Though the weather was still as cold as the sky was clear, Alca couldn't feel a thing. When he had learned about the approaching enemy, he had been afraid of his first combat, but now he felt only numbness. His original idea of battle had been a siege, like what others had told him about their experiences at Qarasi Castle.
All he would have to do in a siege was to fire at the mighty enemy warriors from behind the safety of a wall. Even at that prospect, he had been sufficiently scared. Yet their commander had insisted that they meet the enemy on the field in an open confrontation. What nonsense was this?
While his fellow captains and their subordinates looked as miserable as Alca did, they still followed their orders without question. Obedience and order had been the core of their training regimen after all. Even the loudmouth Killari kept quiet and took position to his friend's left. Although Alca didn't look, it was easy to tell from the crunch of snow under Killari's boots and the clang of his halberd against his cheap metal armor. While the soldiers held their weapons tight, their mindless commander ignored the worries of his men and positioned himself before them.
"Fellow men of the south! Soon, we'll see our enemies before us, and they'll kneel when they see our great power! But don't worry, as a man of grit I will make sure we'll take every one of them them to the underworld! Soon, we'll all taste the glory of great heroes, and become immortals in the stories!" The ensign paused as he looked at the unimpressed faces of his men, before he continued in a more somber tone.
"I understand your worries. Maybe you ask why we aren't hiding up there behind the walls. And you are right: Our victory would be even simpler from behind a fortification. But I want to ask: What hero has ever shirked away from a challenge? What hero would just duck down and cower in fear? In the end, the safety of the walls mean nothing. We'll still manage a perfect victory, believe me! Let's all become great heroes together!"
Now Alca understood his commander at last. The ensign wasn't a rare craftsman with backbone. No, the swellhead just dreamed of bedtime stories and lacked any sense at all. Maybe his parents had sent him to the army to get rid of his nonsense at home. While Alca did his best to hide the spreading scowl on his face, his commander just continued without reservations.
"What, you're still afraid? We even built a barricade! Watch those dull northerners break upon my strategic genius!" As he spoke, he pointed behind him, at the rickety collection of loose wood.
Really, Alca couldn't imagine what sort of effect the few heaped tables and chairs from the village would have. Warriors were elites with super-human strength. In battle, they would wear armor more heavy than an ordinary man could even lift. Any warrior worth his salt would just charge right through those measly 'barricades', wouldn't he? Although he wanted to criticize the ensign, Alca wouldn't dare disagree with a superior. Instead, he just held his gun ever tighter, his best protection from the fear.
Even if he spoke up, now it was too late. On the horizon, he could already see the approaching enemies. Fancy, expensive armor of shiny black and red lacquer covered their entire bodies, while their faces where hidden behind stony masks, depictions of the powerful divines who protected their respective houses. Even over all the white around them, the evil glint of their axes shone in the midday sun, as beautiful and dangerous as the sea. Although Alca wasn't the greatest at counting, he guessed there were at least fifty, more than half of what they had. Two commoners for every warrior, wasn't this bad?
"There he is, the enemy! Load the muskets! The halberdiers get into position behind the barricades and kneel down until I give the signal! Let's show them our full force, the true strength of the south!"
Even now, the overzealous craftsman's voice sounded full of spirit. Without a word of reply, his terrified troops loaded the paper cartridges into their guns. As his trembling fingers brought the weapon to his mouth to break the seal of the cartridge, a flustered Alca could only imagine how his fellow soldiers felt. If they hadn't repeated the motion countless times in training, the captain wasn't sure he would have remembered all the steps. While the southern soldiers still fumbled with their preparations, their foes were long battle ready. A war cry shook Alca's bones and almost made him lose the ramrod in his hand. Attracted by the noise, he looked up for a second and he saw the avalanche of steel and flesh already on its way towards them.
Like demons, these heroic warriors shouted out their thirst for blood as each step brought them closer to the enemy. Terrified, Alca looked back down to continue, but realized that he had taken out the ramrod too soon. He hadn't even inserted the cartridge yet.
*You've done this in training. You know this. Fill the gunpowder into the breech. Cartridge down the muzzle. Ramrod after. Put the ramrod back under the barrel. Cock the hammer.*
His weapon loaded at last, Alca looked back up and was shocked. Just a moment ago, the warriors had been far away, almost on the horizon. How had they gotten this close already, and in ankle-deep snow to boot? Again, the soldier's forced calm was replaced by a fresh onset of panic.
"Aim!" their ensign shouted. Like a machine Alca's body followed the orders, his mind paralyzed from fear. Only a few moments and they would be in firing range.
"Hold until my command!" he heard. Alca swallowed heavily in response. What sort of force drove these warriors into this kind of head-on charge, he wondered. Weren't they afraid of death? In his head, Alca imagined the rest of the battle, how their lead would bounce off the expensive armors like balls of paper, before the demons would break into their formation and slaughter them all.
How had he ever thought they could fight against this kind of force? The men before them were born and bred for battle, and they had given their whole lives in pursuit of honor. Why would the divines favor him, a mere commoner child who lacked piety and never even thought about honor before he joined the army? Out in the cold wind, the bit of courage he had amassed in the hut earlier had long disappeared.
Still, Alca put the musket's stock up to his shoulder and waited for his ensign's command. His body obeyed somewhat, but his weapon swayed back and forth. Cold sweat formed all over his body and his finger on the trigger began to itch.
*Not yet,* he thought with a clarity that surprised himself. *A bit closer.*
But then, a shot broke through the shouts of demons. When Alca looked at his weapon in shock, he realized that it hadn't been him. Somewhere to his left, another soldier had lost his calm first. The shot landed a few meters in front of the enemy path and caused only a small plume of snow to form at their feet. Unperturbed, the seasoned warriors stormed on. Yet the commoners had already panicked before the shot even landed. In a chain reaction, all others fired their weapons as well. Somewhere in the confusion, even Alca had pressed his trigger.
Even then, the foes never left his sight. Through the smoke, he saw one of them get swept of his feet by a hit and land back-first in the snow. When they saw their comrade fall, the other warriors slowed for a moment, but soon they charged with even more ferocity.
"Only fire on my command! Reload, reload!" their almost useless commander shrieked over the powerful chorus of enemy roars. At least the words brought some of the soldiers back to their senses. 'On my command' were words they had heard countless times in training; they reminded them of their duty. If they couldn't even follow basic commands, they would all die here. Now back to their full tremble, Alca's fingers somehow tried to fumble the second cartridge from the pouch on his belt into his gun.
*Calm down. One of them fell. They're mortals too.*
With a second to think and breathe, Alca felt like he had hit on some fundamental truth. Once more calmed, he finally managed to reload without a problem. When he looked back up, the enemy was already more than halfway through their firing distance. How were they this fast in all that armor? His chest tightened as he peered to the side, where he saw Killari squat behind the barricade with his halberd in hand. One salvo wouldn't be enough to break the charge. Could they really stop it?
"Fire!" Now even the ensign's voice trembled. Yet just in time, their second volley showed real results. Accompanied by the concentrated thunder of their flintlocks, an entire row of seasoned warriors stopped mid-step as if they had run into an invisible wall. Without a chance to catch themselves, their still bodies dropped into the snow. As the men behind stumbled over their dead or injured comrades, their charge lost half its force. Still, the veteran fighters would close the distance long before the next salvo could go off. Their fallen companions had only made them more angry. There were still too many demons left, and Alca knew his fate if the cultivators ever broke into their ranks.
"Reload, reload! Halberds brace for impact!"
Again his body moved in response to the anxious voice, this time like the wind. Somehow, he had become calmer the closer the demons had come. He had seen them fall, and he could see their eyes hidden behind their masks. They were no demons, but mere mortal men. Why would the divines favor one mortal over another? As he was still busy with the ramrod, he could hear a heavy thud and clang from his front, followed by anxious groans and shouts.
*First finish your work,* he thought without looking up.
*Pull out the ramrod. Put the ramrod back under the barrel. Cock the hammer.*
When he raised his head, the enemy was already upon them. Yet like a miracle, they were stuck on the laughable barriers their crazy ensign had erected. With several dozen halberds stuck out from behind the wooden barricade and heavy men braced behind them in the snow, the tables didn't look that ridiculous any more. They had held against the first charge, but they wouldn't last for long. Already Killari's feet drew deep lines into the snow as he was pushed back.
Alca stuck his flintlock through the gap in between two halberdiers. A single shot by itself wouldn't make a difference, so he waited for his command. He hoped his fellow muskets would speed up their movements and reload before the warriors could break through the formation of soldiers.
Their halberds couldn't break the heavy armor, and so the enemy force pushed back their line step by step. Only a few meters and they could gain enough room to surmount the barricade, their front line and then their entire force. Even with the snow, even with the tables, the halberds and the tight formation, a few cultivators could still overpower them like it was nothing. But they weren't without their own advantages.
"Fire!" the voice sounded again to relieve Alca's nerves. His muzzle trained on the foremost warrior, the soldier pressed the trigger. This time smoke from the powder took his sight for a second, but at such close range, he could hear the screams of pain, as well as the muffled thuds of bodies in the snow. Their third salvo had really hurt the mortal warriors, and soon he could feel their halberds push forward again to regain a clean defensive line. When the smoke lifted, his enemies were already on the run, back towards the horizon they had come from.
"Reload! Fire at will! Don't let any get away!" Now strength had returned to their commander's voice, together with a frantic eagerness that felt ugly to Alca. Still, at this point he didn't need any orders to know what to do. By the time he had reloaded, the enemy was once more halfway out of his range. A single shot was all he could offer them on their journey back; it whistled past them as if it wanted to guide their way. None of his fellow musketmen managed another shot in time, though some fired anyways, long after the warriors had escaped their grasp.
When Alca looked at the ground before the barricade, he saw the former demons writhe in the snow, now colored red from their wounds. Back in Saniya, armed conflict had been something bad, restricted to only the highest and lowest strata of society. Between the duels of great lords and the gang wars in the dark alleys, Alca had always tried to avoid any conflict. Yet now, he understood its allure. Never had he been so elated to see blood. Like a hero from the old tales, he stretched out his hand and presented his weapon to the heavens.
"Victory!"
All his companions followed his shout. It was the first open-field conflict of the war, and it had ended in a complete victory for the south. Almost a third of King Pacha's small raiding force had been wiped out, with no losses on the side of the southern kingdom. Over he following days, similar battles would be repeated all across the eastern front.
It was the first bloody baptism for the newest batch of King Corco's commoner troops, and it would break the spell the invincible warriors had held over them. After they had survived their first charge, Corco's army of peons had turned into soldiers.