Huddled securely behind the thick trunks of the trees, Kevin and Tommy waited shoulder-to-shoulder. Watching the approaching band of orcs, they had slowed even their breathing to a faint whisper. The reason they weren't firing at the moment was because they wanted to wait for the orcs to fall into the trap set on the path; once they were caught, the ambush team would spring into action. While the two waited, Kevin's mind was on the moment a few hours earlier, when Leon had given the orders for the ambush preparations.
---Flashback---
Twenty men, their clothes stained heavily with mud and crushed grass, had gathered in a small, desolate clearing swallowed by the forest's gloom. The dim moonlight filtering through the canopy barely illuminated the crude path and marked trap points Leon had sketched into the dirt. Pointing to both sides of the drawing, Leon was explaining the strategy to his men.
"…we will split into two groups. All of you will line up side by side with three to five meters of distance between each man, forming two opposing ranks."
Leon continued speaking as he marked crosses to the right and left of the line representing the trail.
"We will keep a distance of twenty to thirty meters between us and the path. Given the dense clusters of trees around us, it wouldn't be wise to position ourselves any further back."
He then pressed the tip of his stick onto a spot slightly further down the path, gouging out another prominent cross.
"One of Kios's traps is planted right at this spot, and this very trap will serve as our signal. The moment they fall into it, we open fire."
He then looked deeply into the faces of the men gathered around him, meeting their eyes one by one before speaking again.
"Shoot the enemy directly in your line of sight. There are twenty of us; fire in turn with five-second intervals. On the first volley, four men from both sides will fire. Five seconds later, the next two groups, and five seconds after that, the final group. This way, we will subject them to a relentless, unceasing hail of bolts! Since we are striking from both flanks, they will experience a brief moment of utter confusion as they scramble for cover."
Seeing the unwavering resolve etched on the faces of the youths surrounding him, Leon took a deep, silent breath. Under normal circumstances, in the era he had originally come from, raw recruits or militia would wear expressions of sheer terror. However, in this brutal age ruled by the Kingdom of Swadia, wars were endless and absolute. People merely took a brief breath before taking up the sword once more. Every single one of these young men standing before him had already seen blood. Having experienced days filled with peace in his own past, Leon felt a brief pang of sorrow in his heart, yet he maintained his composure, refusing to let it show in his posture.
"Remember, unless absolutely necessary, we will not engage them in direct combat. We strike from a distance, and if they approach, we lure them into Kios's traps. We don't know the enemy's numbers; furthermore, our own numbers are meager, and we lack a proper healing tent. Our current healer, Axel, cannot possibly tend to any more wounded on his own. Our medicinal herbs are strictly limited, so be incredibly careful not to get hurt."
From amidst the crowd, Kevin asked with burning curiosity.
"Is this tactic used frequently in the Empire?"
Leon remained silent for a few seconds before nodding his head.
"Yes. The Empire is surrounded by enemies on all four sides. Ambushing the opponent is an essential military strategy, necessary from both a tactical and an economic standpoint."
Tommy eagerly chimed in.
"Does this tactic have a name?"
Leon smiled faintly and replied with a nod.
"Yes, it was inspired by a battle tactic utilized by the eastern Khuzaits. Its name is Hypokritos Ekphygē (Ὑπόκρισις Ἐκφυγή) or by its other name, which I personally prefer, Phygomakhia (Φυγομαχία)."
As the men around him nodded in understanding, Tommy pressed his question further.
"Well, what is the name of the tactic that inspired this one?"
Leon paused for a brief moment before speaking.
"It has many names, but the one that suits this situation the best..."
Leon's tone grew utterly serious. He had previously witnessed the devastating impact of this tactic on the battlefield with his own eyes, and he truly believed the name in his mind fit the impending situation perfectly.
"The Wolf Trap."
---End of Flashback---
As the orc convoy marched along the hard dirt surface of the trail, the militia buried themselves deeper into their makeshift trenches, taking utmost care not to make a single sound or movement. They had been trained by Leon and the other crossbow sergeants for over twenty days. Most would soon be ready to rank up, though some among them were not prepared for that leap, as their true desire was to become infantrymen rather than crossbowmen. There was a specific reason why the initial rank in the Kingdom of Swadia was 'militia' and why soldiers were made to carry both crossbows and melee weapons: the commanders wanted to see firsthand on the battlefield which domain each soldier excelled in. Thanks to this rigorous system, Swadia boasted the most powerful and disciplined army in the entire Warband universe. Their knights, meanwhile, were the most elite mounted and foot soldiers in existence. Despite being clad in heavy armor from head to toe, they fought with unparalleled mastery, rendering them exceptionally lethal in both defense and offense.
Approaching the ambush zone, the orcs continued their reckless advance. This careless march persisted until the warg rider at the head of the pack raised his hand into a tight fist, bringing the entire convoy to a halting stop. Only a few steps remained between them and the concealed trap point. The rider paused, sniffing the air with intense scrutiny. The monstrous warg beneath him was restless, though the source of this agitation remained unclear. The hidden militiamen tensed, dreading that they had been discovered. Their fingers twitched over the triggers of their readied crossbows, aimed dead at the orcs; they were primed to fire. Korss stepped up nervously beside the warg rider, Tollo, and spoke in the Black Speech.
"Is there a problem?"
Tollo cast a sweeping glance to his right, then to his left. The Warg beneath him was sniffing the surroundings, its coarse fur standing on end as a low growl rumbled in its throat. Sweeping his gaze through the deep shadows of the trees, Tollo spoke calmly in the Black Speech. His voice emanated from his throat, a thick, guttural rasp.
"I am not certain... there is a strange feeling in the air... Zotoork is restless..."
Patting the thick neck of the Warg beneath him a few times, Tollo glanced at Korss, then turned forward to scan the environment for a few more seconds. Just then, a slavering orc from the back of the pack interjected harshly in the Black Speech.
"Tollo! Drop the cowardice and move on! You are delaying us! If the others get there first, there will be nothing left for us!"
Following this orc's outburst, murmurs of agreement and similar grunts rose from the other orcs around him. Korss spun around furiously to face the one behind him.
"Shut your mouth, Morgs!"
Morgs shot Korss a venomous glare, pointing his gripped sword directly at him as he spat back in the Black Speech.
"You shut your mouth, you cowardly bastard! If I don't get any loot or meat, I'm going to eat you!"
Hearing this, Korss's fury spiraled completely out of control.
*"You **!"
He reached for his weapon and was about to lunge forward swiftly, but Tollo immediately spurred his warg between the two of them. Stunned by the sudden appearance of the beast, Korss froze in his tracks, and Morgs and his men, who had been preparing to brawl, were forced to lower their weapons. Tollo spoke with eerie calmness.
"Since you are in such a hurry, Morgs. You and your men can take the vanguard."
Having finished his words, he gave a polite yet deeply mocking bow and extended his hand toward the path ahead. As he steered his warg aside, he used the beast's massive bulk to shove Korss, forcing him out of the way. Korss stumbled in bewilderment and fell hard on his rear. Morgs and his lackeys scowled at Tollo, then shifted their gaze to the dark, tree-choked trail he had pointed out. Morgs hesitated for a split second. He despised Tollo and couldn't stand the fact that he was the leader, yet he held a grudging respect for his instincts. The sudden offer to take the lead sparked a deep unease within his gut, but if he backed down now, his own followers would brand him a coward. Anticipating his indecision, Tollo flashed an ugly, twisted smirk.
"Or are you frightened like a human woman? Morgs."
At the sting of this insult, Morgs glared at Tollo with eyes brimming with pure hatred. Simultaneously, Tommy and Kevin exchanged a look from their trenches. The two friends communicated through silent glances.
'What's going on?'
'I don't know.'
The rest of the Swadian soldiers were thinking the exact same thing, for not a single one of them understood the Black Speech. Leon, observing the group from afar, narrowed his eyes, piecing together the orcs' preceding movements to reach a chilling conclusion.
'It seems they have an internal conflict... but the warg rider's maneuver bodes ill... he likely grew suspicious of something and wants to send the troublemaker ahead... damn it, I wanted the warg rider to fall into the trap and die.'
Leon looked across the trail at Kevin and Tommy; both were already watching him intently. He immediately flashed a series of silent hand signals. One of the very first lessons Leon had drilled into the recruits was the Empire's sign language. These hand gestures were of vital importance for communicating during ambushes, within assassination squads, and amidst wildly unpredictable situations. Because of this necessity, every kingdom had developed its own method of silent communication, utilizing flags, bird calls, light reflections, or hand signals. Every deliberate, silent gesture Leon made in the dark depths of the forest carried a precise meaning.
"If. The Leader. Does. Not. Fall. Into. The Trap. We. Will. Execute. Plan. B."
Comprehending the message, Kevin and Tommy responded by flashing a single, unified hand signal.
"Understood."
---Flashback---
Having finished with the markings on the ground, Leon tossed the stick aside, stood up, and calmly continued his briefing.
"We must establish a Plan B just in case there is a warg rider among them and he manages to avoid the trap. Because warg riders are incredibly agile, they will pose a severe threat."
One of the militiamen asked with burning curiosity.
"What is our plan, sir?"
Leon continued with absolute tranquility.
"If he falls into the trap, the plan proceeds exactly as discussed, and everyone attacks the targets corresponding to their alignment or sequence. But if the warg rider remains standing..."
Leon cut his sentence short, turned his head, and fixed his gaze squarely on Kevin and Tommy amidst the crowd.
"Then I and the two of you will shoot the warg and the rider. I will target the rider, and you two will aim for the Warg."
The two young men were slightly taken aback by this sudden additional assignment. However, there was a perfectly logical reason for it; aside from Leon himself, they were the best marksmen in the entire unit. While Leon hunted the orc commander, he wanted to ensure that the monstrous killing machine beneath him was also definitively put down. Even though the warg was a massive target, he refused to leave the outcome to chance, explicitly assigning this beast to his top two shooters.
---End of Flashback---
Tommy and Kevin leveled their crossbows at the warg. When the time came, both would fire in rapid succession. Truth be told, they were plagued by nerves, for if they missed and the warg was left to roam free, their brothers-in-arms could be severely wounded or even slaughtered; thus, they heightened their focus to the absolute maximum. Leon, too, was locked onto his own target, the warg rider. While they aimed and waited with bated breath, Tollo's muffled voice echoed in the Black Speech once more.
"Come on, Morgs! Show us your courage!"
Morgs glanced around for a brief moment. Seeing the other orcs staring at him with barely concealed contempt, he cursed violently and whipped his head back to Tollo's mockingly grinning, repulsive face.
'You will pay for this, you bastard!'
He then snarled at his loyal men waiting behind him and marched forward.
"Move out!"
Morgs quickened his pace and pushed ahead. As he passed by Tollo, he produced a sickening rattle from the back of his throat and hawked a thick glob of phlegm right at the Warg's paws. The Warg growled in furious agitation, and Morgs snapped back with a feral snarl of his own. Tollo struck the beast hard on the nape of its neck a few times to soothe his mount. Morgs took a few steps backward, glaring defiantly into Tollo's expressionless face, before turning forward and marching on with a string of curses. Concealed within their trenches, the ambushing Swadian militiamen waited with bated breath, holding an agonizing mix of tension and adrenaline, their fingers resting taut on their triggers. And then, the moment they had been waiting for finally arrived. After advancing just a few meters down the trail, Morgs and his lackeys stepped onto a meticulously disguised patch of ground, and a dry, sickening crack echoed through the air.
CRACK!
Startled by the sharp noise right beneath his foot, Morgs snapped his gaze downward.
"Wha—!?"
But the very instant he did, the ground gave way, and he plummeted into the collapsing pit trap alongside three of his men. At the dark bottom of the pit lay jagged, sharpened wooden stakes planted vertically upwards. Heavy bodies slammed onto the spikes; dark blood splattered violently as thick layers of tough hide and meat were either brutally punctured or ripped wide open. The agonizing groans and deafening, bloodcurdling screams of the impaled orcs rising from the depths of the pit filled the silent forest.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!" "HHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
As for Morgs, a jagged stake had driven straight through his head, killing him instantly in wide-eyed shock before he could even muster a scream. His skull was pierced cleanly from the front right through to the back, the tip of the wooden spike slathered in thick, dark orc blood. The remaining orcs who had been trailing closely behind Morgs froze at the very edge of the pit in utter bewilderment, staring blankly down at their convulsing kin. Tollo instantly opened his jaw to bellow a warning.
"AMB—!?"
Yet before the word could fully escape his lips, the sharp whistling of bolts tearing through the air resonated around them. Tollo reflexively threw himself to the side, but the heavy crossbow bolt—originally destined to pierce his heart—slammed mercilessly deep into his left shoulder.
THWACK!
Tollo let out a ragged groan of sheer agony from the brutal force of the impact.
"ARGG!!!"
Almost instantly after, a bolt flew from the absolute darkness straight for the Warg. Sensing the imminent danger, the beast pricked up its ears and lunged to dodge sideways, but the heavy projectile slammed brutally into its thick torso. The Warg recoiled with a pained yelp, forced to break its stride and stumble to a halt. Then, a second bolt shot out of the shadows, embedding itself dead into the side of the animal's skull, driving in so deeply that the shaft practically vanished. Losing all balance, the Warg toppled onto its side, life leaving its eyes as it died with an expression of dumbfounded shock. Deprived of his mount, Tollo crashed hard into the dirt, entirely stunned, his left arm blazing with agonizing pain.
"AAAAA!"
Tollo shrieked in harrowing grief, mourning both the sudden death of his loyal warg and the searing agony radiating from the deep wound in his shoulder. When he looked around in a blinding rage, he saw the remaining orcs either crippled by bolts to their heads, chests, arms, or shoulders, or already crumpled dead on the bloody soil.
Korss ducked his head instantly and scrambled toward where Tollo had fallen. At that exact moment, a heavy bolt grazed his back, whistling past with terrifying velocity to smash into the tree right beside him. Korss experienced every split second of it: the terrifying hiss of the bolt tearing the air, the whisper of wind it created as it skimmed just over his scalp, and the violent thud of it impaling the wood. He froze for a heartbeat, staring at the thick shaft still violently quivering in the tree trunk. He swallowed hard, the color draining completely from his face; the grim reaper had just brushed the very nape of his neck.
Shaking off the terror, he forced himself to ignore his dying kin thrashing on the ground all around him and reached Tollo, who was writhing in pain and bellowing with fury. He grabbed the rider by his uninjured arm, desperate to haul him to his feet, but Tollo violently shoved him away. Glaring into the pitch-black forest with bloodshot eyes burning crimson with wrath, he roared into the void in the Black Speech.
"COME OUT AND FIGHT, YOU COWARDS! I WILL SLAUGHTER EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU! HHHHHHHHAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!"
Korss rapidly composed himself and dashed toward the maddened Tollo, throwing his body in front of the rider and hoisting up his thick, heavy shield. Almost instantaneously, a massive crossbow bolt flew from the dark, burying itself halfway through the metal-reinforced shield with a resounding clang, its point halting a mere inch from Korss's right eye. Staring cross-eyed at the razor-sharp steel tip that had effortlessly punched through his defense, the ugly orc went completely pale, choking down a difficult gulp.
GULP!
The deadly bolts continued to rain down relentlessly from both flanks of the forest, effortlessly piercing the surviving orcs. Huddling desperately behind his splintering shield, Korss screamed out with a trembling, panic-laced voice.
"TOLLO! WHAT DO WE DO?"
Tollo, his feral yellow eyes rolling with sheer rage, first looked at the lifeless body of his cherished warg lying on the dirt, then at his remaining men scrambling helplessly for cover or already dead, and finally at the trembling Korss. He snarled furiously through gritted teeth.
"TAKE FORMATION!"
The surviving orcs hastily closed ranks, pressing back-to-back as they locked their shields together, forging a thick, V-shaped shield wall. Of the twenty warriors who had marched into the forest, a mere nine remained breathing. The warg rider was severely wounded, Morgs and every single one of the brutes who had blindly followed him were dead, yet the relentless downpour of bolts from the shadows showed no signs of stopping. After a few more volleys, Leon let out a sharp cuckoo bird call from the darkness, signaling his men to cease fire. The bolts were now merely clattering uselessly against the thick shields, which was resulting in nothing but a wasteful expenditure of valuable ammunition. With a sudden, heavy silence descending upon the blood-soaked forest, Tollo was now faced with only two choices: either charge blindly into the pitch-black woods with his handful of battered men and risk certain death, or beat a tactical retreat to report this disaster to the Orc Chieftain and return with an overwhelming horde...