15 Chapter 15: The Meatgrinder (Part 1)

The Kingdom of Holfort has many neighbors, and many of them hold no particular liking for the country. And though none are foolish enough to wage a war, border skirmishes are common– quick conflicts that see forts taken and lost on a semi-regular basis and new recruits are sent in to experience their first taste of war.

But some skirmishes are needlessly costly and very inefficient– with lives seemingly spent and lost for no other reason than simply because the commander wished it so.

A foolish method of operation and no doubt influenced by the Forest of Ladies to see their spouses slain quicker, severely hampering the growth of the Holfortan military as veteran soldiers and capable leaders are slain before they can fully develop. In the past, such commanders would have been reprimanded and relieved of their post– executed even. Now these fools are free to operate as they wish; shielded by rank and influence. It is another affront that Leon makes sure to remember, so he could one day correct it and see this needless death cease.

Now, three months after his 'wedding' and prompt enlistment, Leon Fou Marshwell stands among his peers before the outpost overweight commander; their 'training' complete and deemed ready for deployment on the front lines.

"Men of Holfort!" the commander starts, his name not something Leon bothered to remember. "You stand today as soldiers! Trained and armed to fight for the glory of the Kingdom, to lay low whatever foe that dares threaten our homeland!"

Behind him, large transport ships dock and boarding ramps open.

"These vessels will take you to the battlefields, where your destinies await!" the portly man salutes them, and training demands they salute back. "Go forth with vigor in your hearts and fire in your souls! Fight, for the Kingdom of Holfort! Win, for the maidens that cry for you! And if you must die, then die with the knowledge that the man behind you will avenge your sacrifice– or die trying!"

Leon doesn't scoff, but it's a close thing. Some among his peers do not share his self-control and openly snort as the commander marches off-stage.

"Bastard probably hasn't even stepped on a battlefield before." one says.

"You saw the belly on him, didn't you? I bet he's never worked a day in his life." another laughs.

"I hope he chokes on whatever it is he's going to be eating for dinner tonight." a third sighs. "I miss my mom's cooking…"

"Don't we all." Leon cuts in. "But chatting won't get us home. So pipe down and wait until we're on the ship to continue talking, yeah?"

A round of scattered agreements reach Leon as the unit calms down. He hums approvingly.

It hadn't been too difficult to assert himself as the leader of this motley ensemble. They were all replacement sons for Baronies and victims of the Forest of Ladies' machinations just like Leon, so earning their sympathy was as simple as commiserating with them about their shared fates. Getting them to follow had been just as easy– speak up and act when no-one else did, and everyone automatically follows. Do it frequently enough with good results, and everyone would eventually defer to you for instruction.

This worked so well that Leon managed to earn a promotion to NCO, and no-one put up any kind of resistance. He had been assigned command over 15 people, more than he initially expected but no less glad to have gained.

He hopes this time he wouldn't need to sacrifice their lives for his goals.

"422nd Regiment!" an officer calls out, and Leon stills; that was the regiment he and his unit were a part of. "Report to transport 4! You have been assigned to the Carkus Border Region!"

"Carkus? Isn't that to the south?" one of the grunts asks as the regiment marches. "We had a border conflict with them?"

"Yeah. I heard it's on the verge of turning into a war." another answers. "Shit, we're going straight into a meatgrinder?"

"Calm down; the situation there can't be that bad." Leon reasons. "We'll probably be sent there, briefed about the situation, and given a week or two to acclimate before we're sent in. it can't be that bad."

=X=X=X=X=X=

The situation was that bad.

"Carkus forces have taken Fort Augur in the north, and stand poised to assault the HQ. Repeated assaults from infantry were repelled with heavy losses, and now we stand on the verge of being routed from our initial foothold entirely." the regiment commander tells Leon and the rest of his officers, his expression grim. "We are to be deployed immediately to retake the fort and secure it from enemy counterattack. We'll have limited Armor support– the ones that were supplied to us still haven't been off-loaded from the transports."

"...sir, we just touched down." one of the officers says, distressed. "We haven't even unpacked our things yet– we're to be deployed now?"

"I'm afraid so, Lieutenant. Field Commander's orders." the colonel sighs. "Drop your packs and ready up– we'll be marching out in an hour."

Some of the officers present immediately break into shocked whispers, some are too stunned to do anything but level disbelieving looks at the regiment commander, and some sigh in mute acceptance; resigning themselves to death.

Leon digs deep into his experience and takes a deep breath before standing straighter and walking to the regiment commander.

"Sir," he asks. "Are there any wounded Armor pilots that are part of the force meant to support the infantry?"

"All the veteran pilots are wounded Corporal Marshwell, but there's plenty of replacements for them." the older man snorts. "Why, fancy yourself an Armor pilot?"

"Yes sir. And I'd like to request being put into one of the Armors assigned to support our regiment during the assault." Leon nods. "I'm the best pilot this entire force has at the moment, I'm this regiment's best chance at making it out whole."

"Hah! You've got quite the pair on you, don't you Marshwell?" the older man barks a laugh, harsh and judging. Some of the other officers laugh as well, other shooting him dirty looks. "Assuming I actually believe you and let you climb into an Armor, who'd take over your command position? Because I'm not assigning them to anyone else– we're shorthanded as it is."

"I can maintain command while piloting." Leon shrugs. "Shouldn't be too hard as long as I keep in contact and maintain a visual on them."

"You're going to be piloting an Armor while directing an infantry unit. Listen to yourself kid, do you have any idea how difficult that is?" the commander sighs. "I thought you were one of the good ones when I picked you up for my regiment– at least pretend you're not here for the glory for your first battle."

"I don't care about glory, I'm stating facts." Leon insists. "I can make an Armor dance if I'm put into its cockpit. And with me in an Armor, you're guaranteed to have at least one Armor listening to your orders rather than hoping the pilots assigned to you deign to oblige fire support request. And if that fails, then I can at least act as a good target to draw fire away from the infantry as they advance."

That makes the man pause, and has the rest of his fellow officers blink in surprise.

"...you're serious." the older man asks. Leon nods. "Huh."

The older man meets Leon's gaze with a calculating look as he strokes his chin. Leon can see the gears turning in his head through his eyes, the thoughts racing through his head. He comes to a choice and Leon's heart lurches, hopeful–

"No. As tempting as that may be, you're gonna have to stay with your men Marshwell." the regiment commander sighs. "We can get you tested for piloting aptitude after this, assuming you make it out alive. Until then, you're an infantryman and you've got a unit to lead. Get to it."

–and it plummets.

"Yessir. Sorry for presuming sir." Leon nods.

Oh well, he had expected this to be difficult. If only the comms network reached here, he could get into contact with Hustler One and have an Armor express delivered… but no, that would have blown their cover. As nice as it was to immediately get back into a proper AC, the plan is still in its infancy and called for stealth.

If he can't get a mech from his allies, he'll have to get one from the enemy instead.

=X=X=X=X=X=

The plan is simple– a two-pronged assault by the 422nd Infantry regiment with support from 2 squadrons of 5 Armors, spread out evenly to cover the infantry.

One prong would be attacking from the west, the other from the southeast. The infantry would be advancing under fire from cannons mounted on the battlements of Fort Augur as well as riflemen and casters the trench network surrounding the fort, with orders to clear the trenches. The Armors would attempt to disable the cannons and engage Carkus Armors in the air while providing the infantry with support where possible.

Once the trenches were cleared, the infantry would mass up charge to the secondary defensive lines and the fort entrances– which the Armors would open after dealing with the enemy Armors if they were still closed. From there, infantry would clear out the fort. A simple enough plan in theory.

But no plan survives contact with the enemy.

"Armors! They're firing canister shots!" one soldier shouts as dirt kicks up from incoming fire by enemy mechs. "I thought we were out of their flight range?!"

"They must've moved into the trenches and took off from there! Everybody make foxholes and dive in!" Leon orders, diving into a crater and gathering magic; willing the earth to move so it deepens. "Link up with me and we'll figure things out from there! Move!"

The hell of war burns around him, artillery from the fort sending shells into the distance while the Carkussan infantry send rounds down range. In the sky overhead, Holfort Armors duel with Carkussan ones, bipedal MTs clashing against reverse-jointed MTs with upscaled swords and axes. Gunfire and explosions fill the air as men turn into ghosts.

He can't say he misses it, but there's a familiarity in the chaos that Leon can't help but smile at even as he widens his foxhole to accommodate more men. Just like old times, he supposes.

Minutes pass as Leon and his men link up, all 15 accounted for. He takes his communicator and calls command.

"Marshwell to command, enemy Armors engaged us earlier than expected! Please advise!" he asks.

"Command copies Marshwell. Orders remain unchanged– advance to the trenches and clear them out." is the response. He groans aloud before responding.

"Affirmative. We are advancing now. Marshwell out."

"Corporal, did command just tell us to go fuck ourselves?" one of his men asks.

"Pretty much, Private." Leon laughs. "Alright, the trench is about 150 meters ahead of us. Hugh, Maxwell, cast Smoke Wall and give us cover. Everybody else, Charge Formation."

The men tense. The Charge Formation was the Holfortan doctrine used against entrenched enemies– throw up a Smoke Wall, reinforce your body with magic, and run like hell to the enemy lines before their bullets could hit you. A simple tactic and very costly one that saw no small amounts of casualties; something Leon swears to change when he can because it was just plain stupid.

"All squads, all squads! Charge Formation!" Leon radios, switching to inter-unit comms. He hears a few affirmations, and figures it would have to do. He turns to his men, finding them tense but ready. "On my mark, we make a break for it. Ready?"

"Ready!" is the unified response.

The two casters in his unit gather magic into a ball in their hands and lob it out of the foxhole, where they explode into dark smoke. Incoming fire ebbs as Leon climbs out with his men.

"Go, go, go! Charge!" he orders. "For Holfort!"

Magic fills his muscles as he takes off, his men screaming war cries as he leads the way forward into the smoke. More war cries sound off from behind him as more smoke walls appear, his fellow Holfortan's taking after his example. Adrenaline and his pounding blood fill his ears as he clears the smoke running faster than any ordinary man could physically move, followed by his underlings. His shield comes up and he starts praying to whatever deity is listening as the Carkussan's open fire.

Bullets spark off his shield and magic whizzes past him, and he instinctively starts jinking; running in a zigzagging pattern to throw off the enemy soldiers' aim. He hears his men die behind him, catching bullets or spells with their bodies. But there's barely 50 meters between them and the trenches, and the Carkussan's are ill-prepared for the charging Holfortans that make it through the hail of bullets. Leon lunges the last 10 meters and throws himself into the trench.

Time slows down as adrenaline intermingles with the magic in his body, and Leon sees the world in slow motion. The Carkussans move slowly, too slowly, and they die for it as Leon follows his training– the natural skill and strength of his Holfortan heritage mingling with his magic-reinforced body to turn him into an unstoppable killing machine in melee. It was a fact that allowed the Kingdom to remain a major regional even now, despite the prevalence of rifles and cannons.

In melee, Holfortans are simply unstoppable.

The first Carkussan Leon reaches is bisected in two. The second dies from a stab through the heart. The third has his head caved in by the blunt edge of his shield. The fourth loses his head and shoulders. The fifth has his ribcage crushed inwards by a well-placed kick. All this within the span of a few seconds. The other Carkussan's finally bring their weapons up to properly counterattack, but it's too late.

More Holfortans pour in after Leon, butchering and killing at superhuman speed. In minutes, the entire section of trenches is cleared of any living Carkussan– their remains carpeting the ground.

"Forward!" Leon orders. "Take the rest of the trenches! Move!"

He leads the way forward, dodging close-range rifle fire to dispatch Carkussan men in bloody melee. He wishes he still had his guns on him, but Holfort military forbids the common soldier and NCOs from bringing in personal weapons; with that being a privilege reserved for higher ranked officers and commanders.

Still, he makes do with his sword and shield– and in his hands they are more than enough.

Carkussan's die in the melee, and their morale fragments. They scream in their mother tongue as break ranks, fleeing out of the trenches and running back to the fort.

"Hold! Hold!" Leon roars. "Don't pursue! Marksmen, open fire!"

The riflemen among the Holfortans take firing positions and shoot, downing fleeing Carkussans as the others catch their breaths. Leon watches them for a brief moment before another officer sees him and waves him over. He sucks in a breath and rushes to him.

"Good call with the Charge Formation, Marshwell." the man tells him, and for the life of him Leon can't remember his name. "The rest of the force is piling into the trenches now. Once our Armors deal with the enemy Armors and distract the cannons, we can start our charge."

"How the hell did those Carkussan Armors get out there so quickly? We weren't anywhere near the fort for them to fly so fast." Leon complains. "They didn't look like they had any modifications…"

"This is why." the officer tells him, leading him around a corner to a large pit, deep enough and spacious enough to house a squadron or Armors. Crates filled with ammunition, tools, and spare parts lay in five separate piles, and there are even divots on the ground to denote separate 'lanes'. "They dug out a makeshift Armor Hangar here, and that let those Carks sortie those things as quickly as they did– they didn't need to fly so far to reach us."

"Damn." Leon curses. "Well, at least our Armors are handling them." he pauses, looking up to an empty sky. "...where are our Armors, anyway? And where are the Carkussan Armors they were duelling?"

"...shit." the other officer brings up his communicator. "All squads, report in– anyone see where our Armors are?"

A stream of negatives come in. Leon growls and contacts Command.

"Marshwell to Command, we've taken the west side trenches. Requesting a status update on our Armor squadron." Leon says. "Command, come in."

"Marshwell, Armor support has been forced to retreat– they sustained heavy losses dueling the Carkussans." comes the response. "Order remain unchanged; charge to the wall and take the fort."

Leon notices the look of horror on his fellow officer's face, but Leon sighs as he continues.

"Were they able to eliminate the enemy Armor Squadron, at least?" he asks.

"Checking now, stand-by…" there's a long pause. "Armor squad reports 4 confirmed kills on Carkussan Armor squadron."

"Four? Where's the fifth one?" Leon asks.

The fifth Carkussan Armor smashes into the pit, the force of its impact tossing men back. Leon stares up at the 4 meter tall mech as it brandishes a forearm-mounted blade and stomps forward.

"Die Holfortan scum!" the pilot screams.