6 Months Prior - Romanov Front

Gunfire continued sporadically from the thick forest, a puff of smoke, the ring of a shot, and then a scream. Repeat. A lone figure stood atop a hill, behind a line of solid infantry. Withdrawing an eyeglass from his coatpocket, he scanned the field. His position atop the hill was further cemented by the forests surrounding it, the climb uphill would be difficult and arduous, the trees interlinked by huge roots and covered by thick foliage. But it would also act to conceal any would-be enemies, a double edged sword to be sure. To the West, a small hamlet stood, no more than five houses clustered around the nucleus of a well, and to the East nothing but plains. And he faced North, where an army triple his size stood, stone-faced. Surveying this host revealed that most of it was infantry, but both their cavalry contingent and artillery train was nothing to be mocked either. Frederick lowered the eyeglass, and wiped his brow. The damned Romanov weather seemed to either be too cold, or intensively hot. Regardless, some of the sweat was no doubt from raw fear. In one hand, he crushed the note issued from Command.

Your force is to hold Cambri Hill, until relieved.

Failure will result in the disbandment of the Silverian Legion, and the court-martial of the Legion's staff.

He could already see the sneering faces of the bastards. They never told him what lay over the hill. The bushes in front of him moved unnaturally, and a soldier clad in makeshift camouflage materialized.

“We’ve counted 130 dead, Sir. At least 14 of them are officers.”

The pride of his Legion, the fierce Jagers, silent killers with years of marksmanship below their belts. And in the forests below, they were at home, picking off the sullen lines of enemies, each waiting their turn for the bullet to bite into them, moving quickly after every shot, every angle covered and with no place to hide from their unseen wrath.

“Very good, Corporal.” Frederick suppressed a shiver, they were true killers. “Keep it up until they move, then withdraw to the boundary we set.”

The Jager gave a wicked grin, and submerged back into the trees, vanishing instantly. In front of him stood the ever reliant Line Infantry, standard men who had seen their share of action, and cursed the Romanovs who could only watch. Undisciplined, unruly, and utterly uncouth, but when the bullets start to fly, each man could reload, prime and fire his musket in a matter of 15 seconds, tirelessly for hours. Some of the things his troops directed toward the enemy were the vilest things he had heard, though some comments about mothers were ones he had heard many a time before. The Prince listened to the idle chat between the more experienced men, of how the harvest was good, the weather was superb and of the nearby travelling circus of wonders every man should see in their lifetime. He knew that these men, despite the façade they put up, were terrified of the upcoming battle, and even now many constantly left to empty their bladders, only to come back later, and repeat the process. War was not a pleasant business, and they all knew that all too well, but still they had a duty to do, and they stood firm. Frederick smiled, and joined in on the jeering, and his men cheered every line with raucous hooting.

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Ibrahov continued pacing back and forth, ahead of his own lines. As he did this, he was aware of the numerous gunshots that had taken much of his General Staff already. The Duke of Passenese had his head blown off next to Ibrahov, and he was morbidly sure that the unfortunate Duke had walked into the path of a bullet that had been intended for him, as even when Ibrahov dove to the ground, the bullets drove on, gouging dirt all around him. Now, he was furious, screaming at the woods and bushes for the cowards to come out, and the tirade decreased the morale of the fearful men who crouched behind crates and ditches whilst their lunatic Commander ranted at the unseen enemy. Growing bored, and anxious at the increasingly accurate shots, Ibrahov kicked back his horse to his Command Tent, where what remained of his Staff cowered under both Ibrahov' emanating fury and the rounds that continued to whizz around. He pushed past several attendants who offered to relieve him of his coat, and headed straight for the next senior officer, Lieutenant General Daniels, his predecessor General Inkelmann having taken a bullet right between his eyes.

“We've been taking far too long standing still, allowing these idiots to fire upon us and taking more and more lives by the minute. What is holding us up?” he asked Daniels.

“Sir, we're still waiting for the supply train from Blueblood to catch up with us, it has ammo and equipment that will last us throughout the-,”

“Damn the supply train!” Ibrahov picked up a nearby pistol, checking its contents. Finding that it was empty, he fished out a few rounds from a nearby container and began loading.

“But sir, without it-,” Daniels was aware of Ibrahov's actions, eyeing both the pistol and his commander in turns.

“The supply train won't be arriving for several hours, we'll have taken far too many casualties by then. Commence the roll call, form up the men and advance immediately. We'll drive out the forest weasels first and then do a full charge uphill, momentum and brute force will win this battle.”

“Sir,” breathed Daniels, attempting another plea, “Without enough supplies and ammo, our men won't have sufficient support from our artillery. We won't even be able to fire a single, good salvo before the attack proceeds.”

Ibrahov looked up at the mention of artillery, and almost looked like he was going to blow.

“Artillery? Artillery?! When was cannon ever bought into the strategy?”

“We just transferred a unit by rail from Laurel, sir. We thought that by properly softening up the enemy beforehand, we'll be able to make the charge easier.”

“Fine, but there will be no preliminary bombardment.” He went back to loading the pistol with meticulous care.

“Whatever do you mean sir?”

Ibrahov rolled his eyes, and looked up again, recklessly pointing the gun at the man as he explained.

“We will advance at a steady rate, through the forests, and for that we will not require to waste our precious supply of shells on a few swamp rats, do you understand? I also don't want to be traversing land chock full of crater holes, the terrain's unfavorable as it is.” Ibrahov lowered his gun and continued loading it's magazine.

“When we have driven them out, we will continue up the slope at a steadier rate, and once we reach 200 meters from the enemy line.” Ibrahov pushed down the last bullet until it clicked. “You will provide as much fire support as possible.”

Daniels froze for a second. He was looking into the face of a madman, who smiled at him with a feral grin even though he could feel himself becoming pale as freshly fallen snow. Artillery support at 200 meters. What insane fool would do that to his own men. Daniels opened his mouth to speak, when he noticed the subtlest movement under the table. He saw the barrel aimed right for his midriff, and Ibrahov still smiling, the look of an indeed deranged lunatic. Daniels, for a few seconds opened and closed his mouth, and eventually composed himself. The Staff around the room all looked away, or at their feet.

“Is that understood gentlemen?” the room’s occupants nodded.

The battle began.

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At the sound of the bugles, the Romanov infantry formed quickly, glad to have a chance to strike back at the invisible foes. The comforting sun was replaced by a hail of rain. In icy drives, the rain fell like millions of small spikes, cool to the skin and soaking the dreary coats and spirits of men. Musket gunpowder turned to a sludge, and many had to be reloaded again as they beat the march. The rifles crackled in intensity as so many targets cropped up, and here and there, Romanov troops defied orders and fired back in desperation, tracking the muzzle flashes in the blinding rain. The bugles played again for a minute that lasted forever, and the Romanovs surged forward, singing in unison a local song of a long lost lover, a song of spite and hate, eager to strike back at this hated adversary. The Jagers had long fallen back though, finding relative ease in running through the woods, accustomed to such environments. The Romanovs, however, tripped and stumbled through the underbrush, stopping every now and then to fire blindly at flashing limbs, and it was no surprise that friendly fire accumulated the count of dead in those early hours. Ibrahov eventually caught up on horseback, aware of the dangers of his troops flailing separated through the forests. He swung his sabre around, catching the attention of his troops, and at another bugle call, they formed a continuous line that engulfed the entire width of the forest, 5 ranks deep. To the beat of drummers, they marched.

The first rank rippled as familiar bullets buckled the line, every now and then a man would fall and spasm on the ground as his friends tried their best to ignore them, and maneuver around. By 300 paces, the rifles stopped as the Jagers ran from their cover and retreated to a trench dug beforehand, visible on the crest. There, they continued to fire down as the Romanovs cleared the forest and finally had a good look at their adversaries. The odds were most definitely in their favor, and spirits soared. Ibrahov saw what looked like only 1000 infantry separated into 4 Regiments, a meagre amount. They would be crushed. The cavalry were nowhere to be seen, if they even had any. To his right, he watched as his own cavalry contingent moved to secure the western hamlet, and move around to block any chance of retreat. This pathetic force would be wholly destroyed. Tugging his cap down further to block the rain, he urged his horse on.

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The corporal climbed the hill again, and reported to Frederick.

“546 dead, 43 officers included.” the man’s rifle was smoking, “We could barely put a dent in them.”

“It’s no big deal, you did the best you could..” Frederick turned and called for his Chief Engineer. “Carry on, then.”

“Yes Sir?”

A portly man came over, grinning from ear to ear. He happily gorged himself on a chicken wing.

“Are the weapons ready, Guerike?”

Guerike wiped his hands on a handkerchief, and checked his timepiece.

“They’ve been primed, but without testing them, I cannot be sure that they will all detonate. But if at least one does, the rest will trigger.” Guerike gnawed on the bones, and seemed to take out a pie from nowhere. “They’ll work Sir, don’t you worry.”

“That’s good.” Frederick turned to the rest of his staff. Gridion struggled to control his horse, nervous and shaking, while Gunther inspected his sword, his eyes betraying his emotions of fear.. Arthur and Walther, two twins assigned to command the 3rd and 4th respectively, were hard at work pinpointing positions on a man, exchanging heated words.

“Gentlemen.” Frederick cleared his throat, and they looked up. “I shan’t lie, we’re outnumbered at least 10 to 1. This won’t be an easy fight. But we’ll prevail today, trust in me.”

Gridion smiled, but the others still had a look of apprehension.

“Should the enemy take this hill, they’ll have an opening to our supply lines. Losing this battle won’t just mean the death of the Legion, it could lose us the war.” Arthur added, but then smirked, “But we won’t lose, will we, Sir?”

Frederick ran a finger over the edge of his pistol, locking the flint in place.

“Not a chance."

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1000 hussars of the Romanov 15th Horse Regiment cantered through a sunflower field, at the head of it a bored Major swung his sabre at stalks. He shouldn’t be here, destroying a phantom enemy, he should be leading a great host up that dratted hill, causing havoc amongst the enemy, and earning glory and fame. Instead, he had been directed towards the small hamlet, where his paranoid Commander assured was of great strategic value. There was no joy to be had in running amok routing troops, that was no great challenge. The rain continued to whip the stalks, and mounts lathered in water neighed and tossed. A crack of thunder enveloped the field. Several horses bolted, with their riders. Fools, conscripts who had never ridden a horse in their miserable, peasant lives. Then, there were screams. Turning to face them, the Major watched as men were dragged from their horses, yelling, and being cut off seconds later. In the stalks, men darted to and fro, the flashes of knives. The Major, frightened, turned his horse, only to feel a hand clutch at his arm. Looking down, he caught a glance at the uniform of a cavalryman, and was momentarily relieved, his men had found him. Then he noticed the wicked figure of a knife in one hand, and the cyan facings of the man’s coat. His scream was cut off abruptly.