Eralia, the Pretending Captain’s Pretense

Near the wooden supply depot perched on a small hill, Eralia scanned Mordhun’s troops. They stood opposite her own in flawless formation, his manra bearers protected by a wall of overlapping shields and piercers held at identical, practiced angles. Their College-issued weapons and welted boots were pristine, they were stronger and better-equipped, without a doubt. A shame all that pretty gear is going to waste.

The mock captain himself, Mordhun, was mounted on his own horse the same as her. His banner jutted up from the saddle behind him, guarded by a ring of his best men. Below them was the arena: A flat, wide sea of waving grass between two dense pine forests. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon. It was the perfect stage for her plan.

The chilly wind bit at her nose. It was strong, strong enough to affect the archer’s range and draw them forwards into her trap. Of course, this was all within her calculations.

The final horn blared across the field, and Eralia’s horse reared.

The scattered whispers from moments before erupted into war cries. Mordhun’s banner dipped as his army charged forward. The ground shook with the hundreds of footsteps, trampling and tearing through the tallgrass. His soldiers crashed right into the centre of Eralia’s line. Barriers flared all across the frontlines, catching blunted piercing swords and whizzing arrows before disappearing with staggered hisses.

She found Laufa out of the corner of her eyes. The centre of her line was designed to break. It was a loose formation, one made up of her most expendable troops, except for her. She considered assigning Laufa the flanks alongside her strongest, but the clumsy girl was better suited for holding the front. At least, until the next phase.

A pair of Mordhun’s men swarmed a manra bearer. One bashed a shield into their barrier, while the other launched his piercer at their exposed side. The bearer took the blow and crumpled to his knees, eliminated in the same rules as the last trial. Mordhun was taking full advantage of his numbers, just as she had predicted.

Barriers shattered and soldiers groaned as, one by one, her centre troops were removed from the playing field. Mordhun’s ranks rotated with textbook-perfect precision, grinding forward until, finally, they burst through. Perfect.

“RETREAT!” A soldier shouted.

Swords and shields flooded through the crack in her frontlines. At the sound of her own horns, her army stumbled back in a slow, fighting withdrawal. Or, a flawless imitation of one. And to Mordhun, ever the diligent student, there was only a single, correct response to an enemy collapse.

Her soldiers turned their backs. Mordhun’s surged forward. An arrow flew towards Laufa, only for its tip to disintegrate against a glimpse of light. The headless shaft tumbled past her, landing amongst the retreating troops. Laufa flung massive barrier after massive barrier, covering their withdrawal. She was a one-girl rearguard, just one of her equaled ten or even twenty of theirs. Eralia had seen hundreds of bearers at the College, but this… This was something else entirely. Something beautiful. And it belonged to her alone.

Her thoughts were interrupted by water pelting her saddle. Eralia released the reins for a moment to wipe cold droplets from her skin.

Her frontlines buckled as Mordhun pressed his advantage. To anyone else, the writing was practically on the wall. To her, it was a performance unfolding right in front of her eyes. The feint was going even better than expected. She planned to sacrifice a number of troops to the initial assault, but thanks to Laufa, the retreat had been surprisingly easy. With only the small price of a couple soldiers, the enemy charged deeper and deeper into their ranks.

The drizzle thickened into a steady rain. An infantryman slipped, disappearing under the enemy’s charge.

Let it rain, the battle will be over soon enough. Her eyes darted back to the battle, where she saw Mordhun’s banner advance another ten paces into her lines. Her runners tensed as she poised a hand to give the signal. If anything, it’ll provide decent cover for my flanks.

His reserves hurtled farther up, his rearguard thinning. Eight more paces. Her palm hovered in the downpour.

Her gaze shifted to the surrounding forests. Within moments, her strongest troops would burst from the treelines and envelop him. Three more paces. She let out a slow breath.

You fought well, Rustes. One more pace. He was right in the kill box. But you’re overengaged.

Now! Her hand shot straight down.

Then, a single droplet struck her wrist. More droplets followed, hundreds of them. The sunlight vanished behind clouds, and the entire sky tore open. At that very moment, the pattering rain became a roar, and howling winds swallowed the sounds of battle. In a matter of seconds, the whole field was drenched.

Distant helmets and chest plates became glossy blurs. Rain plastered her hair to her skin, while the wind whipped it sideways, obscuring her vision. She raked the wet strands out from her eyes and craned her head towards the dark clouds above.

Beside her, a runner pursed his lips around the horn’s mouthpiece. He forced out a signal, wet and muffled by the downpour. She snarled, her soaked cloak clung to her arm.

She squinted towards the trees, attempting to make out her flanks through the curtains of rain, but the enemy had become a smear of indistinct shapes, visibility had disappeared.

“I need to see.” Her hands snatched the reins. “Ensign, take the right flank.” Eralia glanced at the woman beside her.

She jerked the reins. Her steed squealed and bolted, its hooves sinking into the slick mud. It flailed, and the world spun as the pair was sent tumbling down the incline.

“Captain Eralia!” A runner chased after her on horseback. “Where’re you going!?”

“Repositioning! With me, now!”

No, Victory’s still within reach. As long as the flanks stick to the plan, it should be. Her horse fought for footing. It rocked Eralia against her saddle, stumbling with each step. Mordhun’s mobility should’ve been affected as well!

As she neared the battlefield, her meticulously planned kill box had become a chaotic swamp, a churning mess. Her men scrambled backwards, squelching through the mud, too busy pulling their cheap leather soles from the soil to even raise their spears.

She glared at Mordhun’s soldiers. Their interlocked shields, and welted boots. One planted his feet firmly and thrust a spear forward, catching one of her men as he went down without a fight. The reins were slick between her fingers. Her nails dug into the leather until her knuckles went white. Damn it. We’re not equipped for this.

High-pitched shouts echoed across the field as her soldiers fell left and right. And a defensive wall? No, Mordhun’s archers would exhaust our barriers in minutes.

Her eyes darted to her flanks hidden in the woods. By now, they should’ve been closing on Mordhun’s rear. Instead, they were just as bogged down as the others, sinking into the soil at the forests’s edges. The flanks won’t make it. Archers are useless, too. We need to regroup, We need…

It was a statistical improbability. An act of God for a lucky bastard. If it hadn’t rained, she would’ve won. If they’d at least had decent equipment, she would’ve won. Now, because of this ridiculous rainstorm… We need a new plan.

“Sound the retreat,” She said to her runner. “The real one.”

* * *

It was freezing. The wool of Laufa’s cloak was soaked and heavy with rain. It pulled at her shoulders as a shiver wracked her body. The battlefield storm had eased back to a miserable drizzle, gone just as quickly as it’d appeared. Even the wind had calmed a bit, but it was too little too late.

She was surrounded by the panicked shouts of her retreating teammates. Beside her, an infantryman’s feet slid out from under him, as if the ground itself had given up. Before she could even think of forming a barrier, a heavy shield slammed down, eliminating him. They were definitely, without a doubt, going to lose the trial.

“Fire!”

Laufa’s head snapped towards the cry. It was Mordhun’s line of archers. They nocked their bows and fired a volley straight into the retreating troops. She flung up a screen just as an arrow whistled towards her and split in half against her barrier.

Her eyes traced the arrows as they nosedived towards her teammates. The arrowheads were blunt, but getting struck by one was still an instant elimination. Men grunted as the archers found their marks, their practice swords sinking into the mud. A manra bearer scrambled away, chased by the projectiles until he tripped, vanishing behind the tallgrass.

“Nachkt!” Laufa leaped towards the boy without thinking.

An arrow plunged right at him. She tumbled at his feet, angling a shoddy barrier. The projectile ricocheted off of it with a sharp crack, glancing past them.

She lent him a hand. “You okay!?” Blood trickled from her nose.

Nachkt stumbled to his feet, his eyes wide. “Laufa… Your nose.”

A familiar copper taste coated the back of her throat. She hurriedly swiped at the blood. The rest of the volley arced over the pair, stray arrows heading towards the wooden depot on the ridge behind. The projectiles smashed through the windows with a muffled splash. A thick liquid spilled from its second story, dripping into the rainwater below with an all-too familiar scent. Is that… Oil? In the depot!?

The faint trickle suddenly became a crackle. A bright flash of orange burst from the top of the wooden depot as it caught fire across the field.

A nearby soldier grabbed his head. “Our, Our supplies!”

No. That can’t be right. Laufa froze, her grip on her piercer loosened. She didn’t even notice the arrows whizzing past, her eyes were pinned to the depot. It was impossible. The College stocked that depot, it should've only been spare shields, arrows. Something so flammable would’ve never been stored with supplies. It couldn’t have been an accident. Was it Mordhun…? But only their quartermasters would’ve had access, he couldn’t have!

Unless, the quartermasters... Her stomach dropped. Maybe, the opponents on the field weren’t their only enemies.

A fiery whoosh snapped her back to the battlefield. The flames had burned a massive hole straight through the depot’s front wall, exposing golden embers raging bright against the dark clouds. Oil stirred the fire as it dripped down the wet, wooden walls. It must’ve reached the torches on the first floor. If it spread to their supplies too, it was game over. This freak accident was about to cost them the whole trial

“What should we do!?” Nachkt yelled over the roar.

Laufa had no clue. Her eyes searched their broken lines for any sign of a plan, though at this point they’d need a miracle, and they landed on their captain, their only hope: Eralia.

The noble girl sat perfectly still, staring at the fire, unmoving. That’s that. She’s out of ideas, too. What did I even expect?

The thought didn’t last long before a slow smile crept across Lady Eralia’s face, illuminated by the inferno. She barked an order and raised her piercer. Not at the enemy, but at their very own burning depot.

Laufa heard the whistle of another volley of arrows. But this time, they were from her own side. The blunted projectiles smashed into the weakened second-story floorboards. The burning oil plunged downwards, and the entire structure erupted. A suffocating wave of heat slammed into Laufa’s face, her stomach twisted. Eralia may not have started the fire, but she’d sure as hell finished it. She really is insane.

It was a pillar of fire, fully engulfed by flames and billowing piles of smoke into the sky. The winds, now warm, carried a smell somewhere between fresh rain, wet wood and burning oil. It didn’t take long for the entire battlefield to fill with smoke. The roar of the depot swallowed the sounds of battle, and the soldiers around them, both enemies and allies, disappeared behind the fumes. Nearby men coughed, gasping for air. Laufa couldn’t see a thing anymore, she could barely breathe. It felt like they’d been plunged ten feet underwater.

That was, until a light appeared. A single, azure sparkle flickered to life through the thick gloom. After a moment, it blinked out, but was followed by another, further away. And then another, and another. They flared in and out of existence, shimmering across the murky field.

Allies? Enemies? Ghosts? She raised her piercer and hauled Nachkt closer.

“Are those… Stena?” Nachkt whispered.

Laufa steadied her breath. She focused on one of the lights. It flashed once, then twice, then disappeared. A memory surfaced. That pattern. It was one of Eralia’s signals.

It was them. Their army. And through the smoke, Mordhun wouldn’t be able to tell where they were, or even how few of them were left. It was a smokescreen.

One of Eralia’s runners burst through the haze.

“New orders!” His mount slid to a stop before them. “Captain Adeus’s turned the fire into a distraction! She needs a small team to head south and capture their banner! She said… She said she needed you.” The runner was gasping, covered in soot, and staring right at her.

“There’s no way,” Nachkt looked at Laufa. “We can’t see. They’ll eliminate us before we’re even halfway there.”

Laufa’s gaze wandered from the compass in the runner’s outstretched hand to the desperation in his eyes.

She remembered the feeling of Lady Eralia’s hand. After the duel, the noble girl had said that she was her weapon. Is this what she meant? Was this all part of her plan, too?

Laufa tightened her grip on her piercer. She closed her eyes and drew a slow breath. Even if it was, the hope in his eyes was real.

She took the compass from his hand. “Alright.”