At a dip in the land, a stream naturally coursed through the field’s border. With a few logs tied together, a bridge was installed over the soft currents but it was sturdier than thought. Marching over, the century did not harm nor break a single dent in the crossing with their light bodies and even lighter steps. It was no obstacle, but some wished for it to be to allow themselves an excuse to be washed and cooled. The march continued nevertheless onto the trail that reappeared on the opposing bank, running beside the stream that winded downhill. Grains of soil and sand were slowly swept away from the barren field that became of the countryside. Sure, for their boots, it was easier to walk on, however, the air of death could not be shaken from them. Impure, the texture of the earth was almost like dust. Infertile, no crops could grow. Rough and black, not even insects could bear the alien world.
“I had a duty to keep my mentor, my commander, on course.” Codrington lectured himself and his lancers needing to heed his words, ignoring the gradual decay of life around them. “However, I was more naive.” He was unafraid to tell, without a change in his expression ever since the gunfire became the dominant fuss.
Unclipping his shako from the saddle, the major patted down the dust from its hide and straightened its evergreen plume. An ornate plate was adorned on the fore with his old regiment’s badge, imbedded with a cross and little martlets around which shone when he rubbed it with his sleeve. His beret was rolled up and stuffed into his inventory of many pouches before he fitted his hat and tightened his chin strap with a firm tug, equipping himself with the embroidered look that was fit to be welcomed by the army that the century was to join.
“I could not see the wrongs in his thought, for after all,” Codrington gave a firm smack on his shako and checked his saber as he readjusted his posture. “I was taught by that man.”
The century snaked around a hump in the land, which from the distance, appeared not too large nor steep. But as they approached it nearer, the hill became an expanse doorstop that trapped air from ever entering or escaping. Beneath them, the terrain had become unpredictable, winding and curving. It was far more noticeable when they had come across where once a crowded forest gathered, but then had been entirely cut down to stumps in the dead earth. Shaved of any greenery, even the top soil of litter had been burned, telling by the immortal smokes that formed a great incense with the scent of an old woodland. The devastation to the wild knew no ends for however far the footpath took them around the base of the hill, the scene did not change. Beside them, the stream ran into a lake on their right and the sounds of flowing currents faded into the voices of soldiers around the corner. The tracks of wagons and hooves which chipped the road ran through an opening in the wall of stakes and palisades where a patrol had just returned from their expedition. Upon seeing their allies, they halted their march and made sure to display the alliance’s proper salute before continuing onwards. Even if it was not their friendliness for that they saluted, it was certainly out of respect for what small force had arrived to their aid. Passing under two guard towers, the century noticed that the army consisted of a single nationality, speaking their mother dialects, and playing their folk music. There was not a single foreign face within their ranks and when their eyes met, there was a harsh sense of judgement against them. But that was not from the discrimination against their cultures. There was a sorrow in the elites who had been ordered to garrison the rear guard but they had seen enough to have thought that their allies would never come to tear down the siege in their hearts. In their vividly colored uniforms and polished shine of armors shielding the waning fires of their hearts, they were only desperate soldiers waiting to return home.
Sat before the white tents that lined the encampment from shoe to head was the grime of the aftermath of a morning clash. A new wave of wounded stumbled back and became the first thing, upon entry, that the century was frightened by. From past engagements, the injured would fill the records from the many battles that they had fought and the numberless misfortunes that they had met. The camp bore the same sight as the night of the blitz as some were quickly reminded by. Those with what little innocence remaining had perished into a state of chronic hatred at the world. Yet their heads could not steer away nor their noses could be pinched quick enough to dispel the horrors. But it was not what they saw that was most disturbing. It was the smell of rotten flesh and decay of corpses waiting for burial. With a constant influx of new patients outside a clinic, a group of young doctors and nurses were burdened by a boy held over a plank of wood. Behind a roaring brazier, a surgeon sawed into his arm with a wire but he had gone rabid with pain. As the nurses held him down, the saw finally broke through a cartilage. But when a spot of blood was freed from the operation, it tainted Arminius’s face who repelled from watching anymore.
Held with disgust and a reminder of the grim hell that they thought was paradise, the century came to halt when their commander held up his hand journeyed down the nearing end of his terrible memory. “In the end, we broke formation despite our orders,” Seeing a soldier come by, Codrington hung his word over the edge and unfolded a piece of paper from his inner pocket, “And well…”
A Bohemer sergeant came jogging, holding onto his cap. He was relatively young, like most who were present to replace their fathers before them. Taking a firm look at the major, he smartly saluted and received the document that the officer had held out for him. Messily written by whichever superior who housed himself in luxury hundreds of leagues off the continent on an island that he knew would never be touched by the Confederate army, the paper had the orders of Codrington’s in full, which luckily, the bright and optimistic soul could read.
Turning towards the frontlines, which yet they could not see, the sergeant declared their arrival formally with a shout, “Major George Codrington, Commander of the One Hundred and Thirty-Sixth Austschralesachsonner Century, reports combat-able with one hundred men!”
Ahead, a lone standard bearer raised the white silver lion of Bohemen on a shaft and directed to where the century should march. But the corporal soon found it odd that not a response was given as Gin poked his head out of the column, unknowing that he, as the century’s own standard bearer was supposed to give a form of reply. Only when the thick-skulled fool was tapped on his shoulder by Lev who gestured to him to hurry, did the brute lift his banner. The bannerman of the army acted and stamped in on his turn. Striking the shoe of his standard on the ground thrice, he called for his comrades marching on their path to stand aside and let through the century who was signaled to proceed.
“The whole damned thing came crashing down.” The major remembered what he had said and ended his story on an unforgiving word.
Kicking his horse to walk on, the commander led again. But whilst the lancers restarted their march, one had been trapped in a zone where his mind did not belong. In a medium of nothing. He felt the droplet of blood sliding off his cheek which he instinctively wiped off with his hand. A red smudge was painted on his palm that was not his own. The scent projected a remnant memory into his eyes, which clearly, began to recognize the faces which spawned in his nightmares. Before the next second of his moving image played, Arminius felt a hand push him onward and snapped him awake. Realizing that he had been holding back his comrades, Arminius lifted his foot from standstill and marched on with Julien behind, who, however afraid he was alone, knew that one was there to protect him in the midst of any troubles. Embarrassedly, Julien dipped his head and cleared his lethal doubts when he had fulfilled his need for someone’s back to guide him.47Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡu3Bc6mU1dT
47Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQPchcvSXgI
Extract from The Lands of the Bohemer Crown, Pt. VI47Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6rc2OybhYh
The New Age Kingdom: The Melting of the Crown, Ch. III
On the seventeenth day of the seventh month in the year four hundred and ninety-one, General Adrien Nikola, Commander of the First ‘Orphans’ Army, had completed his fortifications of a hill overlooking the Borußer village of Akülonnarchs. With barely one hundred and five thousand troops remaining, attrition became a chief concern of command. As the far more numerous Confederate army of the Rus approached, two hundred and twenty-seven thousand strong, Nikola had planned to wither down their advance and buy valuable time for his allies to retreat behind the River Istul before he himself would withdraw. When the morning sun rose, his adversary had arrived. By the fifth hour, both parties had laid out their men in positions parallel and engaged in a skirmish. Although Nikola was blessed by his position on the ridge of his camp, he was paranoid. As the Rus enjoyed the luxury of a stream of reinforcements, the general feared that his technologically and industrially superior opponent would introduce their field bombards. Alas, he lost the war in mind and ordered his vanguard of inexperienced and demoralized levies and volunteers to charge. They were shattered before even reaching the Confederate lines just a hundred paces away.
Despite having learnt his lesson, Nikola fell into a stupor of self-blame. No longer able to lead his army competently, his near-autonomous subordinates retracted his policy and grew to be more defensive, yet casualties mounted even quicker. Remained with a squadron of cavalry and half a battery of field guns, most having been captured or lost during their retreat, without a capable and a trained fighting force, many could only pray that a miracle would occur out of the gods’ pity, even for the improbability that a stray bullet would end the Rus general’s life or that a single gamble to deploy all their strength could end the battle. But it was precisely this general whose name dissolved any hope for a miracle.
We know him presently as one of the Nine Circles, the Commander of the Fourth ‘Cossacks’ Army, was the then-thirty-two year old Colonel General Leonid Vasilevsky, the ‘Summer Lion’.47Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡltUvo1dKEs
— Otto Kafka
