'War is hell' - Soldier
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-Helmand Plains, 465 BC-
Two armies faced one another on the rolling hills of the vast grassy plains of the far eastern part of the empire.
One army, positioned atop a rolling hill, commanded the high ground. The other, larger in size, steadily advanced under volleys of archer fire.
"Advance!"
"Keep marching you worthless dogs!"
"For the King!"
These words were shouted by commanding officers, compelling the vast swathes of lightly armored infantry to charge onward, under the heavy archer fire. One man - no - one boy, marched along these dense infantry columns, laden with tense emotions for the approaching battle.
2 times, 5 times, 10 times. These numerical advantages meant nothing to the men marching on the frontline. As far as they were concerned, it was a fight for survival, a fight to stay among the chosen few to walk away from the first wave of attackers.
The boy's name was Lycian, a Persian peasant who had been conscripted hastily by the local recruitment office in his hometown and sent to the far east. To fight the rebels who threatened his homeland.
As arrows rained heavily around him, skewering the two men on his left and righthand shoulder, Lycian could only focus his mind on one thought:
'March!'
For if he even thought of his impending death for one second and faltered, he would be trampled by the men behind him, who could only march ahead or share a similar fate.
Knees aching from the upward march, weeks of training instinct kicked in. Raise shield, bend knees, shift body posture, repeat. With this strategy, Lycian managed to keep pace and deflect a few arrows with his wicker shield.
The march went on, with the men at his sides being replaced repeatedly throughout the advance, refilled by the backlines. Having grown accustomed to the pattern of archer fire, Lycian raised his shield once again.
However, to his confusion, there was no jarring impact or a sensation of powerlessness as an arrow shaft penetrated his body, rather, there was no feeling at all.
Lowering his shield, Lycian looked upward at the opposing army and didn't see any sort of incoming volley or projectiles heading his way. Quickly, this was noticed by the entire advancing force, lowering their shields and pausing for a moment, confused as to what was going on.
That was until shouts and commands began to ring throughout the army by the commanding officers, "The bastards are out of arrows! Charge! Let's repay 'em a thousandfold!"
Hearing these envigorating shouts, the men couldn't help but shout out their internal frustration and fury from being one-sidedly pelted, and losing countless comrades. Lycian, at the forefront, hardened his grip on his spear, summoned whatever energy he had left from his aching legs, and charged up the hillside.
Everything seemed to begin moving in slow motion, as Lycian's entire life flashed before his eyes like a movie reel. Beginning with his mother's smile, his father's stern gaze, and his younger sister's teary eyes. as he left his home, to go to war.
It all seemed pointless now, this war, this battle, Lycian just wanted to go home.
Shaken out of his revelry by distant war cries, Lycian saw the opposing army countercharge down the hill, willing to risk accidental injury for the brute force of momentum. Lycian, steeling his grip, let out a throat-tearing yell, alongside countless others, and smashed into the enemy lines.
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"Sir, it appears our advanced force is breaking."
"That appears to be the case." A large red-capped man spoke - a hulking mass of muscle - no sane man would challenge him to a fight. This man turned to the flag bearer by his side atop a Nisean horse, decked out in intricate armors.
"Signal for the second wave to begin its advance."
"Yes, Lord Megabyzus." The flag bearer responded, signaling with a pair of flags to men in the distance. Suddenly, the sound of bronze horns ripped through the battlefield, signaling for the reserve forces to begin their separate charge up the hill and engage the weary enemy.
"It seems the supply raids were a success, my Lord, after only a few measly sacrifices, those usurpers have run out of ammunition." A nobleman spoke, flattering Megabyzus to get in his good graces. Not minding praise, Megabyzus responded, "Hoho, it is not me you should praise, but the King, for coming up with such an ingenious plan!"
"Of course!"
"Ahuramazda bless the King!"
"The King is truly a god amongst men!"
Various praises were sung throughout the nobility, all uncaring of the bloodbath occurring in the field below.
As the Shahbaz (Imperial Eagle) banners swayed loftily in the wind, Megabyzus continued listening to the nobles' rabble while also keeping an eye and ear to the ongoing battlefield.
It was a common Achaemenid tactic to send lightly armored and poorly trained conscripts to soften up the enemy lines, testing for faults and weaknesses. And this time particularly so. Thanks to the first wave, the Gandaran army had run out of arrows before the more elite and heavily armored men began their ascent to Gandaran positions.
The King, having placed full trust in his brother-in-law, gave Megabyzus 2,000 of his most elite troops, the Immortals. The Immortals had faced a full retrofit after the Kings ascension, being given horrifying silver masks, and donning even better and better crafter armor that was painted black. Overall, the Immortals were now a truly horrifying sight to see, and today was going to be their first debut under their new King.
As Megabyzus watched the battle unfold, he noticed a shift in the Gandarans left flank, having been reinforced particularly heavily as it suffered to hold back the persistent Persian onslaught.
Deciding it was now or never, Megabyzus motioned for the rabbling nobles to shut up and he turned to his flag bearer, "It's time. Send the Immortals."
Immediately, the flag bearer waved his flags in a specific pattern, signaling to the men below to blare their bronze horns in a distinct tune.
Hearing their call to action, the elite force stormed forward and up the hill. The once vibrant and green hill was now mud-trodden, and rivers of blood flowed down into pools that gathered at the base. Countless corpses littered the slope and dismembered body parts were commonplace.
Indifferent to their surroundings, the Immortals tirelessly charged up the hill with one thought:
'Kill!'
As the fearsome Immortals entered the battle, the Persian forces parted like a tide to allow leeway for them to move through, lest they wish to be cut down for getting in their path. The Gandarans left flank, exhausted and demoralized after lack of meals and supplies for the past several weeks was on edge, but after seeing the persistent Persian forces split apart, they finally had a glimmer of hope, believing that their valor and determination had seen their victory.
But what they saw emerge from the smoke of the parted Persian force made the Gandarans fall from heaven and back to hell again. They saw thousands of black-clad warriors, all powerfully built and 6'0 tall. They donned imposing black armor, and silver demon masks. To the Gandarans it looked like demons had crawled out of Ahriman's abyss and were there to punish them for their sins.
The entire left flank of the Gandaran army fell into panic. Not even lasting long enough for the initial impact, Gandaran soldiers began to step back and in some cases try to shove their way through their comrades behind them to escape. This proved worthless, however, as the men behind them stood their ground, unaware of what lay ahead of them.
Thus, with men in the front trying to flee, and men in the back holding steady, it created a moshpit of chaos perfect for the Immortals to take advantage of. In arrow formation, the commander of the Immortals led the charge into Gandaran lines, effortlessly decapitating three spearmen in his path, blood and brain matter splattering on his silver mask.
Soon, his fellow Immortals followed suit, carving a path of blood and gore through the chaotic Gandaran defenses. The Persian right flank, which had parted to make way for the Immortals, re-engaged as well, landing the final nail in the coffin to the Gandaran left flank.
What happened next was a complete rout, with the Gandaran left flank collapsing, it wasn't long before the center was encircled, and shortly after the right flank broke into full retreat.
Megabyzus, witnessing all this from his command center, ordered, "Send out the cavalry, they are to capture and kill every last fleeing rebel. I want no rats slipping through the nets."
"Yes, Lord Megabyzus," The flag bearer said, promptly signaling for the cavalry orders.
Witnessing the Gandaran army's rout, Megabyzus thought, 'With this, victory is assured...'