The Hero's Return (1)
Griham had no intention of letting us reach Belanga unscathed. On the first night after leaving the Black Forest, his barbarian cavalry launched a night raid.
We'd fortified our camp in advance, but the assault was fierce. Arrows rained down like a storm, and axes hacked at the entrance to our barricades.
We met their attack with desperate resolve.
Fortunately, they weren't aiming to settle things in this one clash—Griham's forces ebbed away like the tide after just an hour.
Even after they withdrew, we stood watch through the night, nerves on edge. I personally patrolled among the troops, encouraging them, holding a torch myself to scan the darkness beyond our camp.
After a sleepless night, our feet felt like lead as we resumed the march.
Our pace slowed to a crawl, and the soldiers' fatigue showed plainly.
I knew we wouldn't make it to Belanga like this. The enemy had let us out of the Black Forest figuring the same.
I needed a bold stroke. Unless we bloodied them badly once, shaking them off would be impossible.
I gathered the centurions for ideas.
Cogol was the first to speak up.
"Remember the tactic Heigirt used to crush Alpinus and Creper?"
"How could I forget? It's etched in my bones."
"They lured us into a hasty pursuit, then sprang their trap from afar. Why not use the same play on them?"
"Their own method, eh."
Everyone fell silent, pondering.
Fire was out—against cavalry, we'd need to turn the whole plain into an inferno for real damage. Scratch that.
We needed a variation on Heigirt's ploy.
Then Boruman spoke.
"What if we dig pits?"
"Pits?"
As we shot him expectant looks, Boruman cleared his throat and continued.
"The 11th Legion's sector is mostly flatland, so we've fought plenty of cavalry battles traditionally. Even under Anpianus, there was that one scrap."
"The one where a third of our forces got wiped out."
"Right. Anpianus dug long trenches on both flanks of the legion, lined up his men in a single rank to draw the enemy in.
The trap worked perfectly—two thousand cavalry got slaughtered in one spot. The flaw was getting cocky and chasing too far after, taking needless losses, but the tactic itself was solid."
"Trenches. So, pits deep enough to break a horse's leg."
"Exactly. Best to stake them if we can, but even plain pits would work. The lead horse falls, trips the next, and it cascades."
"Not bad. Solid idea."
Rubiot nodded.
"But we'd have to dig without them spotting it. How?"
I turned to Zarmal.
"Zarmal, take the 11th Cavalry to the border farmstead and dig those trenches. Run them perpendicular to the road on both flanks. Cover them with grass. And set up a decoy camp where we'll arrive—somewhere we can spot."
"Tough work, but doable. Gladly."
Zarmal bowed his head.
We gambled by sending the 11th Cavalry ahead without infantry cover.
Another roll of the dice for survival.
Without cavalry screening us, the barbarians hit openly by day, sniping from our rear and flanks, feinting charges at any gap.
Basic tactics, but as they say, the fundamentals are the deadliest. Their harassment chilled us to the bone.
They harried us relentlessly, like wolves wearing us down. Physically and mentally, we were on the brink.
They'd shake us like this, then sweep us away in one final rush—that much was obvious.
The problem? We had no counter.
That's why infantry hates open plains against horse.
Still, we endured the day without cracking.
To them, it might've looked like we'd just scraped by another day. To us, it meant everything.
We staggered into the 11th Cavalry's waiting camp, utterly spent.
"Light every torch we've got. Halve the sentries. Make it look like desperate bluffing."
I planned to end it tonight. If we were pushed to the limit, they'd get cocky, thinking victory assured.
No telling who'd win, but this was our one shot to hurt cavalry that could pick the field.
I climbed the makeshift watchtower.
The dark plain stretched empty—no lights yet. But I knew Griham's horses lurked under night's veil. The prickling kill-intent on my skin and the dead calm before the storm told me so.
Hand on my sword hilt, I glared into the horizon.
"I smell dogs. Coming in black as night."
Rubiot joined me.
A pale moon peeked through the clouds. Its light revealed the enemy's vast host arrayed across the plain.
"Over ten thousand. All in."
"With their princess and prince captured? No letting us slip away easy. They want to finish us here."
I hardened my face.
Could I save my men in this fight?
I clenched my fist.
Crack.
Piiiee. Piiiee.
Their eerie pipes echoed across the plain. Torches flared up everywhere.
Crunch. Cruuunch.
Their cavalry formed ranks for the charge—no circling, straight at us to break our line.
That vast horizontal front alone instilled deep dread.
Griham. Brikin.
Worthy foes.
Their mighty host thundered toward us, hooves pounding as one.
"Beat the drums. Barbarians incoming."
Doong. Doong. Doong.
The legion's drummer poured every ounce of strength into the frantic beat.
"Infantry to positions! Hurry!"
We feigned panic, reacting a beat slow to their assault.
Mid-frenzy, I subtly signaled Boruman: form up and prepare to charge. The order went to him, Zarmal, and all key centurions. We hid our fear of their overwhelming presence behind cold steel, eager for the clash.
Dududududu!
The hoofbeats swelled to a roar.
Soldiers barely had shields up when the lead enemy riders—faces smug with victory—bore down. So certain it was over?
I bellowed.
"Loose!"
Ershiang's archers unleashed a volley. A few barbarians toppled mid-gallop, trampled by their own.
But the archers scored little—the enemy outnumbered our arrows.
Then they hit our flimsy barricades.
Hiiihiin!
The front rank wheeled to encircle—then plunged into the pits. Riders realized too late amid the horses' screams.
The second rank, unable to brake, inertia-flung into the traps.
Barbarians howled in shock, but their onrushing comrades swept them in. Only after several ranks collapsed did the charge halt. That's when our first assault wave poured out.
Zarmal led.
"Zarmal! The legion standard! Take Griham's head in the legion's name!"
Zarmal seized the eagle and plunged into them. The 11th Cavalry surged like a furious wave; stunned foes took the full shock.
"Kyaaak!"
Zarmal and his men hacked wildly, splitting their ranks. Boruman's 11th Legion infantry followed, spears leveled.
The 11th specialized against cavalry—spears their staple. They skewered the dazed enemy, shoving forward. Horsemen deprived of mobility? Spear fodder.
Boruman's unit carved through mercilessly.
Finally, me.
I drew my blade.
Ershiang set aside his bow for sword.
"16th Legion! Show these barbarians what a frontier legion can do! Charge!"
Waaaa!
Soldiers roared out. Cavalry vs. infantry head-on, but they'd botched their momentum with the initial disaster and follow-ups. Even exhausted, conditions favored us.
My cloak billowing, I led them.
Clang!
Blades met; I spun, yanked him in, bashed with shield. As the foe—teeth shattered—rolled, I stomped his neck and leaped over.
"Barbarians hitting the left flank!"
Rubiot yelled from the tower.
Not pushovers. Even rattled, they'd rallied a wing—proof of their command skill.
I beckoned two legionaries. They cupped shields; I mounted.
"Rikius! Left flank! Form square on the left! Anyone—form square!"
I shouted desperately.
Rikius heard, bolting left. I leaped down. Left urgent, but center demanded eyes too.
Spotting a gap, I charged in swinging.
For near thirty minutes, we fought without respite. Throat burning, arms leaden.
Gritting teeth, I shield-pushed a foe.
Then clouds snuffed the faint moonlight. Darkness fell; both sides grew cautious—no distinguishing friend from foe.
Boruman and Zarmal, deep in enemy ranks, were exceptions—nothing but foes around, no hesitation needed.
Panting, I shoved back and retreated a step.
"Hah. Boss?"
Riti's ragged breath came from behind.
"Tougher than expected. We seized initiative for the win, but it's even."
"Factor in numbers. At least the moon's gone—breathing room. Lucky."
Agreed.
Clouds parted; moonlight returned. Blades whistled anew, hungry for throats.
"Enemy leader! The chieftain's coming!"
As I slew one, blood-soaked and heaving off my helmet, center troops screamed.
Griham.
The giant, visible afar, whirled his monstrous axe like a windmill, felling our men.
One swipe launched a soldier shield-and-all; a downward chop split helm and skull.
His strength defied belief.
Monster.
I swallowed dryly, flung my shield, shed my cloak. Lighter now.
I roared at him.
"Griham! I'm right here! The 16th Legion's eagle stands here!"
His pumpkin eyes flashed. He arrogantly hurled a mangled corpse our way, turning to me.
The old me might've quailed—or fled the fight.
Not now. I bore my comrades' trust, the legion's honor. The eagle doesn't retreat from prey.
To banish fear, I whispered to myself.
"I am the legion."
(To be continued)