Chapter 84 – The Disciplined Retreat
Before dawn, Eisenwald's officers gathered in Fenrir's tent. A rough wooden table bore a tally of the dead and the wounded. Viktor Redmane, commander of the infantry, read the report aloud, his voice grim.
Infantry: from 1,800 → 1,200 remain.
600 killed, many more gravely wounded.
Shields and spears broken, but the core formation still intact.
Archers: from 700 → 480 remain.
150 dead, 70 badly injured, nearly 200 arrows depleted.
Morale held thanks to Valgaard's fall, though exhaustion was plain.
Cavalry: from 450 → 320 remain.
80 dead, 50 mounts lost.
Though diminished, the cavalry could still serve as a rapid maneuvering force.
Scouts/Assassins: from 150 → 110 remain.
20 dead, the rest bearing wounds.
Still capable of reconnaissance and sabotage, though numbers were thin.
Artillery & Ballistae: 50 operators with 10 machines → only 6 functional machines, 35 operators left.
Total forces: from 3,500→ now roughly 2,145 remain.
One third of Eisenwald's strength had been carved away in mere days.
Fenrir listened in silence, the torchlight glinting against the bandages covering his chest and arms. His voice was low but resolute:
"Mark it well. Those who fell will be remembered. Those who remain will return home with honor."
---
The dawn sky was thick with fog, sunlight struggling to pierce through the clouds. In the open plain, Helbrecht's host assembled—not to advance, but to retreat.
There was no roar of trumpets for victory, only the shuffling of weary feet and the muttering of the defeated.
Viscount and Count units were in disarray. Some tried to flee early, abandoning their assigned formations. Others broke into chaos the moment the command to retreat was given.
But Eisenwald stood different. Under Fenrir's order, their lines held firm:
Viktor's infantry marched with shields up and spears steady.
Selene's archers carried their bows in tight ranks despite dwindling arrows.
Garrik's cavalry patrolled the flanks, eyes sharp for danger.
Lyra's scouts slipped into the forests, ensuring the column was not ambushed.
Other lords' men glanced at them—some with awe, some with envy. The baron's army marches as though it has not lost.
---
In the command tent, Marquis Helbrecht faced his officers, the weight of defeat etched into his face.
"We retreat to the western fortress. Three days' march," he said, his voice cold steel. "Formations will be maintained. Any man who abandons his post will be executed where he stands."
His gaze fell on Fenrir. "Eisenwald will guard the right flank of the retreat. I trust your discipline."
Fenrir bowed slightly. "We will carry this retreat with honor, Marquis."
---
A mournful trumpet call echoed. The banners of Helbrecht fluttered—not in triumph, but in retreat.
Tens of thousands began their march westward. It was a river of men and horses, armor clinking, steps heavy with despair.
Disorder rippled through parts of the column. Certain Viscount troops splintered, lords galloping ahead with their guards while leaving foot soldiers behind. Others muttered rebelliously, breaking rank to scavenge supplies.
Fenrir watched, his jaw set. So this is what defeat does. Without discipline, an army becomes nothing more than prey.
---
Where others faltered, Eisenwald moved as one.
Viktor's men formed a living wall, shields raised, spears steady.
Selene directed volleys sparingly, conserving what little ammunition they had left.
Garrik's riders flanked wide, cutting down any enemy scouts who dared to approach.
Lyra's agents reported movements in the woods, preventing surprise attacks.
Murmurs ran through Helbrecht's host. "The baron's men… still march as wolves."
---
From horseback, Fenrir looked down the endless serpent of troops winding through the muddy road. Viktor rode beside him, eyes grim.
"Those who flee alone will be slaughtered," Viktor muttered.
Fenrir nodded. "And Eisenwald will not be among them."
Selene drew close, her voice steady though her face showed exhaustion. "We may have lost the war, but the people will hear of us. They will know Eisenwald returned with heads held high."
Fenrir's gaze swept across his loyal commanders. "That is all that matters. We do not return as beaten dogs. We return as wolves, bloodied, but still biting."
---
Half a day into the retreat, a trumpet blast split the air. From the treeline, enemy cavalry surged forth, preying on the retreating column.
Chaos erupted. Several Viscount units shattered instantly, their men cut down as they scattered.
But when the enemy swung toward the right, they found themselves charging into Eisenwald's shield wall.
"Shields! Spears forward!" Viktor's roar shook the line.
The clash thundered. Horses impaled themselves upon a hedge of spears, riders toppled with screams. Selene's archers loosed a hail, cutting down those who tried to circle wide.
Fenrir rode forward, his broken blade replaced with a steel longsword. Aura burned around him, crimson like molten lava. With a single swing, he felled horse and rider alike, his presence igniting his men.
The enemy raiders faltered, then broke, retreating into the woods and leaving their dead behind.
---
The Eisenwald formation did not crumble. When the dust settled, their line was still whole, their banners still upright.
Other lords' troops gaped at the sight. Their units had fallen into disorder, but Eisenwald held firm like a wall of iron.
From a distant ridge, Helbrecht himself observed. His face betrayed nothing, but a grudging respect flickered in his eyes.
Fenrir breathed deeply, chest aching with every motion, but his mind sharpened. This retreat is not humiliation. It is proof. Eisenwald bleeds, but it does not bow.
---
The column trudged westward, step by weary step. Defeat weighed upon the army, but within Eisenwald's ranks burned a different fire.
Fenrir looked ahead, eyes blazing. This loss is bitter. But I will not forget it. One day, I will command armies not of three thousand, but of tens of thousands. And on that day, I will never retreat again.
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