Horizon of War Series

Chapter 239: Fighting Blind

Fighting Blind

East Nicopola Mountain

Servius and his six hundred men made their slow climb. From Nicopola's side, the slope wasn’t steep, and a long line of carts and horses filled the route to the mountain villages. The scouts and advance guard had reported signs of activity, but it was expected. The Lord Shogun had ordered them to prepare for war, and no veteran in his army would question their savior’s word of caution.

Once the Lord Shogun, who at the time was the Lord of Korelia, had defeated them on the fields of Korimor and then welcomed them into his ranks. In the short time they served under him, they had taken South Hill with minimal losses and helped with the harvest that saved them from the cold hands of famine. They remembered their stay and their place in his army with fondness.

To them, the fall campaign of 4425 had been nothing short of miraculous. They had even met half-breeds, as if stepped out of old tales, and witnessed the arrival of a gargantuan airship flying overhead.

That single year became the story they would pass down to the next generation.

If given the chance, many longed to return to the villages of Umberland, South Hill, and Korimor and one day set eyes on Korelia, the seat of power they had only ever heard about.

Since they parted ways in the mountain bulwark, they often speculated about what the Lord of Korelia had been doing. Every scrap of news brought excitement. When word came that he had survived an assassination attempt, they reacted with equal joy and fury. Many were incensed that anyone had dared raise a sword against their savior.

So when word of the Lord of Korelia's lightning-fast victory in Midlandia reached them, it was met with cheers and anticipation.

With Iron Skull Servius at the helm, the Grey Skull Legion climbed the mountain path, eager to fight for him once again.

But their eagerness would soon be tempered by the mountain people’s stubborn resistance.

Their search for fellow Nicopolans, recruited by unknown forces, led them to an abandoned village. They found no one, yet the scouts reported a barricade of wood and stone blocking the route to other villages deeper in the mountains.

Seemingly appearing out of nowhere, the barricade blocked the vital pass, guarding a narrow, easily defensible position. Though Servius was the recognized authority in the region, the mountain people refused the legion’s demand to clear the path. Without delay, the Grey Skull Legion launched their assault. They were met with a hail of crossbow fire.

The fighting turned fierce. The barricade was taken only after a bitter struggle. Many were wounded in the clash, caught in the narrow terrain and slowed by the defenders’ stubborn resistance. Most of the mountain fighters escaped, but less than a mile ahead, the legion encountered another barricade.

Like the first, the attempt to dislodge them was met with traps and heavy crossbow fire. It was clear the mountain people intended to block Servius’ advance at every turn.

Servius’ battle-hardened veterans secured the day in their favor, but even by sundown, scouts reported another barricade being built and reinforced a short distance ahead. Not willing to give the enemy time to finish, Servius launched a night raid and succeeded in destroying the incomplete structure. However, the next barricade was better constructed. It was taller, stronger, and supported by overlapping high ground that gave the defenders a clear advantage.

Recognizing the difficulty, Servius halted his advance. It was clear he was facing a determined and well-prepared opponent.

Despite his wish for a swift advance, he couldn’t afford to rush blindly against an opponent like this.

***

Mountain Region, West of Three Hills

As the jungle came alive with war cries, the nine hundred reformed their lines into six defensive circles as best they could, despite the thick vegetation. Visibility was low, limited to the gaps between tall old trees, low branches, and whatever the shrubs allowed them to see. Tension was high, and shouts rang out across the formation as officers coordinated their efforts.

The 150-strong column under Farkas, the Black Bandits, was performing well. Trained as skirmishers, their movements in such defensive formation were fluid. Their experience as the Lord’s mobile guards in Tercio formation also served them well. They quickly marched the short distance toward the center, where Sir Arius’s men were still trying to form a proper defensive circle, many of them being levies.

As the columns met, Farkas, followed closely by Ted and several guards, moved to meet Sir Arius. By the time they arrived, shouting could be heard from outside their formation, along with mocking taunts.

"Fighting inside this jungle? Are they mad?" one of the knights said to Sir Arius, whose squire was still fastening the remaining pieces of his plate armor. ᚱаƝＯ฿ÊS̈

"If our scouts aren't moving yet, rush them to the rear. Whoever they are, they're coming from behind, not the front. We need to know their strength," Sir Arius instructed his staff. Then, seeing Farkas, he asked, "Tell me, is this an ambush?"

Farkas couldn’t be sure but answered, "If it is, they should’ve struck already. I’m not seeing anything."

"A botched ambush, then?" Sir Arius asked calmly.

"Maybe just overly eager attackers who don’t know the situation," a senior knight commented.

"But that doesn’t make any sense. They should know. The jungle is everywhere," Sir Arius said as he flexed his armored limbs to check the fittings.

"Unless..." Ted spoke. His boyish voice drew their attention. He swallowed and said again, "Unless they came out of a secret path."

"He has a point," Sir Arius agreed.

"Then it's the mountain bastards." One knight clenched both fists in satisfaction. He had been seething with frustration, and now, at last, he had a target.

"Numbers first," Sir Arius ordered. "And what kind of battle can we even manage inside a jungle like this?"

The twenty-odd Crimson Knights around them chuckled darkly. One muttered, "We're both in the jungle. Them or us, we're all equally screwed."

Farkas added quickly, "My men can fight like this too."

"You're all hardened brutes," Sir Arius said with pride. "Then let's show them how brutes fight."

Hearing that, the Crimson Knights rushed to form a battle line. Their polished iron plate gleamed beneath crimson surcoats, worn and frayed at the edges thanks to the jungle. Each man carried a poleaxe, scarred from use but kept razor-sharp. They stood with practiced discipline, their expressions lit with excitement. They had been searching for enemies, and now they had found their prey. There was nothing they liked more than facing them head-on.

Meanwhile, a captain asked for direction, "Do we wait for the vanguard to return?"

"No. I'll let the Crimson Knights have the honor," Sir Arius said.

The senior captain asked again, "And the rest of us? Do we follow the attack?"

Sir Arius looked at Farkas, who gave a nod.

"The Lord Shogun once said: When in great doubt, attack," Farkas answered.

"How insightful," Sir Arius chuckled. But before they could act, shouts rang out, and then the enemy appeared in force.

The shouting began, voices raised in confusion as both sides tried to gauge each other’s strength and resolve. But it was cut short when crossbow bolts whistled from both directions. Blood was spilled in an instant, but the volley did little. Too many shots were lost in the dense jungle.

Close combat followed. Swords clashed, and axes swung as both sides surged forward with full force. Screams and battle cries echoed from all around, disorienting and impossible to place. The thick trees and tangled undergrowth hid everything but what stood just a few steps ahead.

Still, the pressure of the assault made one thing clear. They were facing a larger force.

Sir Arius and his knights fought at the front, forming a bulwark of iron and steel, holding against the strongest point of the attack.

Meanwhile, Farkas and his men pulled back to their own column, already engaged in close combat. He saw that his men had shifted into a dense block, concentrating their strength against the enemy’s advance. Farkas approved. It was a good instinct on their part.

He moved to take command, but his lieutenant quickly pulled him aside and pointed to their flank.

"Captain, I’ve put as many men there as I dared, but I can’t help noticing the size of the attackers. I’m afraid our flank could be exposed."

"I’ll head there," Farkas said, pushing through as his men fought hard against a wave of enemies.

At the flank, he ordered the deployment of their special cargo. Ten of their strongest had been carrying bundles of barbed wire despite the burden. Now, they moved quickly to lay it down. No sooner had it been secured than at least a hundred enemy fighters appeared, charging straight for the flank.

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The Black Bandits quickly redeployed their crossbowmen, but before they could aim, a horrific scream rose from the center column. Through the trees, they saw the sickly green haze spreading everywhere.

“T-they even dared to use the alchemist’s green miasma,” Ted said, his mouth agape, while the blood drained from Farkas’s face. The rest of the Black Bandits stared in shock. The green miasma attack would undoubtedly affect everyone.

“Prepare to fall back fifty steps, facing front!” Farkas shouted, and his officers frantically relayed the order.

“But that’ll expose our flank,” one of the men warned.

“We’ll risk it,” Farkas replied. “We won’t stand a chance against green miasma.”

The situation had turned even direr. In such a tight jungle, with little air and barely any wind, the green miasma would linger. Whoever commanded this battle clearly wanted them dead.

***

Roderic

The clans under Roderic fought smartly, staying in control without needing to join the front lines. They blended in with the Nicopolans, acting as their leadership staff and guiding them into battle. They did not trust the mercenaries' discipline or motivation to fight properly. Above all, they loathed the Nicopolans for their history. For many, even tolerating their presence was already a nauseating thought.

Unlike the Nicopolans or the invaders from Three Hills, who could only stumble blindly through the wild trees, the clans had maps and seasoned guides who could navigate the jungle, using trees and mountain landmarks to orient themselves.

For several clans, this jungle had been their backyard for centuries, and they knew it intimately. With little difficulty, they directed the one thousand Nicopolans toward the nine hundred invaders.

When both sides finally met in the heart of the jungle, still trying to identify who they were fighting, the clans intervened with a massed crossbow attack, and the fighting erupted.

They felt no need for the Nicopolan rabble to know who they were fighting. It was enough for them to believe they were facing some petty, greedy, nameless bandits.

"What a fitting war. Nameless rabble against nameless bandits," he muttered to himself while his staff busied themselves with coordinating attacks and movements.

With the jungle this thick, a constant stream of messengers was needed to relay fresh reports and instructions.

Now, they had reached the second stage, and the slingers launched their alchemist bottles attack.

The green miasma spread, with screams and panic in its wake. Shielded by the dense jungle, Roderic smiled at the unseen carnage. Even without watching, he knew it was devastating.

The barrage eventually stopped, and Roderic stepped in directly. "Why are you stopping? Keep firing until I say otherwise."

"But what about our allies?" the lead slinger asked, clearly uneasy.

"Fret not. They can always pull back. This is for their benefit too. Our opponent is a tough nut to crack, and we need to hit them hard. Otherwise, all of this will be for nothing." Roderic gave a rousing speech to those around him, the lie delivered with practiced ease.

In truth, more than the clans’ general loathing, Roderic cared even less for the rabble, viewing them as lesser men. In his mind, the Nicopolan allies would have to be eliminated sooner or later after the conquest of Three Hills. For now, his only concern was a swift victory.

Each bottle of miasma might cost its weight in gold, but that was nothing compared to the value of what it could secure: his rise to power. The faster he won, the stronger his position among his peers.

Roderic knew his impatience had gotten the better of him. His original plan had been to strike and withdraw, letting the enemy wither and starve. But now, he had pushed everything forward, demanding results. He comforted himself with the thought that war was a changing thing, always shifting, always demanding adaptability.

"Report," a messenger called out.

Roderic's lieutenant motioned for him to speak.

The messenger stepped forward and said, "Two of the three center columns have buckled and scattered. We are pushing the Nicopolan rabble forward as we speak. Victory is guaranteed."

One of the staff officers turned to Roderic. "Everything is going according to plan."

And Roderic couldn't have been more pleased.

His slingers had resumed the green miasma assault, now targeting the last central column still holding its ground. The objective was clear: deny the enemy any chance to recover or retaliate. They would be broken here, today. Roderic would tolerate no further delay to his triumphant arrival at Three Hills.

***

The Black Bandits

Chaos followed as the green miasma spread across the battlefield, forcing all three of the defenders' central columns to retreat as men choked and screamed in pain. Inhaling the cloud was like breathing hot ash. Even the Crimson Knights fell back, their nostrils flared, some already vomiting inside their helmets.

But the same held true for the enemy. They too, scattered in pain and panic, howling and cursing as they fled the burning green cloud.

Farkas's Black Bandits fared better. They had managed to avoid a direct hit from the green miasma, and their quick reaction to fall back saved them from the brunt of the gas attack.

Yet, even without a direct hit, the miasma lingered everywhere. Eyes burned, throats seared, and coughing became constant. They were forced to wrap torn cloth around their mouths and noses, soaked in water to lessen the sting.

Farkas continuously swept his gaze across the front and flank. Their barbed wire had been abandoned, and now they were detached from the center column, which had likely retreated and reformed beyond the gas’s reach.

Meanwhile, the enemy’s first attempt to strike their flank had been halted, likely thrown into disarray by the sudden miasma assault.

"We still have our flank, for now," Farkas said, noting no movement.

"Was that miscoordination?" Ted asked between coughs, holding his shield up in case of a ranged attack.

But as the enemy held back, their numbers began to swell. Judging by their silhouettes and movement, they were regrouping. This began to trouble Farkas and his officers. Without barbed wire, not even the Black Bandits could hold against a force three times their size, not without proper defenses such as trenches.

Cold sweat crept down Farkas’s back. He had no one to call for aid. The Crimson Knights and Sir Arius were likely struggling to keep their column from falling apart.

The situation was death ground.

Farkas recalled one of Lord Lansius’ many lessons during their long marches together. "Place them in death ground, and they will live. In hopeless positions, men will fight and survive."

He looked over his men and called out, "Officers, on me."

Veterans, young and old, converged around him.

"Listen up. The Lord Shogun predicted the smugglers would only show themselves if we arrived with a small force. But he also knew that would put us in a death ground situation. And now, his prediction has come true. Here, we need to commit everything to survive. To retreat is to die. Tell your men: No escape. No help. Fight or die."

As his officers spread the word, rallying their men for a last stand if needed to buy their center column time to regroup, the crossbowmen saw growing movement in the distance. They trained their sights, but no clear target appeared. The enemy lingered just beyond the trees, their shapes barely visible.

From the scattered shouting, Farkas could tell the enemies were in a state of confusion.

Sensing something was afoot, he raised a hand and signaled his crossbowmen to hold fire. Still no movement. Trusting his instincts, he stepped forward to get a closer look.

Startled, eyes wide, Ted rushed after him, teeth clenched as he carried a pavise-like shield someone had lent him. Several more followed, forming a tight escort, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the treeline.

After several more paces, with the trees shielding them from view, Farkas dared to shout, “We entertain parley!”

He gambled on the possibility that not all of his enemies were Mountain People and that some among them might be unwilling fighters—slaves, forced peasants, or coerced troops. If that was true, it could turn the entire battle.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, a heavy voice rang out from behind the trees. "Why do you carry the Blue and Bronze banner?"

Farkas couldn’t believe what he had just heard. "Because we serve the Lord of Korelia," he answered quickly.

"No fucking way!" the man exclaimed, as a chorus of shocked voices rose from behind the trees.

Sensing a change of fortune, Farkas called back, "I am Captain Farkas of the Skirmishers. My men are the Black Bandits, famed from the South Hill campaign, the Three Hills coup, and recently, Toruna's defense."

A beat of silence, then a sharp reply: "I don't know you. I remember a skald."

"Sigmund is my mentor," Farkas replied, unable to hide his excitement.

"Not so fast," the man said, his tone lighter now. "I still don't believe you. The Black Bandits, you say? Then sing us a song."

"But we're in the middle of a fight," Farkas shouted, caught off guard. Meanwhile, his column looked just as confused. Somehow, these strangers knew details about them no outsider should.

There was no answer.

After a pause, Farkas relented, assumed his practiced singing voice, and managed to recall a funny line. "Men say that love doth cloud the eyes, but the lady's fair stare will strike men blind."

A raw guffaw rang out from behind the trees. The men clearly knew about Lady Audrey's eyes.

"Do the Black Lord," another voice shouted.

"There's a battle raging on. You're asking this—are you allies or not?" Farkas asked bluntly.

A stubborn voice replied, "Look, we’re not even sure it’s really you. None of this makes any sense."

One veteran beside Farkas stepped forward and said, "Let me."

Farkas motioned for him to try, and the veteran, with a clear and stirring voice, sang:

"The Black Lord walks with gentle grace,

A timid voice, an open face.

Yet stir his wrath and skies shall know,

He brings down cities row by row."

A chorus of laughter erupted from behind the trees.

"You're you!" they shouted.

"And you are?" Farkas demanded impatiently.

"We're Nicopolans. Many of us used to be part of the Black Lord's Nicopolan regiment."

Farkas was stunned. "How... how the hell are you here?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're in the Three Hills region," Farkas explained.

"That's a crude joke." Nervous chuckles followed. "We set out from Nicopola about eight days ago."

"Men, you're in Three Hills! You must have crossed the smugglers' road."

"Smugglers...? We're not sure." There was hesitation in his voice. "We did walk through some fine stone corridors. Like caverns, but better made."

Farkas, Ted, and his escorts exchanged glances. For the first time, they had solid evidence of the shortcut.

“We’ve been searching for that mountain road. We’re here because of the smugglers and the mountain people. They’re the ones who attacked Three Hills last year and they’ve already struck Lord Avery’s South Trade route,” Farkas explained. “You must have heard something.”

"Damn it," the man muttered in shock, then quickly added, "Just hold on. I need to take care of things."

Unable to hold back any longer, Farkas pressed, "Can you stop the fighting first? If we're comrades, there's no need for further bloodshed."

"Just wait," the man replied, then paused. "Say... do you have enough food?"

"How many of you?" Farkas asked, already guessing the reason.

"A little over a thousand."

"By the Ancients... you Nicopolans are always plentiful. Listen, if we can fix this today, we can march to Three Hills. In a few days, you’ll eat what you want."

"Three Hills is that close? Damn... Feels like magic."

Suddenly, movement stirred in the trees. Branches rustled, undergrowth shifted, and a group of men emerged cautiously from the treeline.

“Hold your attack,” one of them called out.

Farkas raised a hand to steady his men, then stepped forward to meet the newcomers. Both sides moved slowly, eyes sharp, shields raised in case a bolt flew. The air was thick with tension.

The Nicopolan, a much older condottiere by the look of him, saw Farkas for the first time. Their eyes met as they clasped hands.

"It's good to see you in person," the condottiere said. "Now, get your men to pull back. A hundred paces or so. We need to settle things on our end. Mercenaries like us need to uphold our contracts. Our reputation is on the line."

Farkas nodded without hesitation. "We can do that. But you need to stop the green miasma attack."

"That’s not us. That’s our employers. But we’re going to fix it."

Both men smirked while their soldiers exchanged chuckles.

Minutes ago, they had traded steel, drawn blood, and wanted each other dead. Now, they stood once again as allies, if not battle brothers, not for gold or banners, but out of shared respect for a single man: Lord Lansius.

Ted, the young squire, let out a long sigh of relief. The shift in fortune was so sudden, so overwhelming, it made him feel like he needed to piss.

In the distance, shouts of the Blue and Bronze echoed through the jungle. Nearby condottieri began dispatching messengers to spread the news to other Nicopolan units. Only a few hundred among them had served in the Black Lord’s regiment, but many held officer rank and could bring their men under control.

It wouldn’t be difficult. Most had little loyalty to their shadowy employers, and many still held genuine respect for the Lord of Korelia.

Soon, chants to cease fighting echoed through the jungle. As word spread, friendly insults flew between the lines. Both sides pulled back, giving each other space to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.

As the tension eased, commanders from both sides came together to plan their next move. The only obstacle was that many Nicopolans were mercenaries, bound by their code of honor. Their reputation depended on completing their contracts.

Even so, for the nine hundred, bloodied by ambush and thinned by the green miasma, it was the best stroke of fortune since the campaign began.

The Nicopolans had chosen their side. Now it was time for the mountain people, the ones behind the chaos, to answer for it.

***