow. From that point on, Alcer finally understood how all their enemies must have felt in the face of their own firepower.
Musket fire could be heard, but it could not be seen. All of a sudden, there was invisible death all around him. He no longer had the time to watch and admire his accuracy. As soon as he fired his shot, he returned back behind cover, in hopes that the flimsy wood and snow would hold against the enemy volleys. To his shame, he even caught himself hoping that the flesh of his allies would do the trick if the wall failed. Shot by shot, he would conquer his fears every time and rise from his cover to fire, and every time the picture in his front became more desperate.
He rose to his feet, and saw the enemy muskets had hopped ahead to the second wall. He fired and retreated to his cover.
He rose to his feet, and saw that they had reached within twenty feet, well within firing distance, close enough to aim at individual soldiers. The officers would be a key target, and Alcer was one of them. He still fired his shot and retreated yet again.
He rose to his feet and saw the mighty cannons behind their walls get stuffed shut by the bags the enemies had prepared. He saw the spikes they had spent great pains to ram into the frozen earth pierced with more bags, to create a cover for the enemy right in front of their defensive line.
He rose to his feet, and saw a large swath of warriors rush from cover to cover to close in on their position.
He rose to his feet, and saw them organize a charge, the first of many. Down on his knees, Alcer heard the cries of warriors overpower the constant gunfire, and then he heard the clash of metal on metal. Somehow, he fumbled the ramrod back into position and rose to his feet yet again.
At that point, his allies were in a desperate struggle against the enemy charge. Their formation bent and deformed, and the first northern warriors threatened to surmount the wall of snow. As they pushed on, their force rippled through the defenders until it reached Alcer.
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He lost his balance once again, and this time he fell. His hand landed in a puddle. When he raised it to his face, it was colored a dark red. From down here he could see that their pristine, snow-white defensive wall had turned into a puddle of muddy blood. Alcer's fingers cramped around his gun, and he rose once more.
With desperate determination, he found another hole, and fired once more. He had no idea how many he had killed, if any. He had no idea how many were left, no idea if they were winning or losing. This was a real war.
Within minutes, their battle had transformed from a leisurely practice session into true hell.
Another arrow narrowly flew over his head. Once more, Alcer fell to the ground to reload his gun.