From the Baptism of Fire (7)
When forces on a hill exchange fire with those below, it's obvious the ones at the bottom are at a disadvantage. Especially against a semi-nomadic race with tons of guerrilla warfare experience—it's no surprise they're dominating the shootout. That's why the standoff between my crossbowmen and the orc archers was playing out on pretty even terms.
Every time arrows rained down over the pavises, soldiers who couldn't duck in time groaned in pain, and more kept succumbing to poison, struggling to stay in the fight. On our side, crossbow bolts whistled sharply overhead, drawing screams from the orcs— their tough hides no match for the bolts as they dropped one by one.
In this tense exchange of fire, the orcs' poison archers seemed to have the edge. Crossbows could never match a bow's reload and firing speed. They poured arrows without mercy, and with the terrain favoring them on higher ground, it was only natural.
But I wasn't just sitting there twiddling my thumbs after sending out the crossbowmen. While they crept up the hill using their pavises for cover, I also pushed my shielded infantry forward a bit. From closer range, my troops started harassing the orcs more aggressively—hurling stones, jeering, and trading insults like "rusty piglets" or "your daddies who shoot less than your mommas' snot." Wonder if anyone actually uses lines like that in real fights.
...They've recreated everything down to the details.
It was working, though. The nonstop shooting and taunts were shaking the orcs' formation. Not enough for us to break through yet, but a solid sign their pike soldiers were under real pressure. If I could see it, their orc commander—Darko—had spotted it ages ago. He was just suppressing the lower ranks' unrest with the hierarchy of his elite orcs.
But I figured that wouldn't last. Time to switch things up.
Sticking to defense after all this? A normal commander might get props for grit, but Darko was an orc. His kind doesn't see wounded pride as a personal slight—they treat it like a survival issue. Standing still under insult isn't toughness; it's the weak whimpers of a bitch. That's what sparked this mock battle in the first place.
So if he's an orc, he won't hold out—he'll move. And the moment he does, he's lost.
...Truth be told, I'd be lying if I said the orc army they brought didn't shock me at first. Anyone would be rattled seeing something so different from the orcs I knew. But that's exactly where I think their commander made his biggest mistake.
Inertia governs thought.
No matter how much you reform or innovate, if the minds carrying it out don't change, the results will be limited. Why did all those "Eastern learning, Western tools" reforms fail? That's the story with these orcs too.
A tribe that's only done guerrilla raids, never proper maneuvers, can't suddenly become elite rotation masters just by tweaking their organization in a few years. Change demands adaptation, trial and error. They copied imperial formations, but the troops don't fit the orc mold— so when we hit their weak spots, they folded back to old guerrilla habits without much resistance.
And right on cue, three drumbeats echoed from the orc lines. Exactly what I was waiting for: dissolving the circular formation for a square phalanx, reorganizing to attack us.
They'd built some structure with their elites, but it looked chaotic—almost frantic. And of course, that was the scene I'd predicted and wanted. The moment his orc nature tripped him up.
*
"Damn it, that smug bastard...!"
As he finally shifted tactics, Darko ground his teeth behind his protruding lips.
Honestly, up until our wolf riders bolted, he hadn't thought the situation was hopeless. A handful of wolf riders could only do so much. But instead of pressing the assault, they used their safe spot—after we'd lost cavalry—to keep grinding his nerves? That forced him to waste arrows he should've conserved.
In the end, he couldn't deploy any prepared plays and had to go on the offensive. He could've held, but grumbling was erupting everywhere.
Reenactments my ass... these punks!
No time to grind them down slowly with raw power. And no point wasting effort on mere reenactors anyway. So he had no choice but to give them what they wanted: attack.
It bruised his pride, sure—but in a one-and-done fight, win however you can. With pikes raised, his pike soldiers charged the Ruticia infantry.
If he could leverage their frontal power, he could handle the infantry. The problem was our cavalry he couldn't pin down.
"───Our shields stand with the Lord of Hosts!"
They charged the axe soldiers interspersed among the pikes—to mitigate the phalanx's flank weakness. But lightly armed axemen couldn't stop heavy cavalry crashing in.
Could he pivot the phalanx to counter? No chance.
"Our shields are blessed by the Lord of Hosts!"
"Follow! Follow the foremost spears!"
To block that, Ruticia infantry surged straight at the phalanx front. They could hold the front, but turning would leave pikes slaughtered by infantry. Perfect dilemma—and Darko's options shrank with every one.
What the hell was this? Cards discarded before he played? Or read perfectly without showing his hand? How else could they pick exactly what he'd hate...!
...I got complacent.
He had to admit it: underestimated them. How a greenhorn commanded so fluidly? Questions swirled. But no time for that—he had to salvage this.
Only one play: use the intact pikes to punch through the center while they held.
"Grraaaaaah──!!"
Orcs roared like beasts, thrusting pikes as they advanced slowly. Ruticia infantry—armed with short swords and maces—couldn't resist, pushed back despite shields blocking some thrusts. More pikes stabbed chests and throats, pressing on.
Meanwhile, Darko had to check our knights barreling past his axemen.
"Come on!"
He gathered his elite guard Druzhina—upper-echelon orcs—and archers low on arrows, charging the knights with axes.
"Charge, you bastards──!!"
"Grraaaaaah!!"
The ferocious counter seemed to work. Knights gleefully massacring axemen recoiled at the archers piling in— a few unhorsed in the surprise, the rest retreating calmly to the line. Not a rout like our wolf riders.
Watching them while scrambling to cover the other flank, Darko could only scoff bitterly. We're already a mess, and they're so damn composed!
Not just knights. Infantry slowly yielding to pike assault held formation. Worse, the push slowed dramatically. Orc pikes, enraged by taunts, broke ranks for wild swings—inefficient, leaving rearguard unable to reinforce, gaps forming. Ruticia infantry countered with ease.
And they didn't miss it. Crossbowmen fired freely without archer checks. Knights reformed and trampled axemen. Infantry probed pike gaps.
Split-second judgments tipped the scales; the balanced fight twisted like a broken scale.
"What the...
"Can't win...!"
"Save me...!"
Unable to control screaming underlings fleeing, the greenish wave collapsed. Darko fought alone with his Druzhina.
It didn't last. Pikes shattered, archers fled, elites axed down one by one. Infantry surrounded him, swords raised.
"Cease fighting. It's over."
Baron von Hebel, crossing the ruined lines, declared defeat from horseback.
...Total loss.
Witnessing that composure, Darko knew it. Pride kept retorts down; he raised his weapon, ready to die fighting.
...But that changed nothing. No orders to kill or capture—but Ruticia soldiers stabbed without hesitation as he lunged at their commander.
"Guh...!"
Darko's blue eyes spun, blood soaking his lids. With utter disbelief, uncomprehending to the end, he died before the baron.