Chapter 58: Offensive Operations
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Third POV
The morning sun hung low on the horizon, bathing the territory of Stilwood in hues of amber and scarlet.
The peaceful countryside, with its distant hills and whispering trees, seemed untouched by the chaos that loomed ever closer.
A column of eighty soldiers marched steadily along the road, their footsteps striking the earth in disciplined rhythm.
At their head was Centurion Dalton, his sharp gaze locked on the fortified village perched atop a hill in the distance.
Trench lines scarred the land around the village, and faint silhouettes of archers and hastily armed conscripts moved along crude wooden barricades.
The defenses were a desperate patchwork, the movements of the defenders clumsy and uncertain.
Dalton raised his hand, halting the march.
At just twenty-three, he embodied the strength of Neméos' rising power—a former lumberjack who had risen through the ranks to become the first Centurion of their infantry program.
His wolf-fur-crowned helmet caught the fading light, the untamed tufts lending a savage nobility to his rugged features.
From his belt, Dalton drew a Lionheart far-eye, holding it steady as he surveyed the village.
"Forty… maybe fifty defenders," he muttered to himself, noting the farmhands with spears and the haphazard movements along the barricades.
"No training. No discipline. No armor. No match for Neméos steel." He concluded after observing the defenders.
He snapped the far-eye shut and reattached it to his belt.
His lips curved into a cold smile as he turned to his men. "Form up," he ordered, his voice firm and commanding. "Ready yourselves for your first skirmish."
The soldiers responded without hesitation, shifting into formation with the precision of a veteran force.
Dalton reached for the whistle hanging from his neck and blew a sharp, piercing note.
At once, the column began to advance. Soldiers clad in chainmail and plate jogged forward in unison, their rectangular shields gleaming in the sunlight.
The rhythmic pounding of their boots on the dirt path grew louder, steady and unstoppable.
As they neared the archers range, Dalton blew the whistle twice, and the shields snapped together, forming an impenetrable wall of steel—the testudo.
From the trenches, the defenders loosed their first volley of arrows, the shafts hurtling toward the advancing wall of shields.
The arrows thudded harmlessly against the locked shields or buried themselves uselessly in the dirt, unable to break the disciplined formation.
Round after round rained down, but the soldiers of Neméos held firm, unshaken.
As the column drew close to the trenches, Dalton raised the whistle to his lips and blew sharply three times.
The testudo split with practiced precision, opening like a machine to prepare for the next maneuver.
Infantrymen at the rear hefted their spears with practiced precision, the weapons whistling through the air as they arced high above at the defending villagers in the trenches.
Like deadly rain, the projectiles descended into the trenches, striking with brutal accuracy.
Cries of pain erupted as the sharpened points struck true, sowing chaos and fear among the defenders.
Dalton raised the whistle to his lips and blew a long, piercing note—"Beeeeeeeep"—its unbroken sound cutting through the din of battle like a blade.
The signal was clear: an all-out assault.
With a collective roar, the front ranks surged forward, shields raised as they plunged into the trenches.
The disciplined formation gave way to unrelenting violence as Neméos soldiers met the panicked defenders in brutal melee.
The clash of steel on steel filled the air, mingling with the desperate screams of the defenders.
The farmhands' makeshift weapons—wooden clubs, rusted scythes, and hunting bows—were no match for the soldiers of Neméos.
Shields battered ribs and skulls, and spears found their marks with merciless precision.
Short swords, gleaming in the dim light, delivered final, brutal blows.
Dalton moved among his men with measured precision, his spear a blur of lethal intent. Blood spattered across his armor as he struck down opponent after opponent.
A scythe-wielding villager lunged at him with a desperate yell, only for Dalton to sidestep the attack and drive his spear into the man's chest.
The villager collapsed in a heap, and Dalton stepped over the body without so much as a glance.
In less than thirty minutes , the skirmish was over. The trenches were littered with the dead and dying, weapons scattered like the remnants of shattered hope.
Survivors knelt trembling before Neméos soldiers, their hands bound as they awaited their fate.
"Lay them flat," Dalton commanded, his voice cold and unyielding. "Arms spread wide. Any resistance will be met with death…" He let the words hang, the unspoken threat heavy in the air.
The other villagers were herded into the square—men, women, and children huddled together, their faces pale and stricken.
Dalton climbed onto a wooden crate, towering over the cowering crowd like a specter of doom.
"Your lord has failed you," he declared, his tone sharp and authoritative. "Lord Galahad of House Neméos offers you salvation. Flee south, and you will find safety under his protection. Stay here, and you will share this land's fate."
A murmur of despair rippled through the villagers, their tears glistening as soldiers moved to carry out Dalton's next command.
"Burn it all," he ordered.
Torches flared to life, their flames casting flickering shadows on the soldiers' impassive faces.
The homes of the villagers were set ablaze with grim efficiency, thick black smoke rising into the evening sky.
The cries of the villagers mingled with the crackling of flames as their world was reduced to ash.
Dalton surveyed the destruction with an unreadable expression.
When the work was done, he turned to his men. "Form up," he commanded, his voice cutting through the din. "We march to the next target."
Across the Stilwood territory, the pattern repeated. Village after village fell to Neméos columns, their inhabitants displaced or left to ashes.
The Stilwood domain began to crumble like sand before the relentless tide, its people fleeing south to Neméosnfor safety.
…
Reynard POV
Into the heart of Stilwood, I rode with twenty-five of my cavalry, the pounding of our horses' hooves steady and relentless against the dirt roads.
The afternoon sun filtered through the thick canopy above, casting dappled shadows that danced across the path ahead.
The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, mingling with the distant chirping of birds.
My mission was simple and direct: create chaos, burn farmlands, scout enemy movements, and destroy any resistance with swift cavalry strikes.
Lord Galahad had also tasked me with a more specific objective: intercept any conscripts heading for Jamond Keep and clear the roads for our infantry's advance.
It was a task I relished—harassing an unprepared enemy, striking quickly and decisively, then fading back into the wilderness like ghosts.
The roads were cluttered with obstacles—fallen trees and hastily piled boulders, crude attempts to slow our progress.
Without hesitation, I signaled for my men to dismount. Axes flashed as we cleared the blockages, cutting through the obstacles with practiced efficiency.
The delays were brief, and soon we were back in motion, the pounding of hooves echoing once more.
We pressed deeper into the territory, leaving a few men behind at key positions—by bridges and narrow crossings—where the enemy might attempt to reinforce or regroup.
Their orders were simple: hold the crossings, report any enemy movements, and prevent any response from Jamond's forces.
If we could sever their ability to communicate or move, Jamond's defenses would be crippled.
As we moved further, the forest thickened, and sunlight barely touched the earth below.
A sudden movement caught my eye—a small group of men on foot, no more than a dozen, carrying makeshift weapons.
Conscripts, no doubt, heading toward Jamond Keep. They were poorly armed, their faces filled with a grim resolve, yet tinged with fear.
In front of them, a well-armored man on horseback—a knight, likely one of Jamond's recruiters—spurred his horse forward.
I raised my hand, signaling for my men to halt. The sound of our hooves softened as we slowed to a stop, the thick silence of the woods pressing in around us.
My voice was low, but firm. "Conscripts. Their lord sends farmers to face Neméos steel. We'll give them a lesson in futility."
A ripple of approval ran through my men. Hands tightened around reins and sword hilts, eyes gleaming with excitement.
I drew my blade, the polished steel catching the light, and gave the signal. "No survivors. Leave no messengers."
At my command, we surged forward. The horses charged, hooves beating the ground like thunder as we tore through the trees and onto the road.
The conscripts saw us too late—terror flashed across their faces as they scrambled to raise their weapons, but it was already over.
We were upon them in seconds. Swords flashed, cutting through their meager defense as if it were nothing.
The knight leading them met the spear of one of my men—his throat pierced in an instant.
The clash was brief but brutal. We cut through them with cold precision, leaving broken bodies in our wake.
The conscripts—farmers, really—had no place on a battlefield, and their defenses crumbled beneath the weight of our charge.
My men dismounted, finishing off any wounded with practiced efficiency.
There would be no survivors—no chance for them to warn Jamond.
I sheathed my sword, scanning the horizon for any sign of reinforcements, but the woods around us remained still, the only sound the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.
"Secure their weapons and burn their supplies," I ordered. "Leave nothing useful behind."
Without hesitation, my men moved to comply. They dragged the carts to the side of the road and set them aflame.
The smoke rose in thick, dark clouds, curling into the sky as the flames consumed the remnants of their crude weapons and the cart they'd hoped would carry them to safety.
As we watched the fire rage, I mounted once more. "Our task is not yet done," I said, my voice cutting through the smoke and the heat. "We ride to the next crossing."
With that, we moved on, leaving behind the smoldering remains of the Stilwood knight and conscripts.
…
Author note: Sorry about the late update.
Here is the picture of Richard forces, and what it's based upon.