Relief and newfound vigor washed over the army, it had finally arrived before its ultimate prize, the target of its anger for almost a week. The same raiders who had harassed their marching columns and camps were nowhere to be found, their scouts having returned safely with additional information on the target location. Now at this moment the fox was just outside the henhouse, the organized force would charge up the rocky slope, crush the defenders, and raid the camp. Which was the plan discussed the previous evening, however the terrain appeared far more treacherous, and the defenders far more stalwart than what had been expected.

“Commander, we are getting the last of the stragglers into position… What are your orders?” The newly appointed Dekastaroi had taken over after the last had perished from his wounds incurred during an earlier night raid. The Myrmien military command structure and that of the League in general followed a hybrid of both the Ociri and Lyrian systems. Focusing heavily on heavy infantry columns, with supplemental cavalry squadrons for flanking maneuvers, and skirmish troops to soften the initial charge.

Dekastaroi were leaders in command of a dekas or file of ten men, these files were then organized into a tagmat of a hundred men. The Dekadarch was in command of each tagmat, this structure applied to the current army and there existed much larger formations of troops with increased leadership positions. However, as this force was an informal force, with barely enough troops to form two tagmats this was how the army was to be organized.

Although an experienced combat veteran the man lacked the leadership capabilities of a Dekastaroi. This was true also of the two newly appointed Dekadarch’s who were taken from the veteran infantry reserve to command each tagmat. The current composition of the force existing under the command of Menos and Iphiclus was equivalent to two full strength tagmats, organized into columns of five men across and fifteen deep. A normal formation would consist of ten across and ten deep, but due to the terrain the columns had to be stretched to fit within the path.

“Your duty as a Dekastaroi is not to report to me. Instead report to your Dekadarch, he will relay the orders to you and your file. I trust that you will remember my teachings next time Matullus.” Iphilus smiled towards his young aide, the youth had lost his horse in one of the attacks, thus he had been appointed as a lowly Dekastaroi for this battle. This would be his first experience however as an infantry commander, a vastly different situation than that of a cavalry leader. “I believe you will do well enough boy, just stick to pushing your men forward. Your position will be at the very rear of the second tagmat, there should be little cause for your concern… Now go!” The young man marched off to join his men, reassured by the commanders’ words, and buoyed by the promise of reward.

As Iphiclus observed the movements upon the rocky slope he failed to pay attention to the shadow coming up behind him. It was only when the palm slammed down upon his shoulder, the force behind it causing his face to drain of color. He did not need to turn around to know exactly who it was that darkened his day. “To what do I owe the pleasure General?” Menos for his part simply ignored the icy venomous tone by which Iphiclus delivered his question.

“Battle…” Menos had already made clear his position during the war council the previous evening. He would remain at the rear, ‘encouraging’ the men to continue the fight. Desertion was known to be a punishable offense; the Butcher would be there to ensure that the men understood that fact. Otherwise, he was primarily to act on his own initiative as his prodigious strength was proven time and again, the largest proof being the head of the former Alpha of the Naulos Mountains.

There was nothing more to say between the two, the already strained relationship between both men becoming even worse after the previous murder attempt. “The men are well fed, there is nothing left for us to fall back on. We either take the convoy and ransack its supplies or we die… just as believe you desired.” Although Iphiclus intended for his statement to act as an open-faced insult, the smile that spread across man’s face said otherwise. The glee could only be inferred from the creases in his cheeks visible beneath the bone mask, but it was clear to anyone nearby that Menos was excited at the thought of a life and death battle.

“SOLDIERS ADVANCE!” Iphiclus yelled for all to hear, the Dekadarch’s repeating the order and pressing their men forward. Shields interlocked, men stood in lockstep, and the thunderous steps of hundreds of armored men echoed throughout the terrain, amplified by the surrounding mountains. Yet those war cries were met with an eerie silence, the enemy remaining silent, their forms hidden among the natural terrain.

The drums of war had begun to beat in earnest, while the salpinx sounded out and the men continued their march straight into the path set before them. As soon as they took their first steps upon the winding road, they came under harrowing missile fire. First were the stones, slingers whipping their weapons in great circles, the force catapulting the rounded pebbles hundreds of feet. This initial volley did little damage, as the second row of soldiers raised their shields, angling it above the row in front. Although effective against unshielded targets, the slingers could do little damage against the wall of wood and bronze.

As futile as the hail of stones may have appeared to be, the attack never let up, the stones continued to be flung, forcing the enemy’s attention upon them. Moments late the truth of the ploy was revealed, as the tight column continued its march cries rose randomly from the outer edges. The column slowed, the formation disrupted opening gaps in the line, gaps that were quickly exploited by the waiting archers, as well as the slingers who had put away their slings and retrieved their bows.

Arrows whistled through the air, the defenders firing rapidly into the dense formation. The attackers caught completely by surprise were unable to respond, some continued forward, some tried to turn back, others simply stood in place processing their next course of action. All of whom were quickly met with pinpoint strikes, jagged arrowheads penetrated unarmored flesh, tore through flanks, leaving many upon the bloodstained dirt screaming in agony. The projectiles were not meant for quick kills, instead they enhanced the pain, a wound often causing horrific wounds, leaving the victim to die from blood loss or whatever poisonous concoction the arrowhead may have been coated with.

Chaos, the battlefield had descended into chaos, the Dekadarch’s had trouble regaining control over their troops. Worse still, the Dekadarch’s unique helmets and armor often singled them out within the crowd, resulting in many being sniped by specially selected peltasts. These highly mobile skirmishing units could be seen running downhill into javelin range before unloading their deadly payload, unlike arrows and stones, the javelins had little trouble penetrating armor. Within the chaotic battle, these men and women made full use of their speed to target exposed high value personnel.

Sporadic ranged fire from the attacking force was often ineffective, being downhill and possessing few javelins there was little the Myrmien skirmishers could do. Even so, the defenders did suffer some casualties due to counter fire, even if the dead and injured were heavily skewed in favor of the defenders at that moment.

Iphiclus could only watch in horror as his force’s cohesion broke down entirely, many of the officers lay dead and control over the less reliable militia units had begun to collapse. He and his personal squadron of cavalry could do little in response, any charge uphill would be difficult, both they and their horse’s easy prey for the ranger’s lying-in wait. The infantry had to make it to the summit if they did not clear the path the cavalry would not be able to come into play.

It was in this time of confusion that the Butcher made his move, he had remained behind the reserve column, but now he was forced into action. Disgust and resignation could be seen upon Iphiclus’s face as he watched Menos carry out his actions. At first there were a handful of deserters, but as the casualties and fear mounted, more attempted to escape back down the hill. What awaited them was not salvation, simply another variation of the same pain that had greeted further up the hill.

Any who attempted to flee had their legs hacked off at the knees, wails could be heard throughout the battlefield, the worst were those at the very back, however. This meant a promise of a slow and painful death if they turned their backs upon the enemy, they were damned if they did, and damned if they didn’t. In the end most chose the first option, they would die faster under the enemies’ withering rain of arrows, a better option than the alternative. Under this newly established cloud of fear the lines rapidly reformed, the men realigning their shields and guarding against the incoming projectiles.

With the lines reformed and the column on the move once again the defenders found themselves retreating to their next prepared defensive position. The newly granted breathing room allowed the commanders to get a better understanding of what had happened. Wolf pits, small individually dug holes, concealed under a thin cloth cover and dirt, blended to appear indistinguishable from the ground below. At the bottom of these two-foot holes was situated a sharpened wooden stake, slathered with a slow acting nerve poison.

It was these traps that had caused the initial break in the formation, had allowed the defenders to take advantage of the gaps and riddle the besiegers with missile fire. Iphiclus realized based on the number of traps present at the lowest point, how many probably existed the further up they progressed. Anyone injured by such a device was more than likely to be trampled by their comrades marching from the rear.

Iphiclus could do little more than inwardly curse at the situation, having little choice but to order the men forward toward their deaths. Many more were likely to die by the time the day was done, the bones, flesh, and blood of these unfortunate men would lay the foundation for their victory. That was the only option available to them, as their forces had neither the time nor resources to contest the hill in a drawn-out battle of attrition.