The Trap of Huntington
A towering stone structure loomed over the territory of the anti-Grand Duchy faction. Girded by a deep moat and built from massive, rugged blocks of granite, Huntington Fortress was a historic stronghold. For centuries, whenever the Grand Duchy launched an invasion, this fortress was always the first to bear the brunt of the assault.
It was a vital choke point; if the defenders could hold it by any means, they could eventually cut off the Grand Duchy's supply lines. This was precisely why the Grand Duchy always targeted it first. Gazing at the fortress from a distance, Martin fell deep into thought.
'He told me to launch a moderate attack and then withdraw, didn't he?'
Agrippa, the Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Duchy, had issued two distinct orders. First, attack Huntington Fortress. Second, if the enemy's suspected reinforcements emerged from the forest, use the mercenaries as a shield to preserve the fresh recruits as much as possible while executing a retreat.
The dense, sprawling forest nearby was indeed the perfect hiding place for cavalry. 'If we focus all our attention on the siege, only for enemy cavalry to launch a surprise flank attack from the rear... that would be the absolute worst-case scenario.' The mere thought of the siege engines and mages in the rear guard being slaughtered by enemy knights made Martin lightheaded.
'So, what should I do?' The last confirmed enemy count inside was twenty-five hundred. With his force of nine thousand, taking that small fortress should have been child's play. However, the spies he had sent into the fortress had gone completely silent.
'It's not just one or two. For five to seven spies to all lose contact at once... something highly unusual must be happening inside Huntington Fortress, and they are going to extreme lengths to hide it.' Troubled by this realization, Martin began deploying his troops one by one, carefully studying the map and the surrounding terrain.
This would be the best spot to pitch their camp. Considering the order to lose this battle, the Commander-in-Chief and the Grand Duke likely planned to draw the enemy out and annihilate them all in one fell swoop. With that theory in mind, Martin stationed a large number of spearmen around the mages and siege weapons.
Minimize casualties. Intentionally lose the battle. Martin felt a prick of resentment toward the two leaders, feeling somewhat underestimated. A general existed to fight and defeat the enemy. No matter if it was the Grand Duke's command, no general in the Grand Duchy would ever take pleasure in their own defeat.
War, victory, and honor—as a man who revered these ideals, Martin could not help but feel dissatisfied with his orders. "Perhaps I can sting them a bit during the pursuit," he murmured, his eyes scanning the defensive formations he had prepared for the retreat.
'After all, they told me to lose, but they never said I couldn't counterattack during the retreat.' History was full of battles where an overconfident victor pursued a retreating army, only to suffer devastating losses and be forced back. Smiling grimly, Martin placed various markers and wooden blocks onto the map. "This might actually turn out to be quite profitable."
"Heh, they've gathered quite a crowd out there," the enemy general chuckled, looking down at the forces surrounding the fortress. The besieging army numbered roughly ten thousand. However, the defenders had quietly slipped mercenaries and regular troops into the fortress over time, amassing a formidable force.
To prevent any spies from leaking this information, they had enforced a strict, absolute quarantine of the fortress. Even when receiving food supplies from the outside, supply wagons were forbidden from entering the inner gates, keeping the operations completely segregated. Because of these meticulous precautions, the enemy likely believed only three thousand men held the fortress. In reality, the defending force numbered fifteen thousand.
It was almost comical to watch the Grand Duchy's forces swagger about, entirely unaware that they had lost the numerical superiority essential for any successful siege. "General, what are your orders?" the adjutant stepped forward to ask. The general's lips curled into a cruel sneer.
"First, hold them off with moderate effort. Once they exhaust themselves against our walls... we will unleash the cavalry to disrupt their rear, and launch a full-scale counteroffensive." The adjutant nodded in understanding. "Today... they will return to their soil as corpses." The general smiled with deep satisfaction. "Indeed. They are nothing but thieves coveting another's land. It is only fitting."
Bwaaaah! Bwaaaah! At that moment, the deep blare of war horns echoed from beyond the walls. In perfect sync with the horn calls, the enemy infantry advanced, escorting their siege engines. Moments later, arcs of blazing fire magic soared toward the battlements.
"Mages! Cast the barrier!" a centurion on the wall bellowed. A shimmering, translucent dome of magical energy materialized, enveloping the battlements. *Boom!* Massive bursts of flame detonated harmlessly against the barrier in midair. "Crossbowmen, archers! Loose!" At his command, a torrential rain of arrows began to fall.
Watching the enemy's defense, Martin stroked his chin. 'Hmm, a defensive barrier.' It was a highly effective spell for minimizing casualties and dragging out a battle. While they could theoretically shatter the barrier by unleashing more powerful offensive spells, doing so would place an immense physical toll on his mages.
'Now is not the time. If we want to inflict real damage later, we must conserve our mages' mana.' According to their latest intelligence, the enemy had less than half the number of mages they did. The opposing commander's tactics were highly pragmatic. Since offensive magic consumed far more energy than defensive barriers, the enemy's defensive posture was textbook.
As Martin monitored the battlefield, his gaze drifted toward the dense forest. 'Should I just burn the entire forest down?' That would completely neutralize any potential cavalry ambush and allow them to seize the fortress. But if he did that and accidentally won the battle, Agrippa would probably skin him alive. Martin let out a heavy sigh.
"Sigh... what a miserable fate. A general who isn't even allowed to win on his own terms." But what choice did he have? He was a soldier, bound to obey the Commander-in-Chief's orders. He clicked his tongue as he watched his men struggle to scale the walls, falling one by one under the relentless barrage of arrows and boiling oil poured from the battlements.
"He looks no older than my son..." "Pardon, General?" At his adjutant's question, Martin spoke in a bitter, heavy voice. "That soldier who just burned to death. He looked about my son's age." The adjutant replied with a sympathetic sigh, "They are just mercenaries, sir. Try not to take it to heart." "Perhaps. But they are still human beings. How can my heart not ache?"
Martin stroked his chin, lost in thought. 'It should be about time for their cavalry to move.' His infantry had already rotated through three shifts, fighting on the front lines three times over. Fatigue was setting in. If Martin were in the enemy commander's shoes, this was exactly when he would unleash the cavalry. "The enemy will deploy their cavalry soon. Order the mages to cease casting and fall back to the rally point."
Atop the battlements, the enemy general spoke. "The enemy is looking quite exhausted." "Naturally, General. They have been throwing themselves at our walls for over four hours now," the adjutant replied confidently. "They are rotating through three shifts, while we are rotating through six. Their fatigue will accumulate twice as fast."
The general pondered this for a moment. "In two hours—no, make it one. Order the cavalry to strike." The adjutant nodded and signaled with a circular motion of his hand. Nearby, a soldier began hoisting a series of signal flags up the mast. Looking out over the battlefield, where siege towers were already ablaze and scaling ladders were engulfed in roaring flames, the general murmured, "What a pity..."
"What is, General?" the adjutant asked. Looking down at the mounting corpses, the general sighed. "Though I am a soldier who lives for war, it is always a tragedy to see so many young lives cut short." "They are only the enemy, sir." "They are still citizens of the Empire. Ordinary people, just like you and me, dying simply because of the decisions made by those sitting in high places."
Soon, the besieging army would be utterly annihilated. Even if some were lucky enough to survive, they would likely just be conscripted and dragged back to another battlefield. "This is exactly why I despise those Ryan bastards. Idiots who worship war without ever understanding its true horror..." His bitter voice echoed hollowly over the stone walls.
Amidst the brutal chaos of the battlefield, a scout rushed up to Martin, panting heavily. "General! Enemy ca... cavalry! They've just burst from the eastern forest!" Having already anticipated this, Martin responded calmly. "Deploy the spearmen stationed in the rear to intercept them."
But then, the adjutant stared toward the eastern forest, his face draining of color. "Oh... gods, no." Hearing the tremor in his adjutant's voice, Martin frowned. 'Why is he reacting like this? We already knew there was cavalry hiding in the woods.' But when Martin turned his gaze eastward, his heart stopped. The sheer volume of cavalry pouring out of the tree line was staggering. How was this possible? Were there not only three thousand defenders in total?
Judging by how effectively they had defended the walls, Martin had estimated at least two thousand troops were stationed on the battlements. He had expected a cavalry force of perhaps a thousand at most. Now, his face turned deathly pale. 'We... we've been lured into a trap. How could they have hidden this many troops?'
"We must... we must retreat, General!" the adjutant urged desperately. Martin bit his lower lip so hard it nearly bled. The enemy's numbers were far beyond anything they had anticipated. His clever plan to counterattack during the retreat was utterly worthless in the face of such overwhelming force. In war, numerical superiority was almost always the deciding factor.
Roaaar! With a deafening battle cry, the massive gates of Huntington Fortress ground open, and a torrent of fresh enemy infantry surged out. They charged directly toward the exhausted soldiers of the Grand Duchy, who were already flagging from hours of grueling siege warfare.
"Aaargh!" "S-spare me!" "How is this happening? How can there be so many of them?!" 'Was this... was this what they were hiding all along?' Watching the seemingly endless tide of enemy soldiers pouring from the gates, Martin closed his eyes for a brief, heavy moment.
"Retreat! Sound the retreat! Order all commanders to fall back to the designated rally points immediately!" At his command, the adjutant blew the war horn with all his might. *Bwaaa! Bwaaa-aaah! Bwaaa!* Hearing the unmistakable signal to withdraw, the soldiers and officers panicked, scattering in a desperate bid to escape.
But the enemy cavalry was already bearing down on their rear, showing absolutely no intention of letting them escape. Martin bit his lip, mounted his warhorse, and raised his spear. "Knights, form a wedge! Infantry, follow me! I will carve out a path for our retreat!"
"Damn it all!" the knights cursed, scrambling onto their mounts. "Follow the General!" Seeing his knights quickly fall into formation, Martin took his position at the very tip of the wedge. "If you want to see your homes again, fight with every ounce of strength in your bodies!" With that final battle cry, he charged headlong into the oncoming wave of enemy cavalry.