Chapter 7: Three Days of Hell

In the darkness of the night, Blaidd sat inside a medical tent with his fellow brethren who were lucky enough to still be alive. The air was thick with a somber silence, punctuated only by the occasional groan of a wounded soldier or the sound of soft weeping. Bodies of fallen comrades, covered by white sheets, were strewn across the tent floor, marking the path of the day's carnage.

Blaidd, himself, was sitting in between two bodies; one was the body of a dwarf, and the other was the body of a young man he had fought alongside for what felt like he was going through hell itself. He could feel his own exhaustion and pain, but he pushed it down deep inside, refusing to let it show.

The day had been long and brutal. The battle had raged on for hours, with neither side gaining a decisive advantage. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, the casualties began to mount. Out of the five hundred men who had marched onto the battlefield that morning, one hundred had already perished. Blaidd tried to shake the images of the devastation he had seen, but they lingered like a spectre, refusing to be banished.

Inside the tent, no one said anything, quietly mourning the dead. There was a sense of camaraderie amongst the survivors, a shared understanding of the horrors they had witnessed and the sacrifices they had made. They were bonded together by their grief, and their determination to honor the fallen by continuing the fight.

Suddenly, Tomas, a fellow warrior, entered the tent, with a foreign man following closely behind. The man wore a Redanian tabard and thick, silvery armor, the markings of a nobleman. Tomas approached Blaidd's location, standing at the foot of Ademar's dead body, the young man.

Blaidd watched as Tomas walked towards Ademar's head and gently lifted the white sheet, revealing his pale face to the nobleman. It was a haunting sight, and Blaidd felt a pang of pity wash over him. He couldn't help but think the boy was too young to die, too lively.

"This is him?" asked Tomas.

The noble closed his eyes, sadness traces his expression. "Yes. That's my son. We'll take his body to be buried in the family tomb."

Tomas nodded, and put back the white sheets. He then guided the noble outside the tent to talk further, away from prying ears.

"Makes sense." Marek softly murmured. "He's always too idealistic for a mercenary, ain't he? And well-trained too. Of course, he's gotta be a noble's son. Though 'e's dumb for runnin' away from 'ome, 'e's safe and well-fed, yet 'e tried to become a mercenary scum like us.."

"Who knows, might want to prove himself in the outside world." Blaidd hummed.

Marek scoffed. "Prove himself my arse, at least he lives good. Fuckin' nobles, don't have nothin' to do at all."

"Don't insult the dead, Marek." Arturio, who was silent before this, spoke up. "Who knows, tomorrow, it's either you or me who're laying on this tent."

"Don't talk t'me, ya black one." Marek spat. "Why don't ya just join 'em 'stead of sittin' 'round, or are ya a spy?"

"Marek." Blaidd warned.

"Shut up, knife-ear. Yer kind too. 'Stead of helpin' us defend the north, they kill our merchants and villagers on the road. Ungrateful sons o' bitches."

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Blaidd frowned.

"Y'wanna know what's wrong wit' me?" Marek stood up. "If we go again tomorrah, we'll get slaughtered. Those mages up hill does nothin' t' protect us, we'll be fried t' death by balls o' fire and those magic bolts, and where're those fuckin' pirates from Skellige huh? I see no signs o' them."

"Calm down, you're agitated," Arturio said. "Everyone's tense too. It's war, Marek, you've seen it before."

Marrek scoffed. "Nah, not like this. Maybe we ought to follow them black ones, put them mages on a leash like dogs so we could whip them to be competent. They sat on a hill like stone statues doing nothing to protect us, wearing makeup and dressing up like princesses. Useless bunch if ye ask me."

"Had enough, Marek?" a voice came out from the entrance of the tent. All of them turned around, and saw Tomas had come back, crossing his arms.

"Yeah." Marek said bitterly, not saying anything again and walked away from the tent, bumping the leader rudely on the way.

Tomas just shook his head in disappointment, and looked at the rest of his comrades. "You should all rest, the battle continues tomorrow."

The men in the tent just nodded, and all of them dispersed to get some rest.

======

Triss Merigold stood in the medical tent of the brotherhood of sorcerers, her eyes fixed on the table that held the body of Axel Esparza. The fellow sorcerer had been killed by an arrow that had struck him in the head, leaving no chance of survival. Triss had worked hard to try to save him, but the damage had been too great, and he had passed away in her arms.

As one of the best healers in the group, Triss had been tasked with the job of medic for the army. She spent her night moving from tent to tent, tending to fellow mages alike, giving them potions to recover their stamina and magic. It was a demanding job that took its toll on her body and mind.

Near her, Yennefer of Vengerberg sat, looking tired and trying to recover her body. The two sorceresses had a long history, filled with ups and downs, but now they were united by a common goal - to protect the army and the people of the North from the invading Nilfgaardian forces.

Triss looked up from Axel's body and met Yennefer's gaze. The two women exchanged a silent moment of understanding. They both knew the risks involved in this war, and they were both willing to pay the price.

"It's strange." Triss said bitterly, still looking at the corpse in front of her. "No cavalry unit attacked the mercenary flank."

"Strange indeed." Yennefer hummed. "The hill is under constant barrage of spells, artillery, and arrows. Vilgerfortz told us to ignore the army and focus on attacking. Yet there's no cavalry in sight. Perhaps…"

"Perhaps what?"

"They're waiting for us to tire," Yennefer said dismissively. "They must move in the late phase of the battle, otherwise, it's just a waste of soldiers."

"That makes sense, but still, we have the capabilities to defend ourselves even if we're tired."

"Fringilla Vigo is on the other side, isn't it?" Yennefer said calmly. "They're planning something."

"You think we should set up a permanent barrier around the hill?"

"Perhaps. But we've no energy to do that while trying to defend ourselves and attacking at the same time." Yennefer answered. "The hill is wide, and it needs almost all of us to set it up."

"Three of us are already dead, Yen." Triss pointed out. "And it's just the first day."

"I know." Yennefer sighed. "Do not worry. I will do something about it if the trap had sprung, I know a spell or two."

Triss could only shake her head at Yennefer's words. The arrogance of sorceresses knows now bounds, perhaps she too is like that, accepting the call for war.

======

As the sun rose on the second day of battle, Field Marshall Coehoorn gathered his captains around the map table once again. The table was cluttered with miniature figurines representing the units in the field, each placed strategically to reflect the current state of the ongoing war. Coehoorn was known for his tactical prowess, and he took great care in studying the map to determine the best course of action for the Northern Army.

Outside, the sounds of battle raged on. The air was filled with the screams of dying soldiers and the clash of swords. Boulders and fireballs hurtled through the air, while lightning bolts scorched the ground beneath them. Arrows flew thick and fast, some planting themselves in the ground, while others found their mark in the bodies of soldiers on both sides.

Despite the ferocity of the battle, the Northern Army had managed to thin the enemy's line. The Nilfgaardians had not used their full army potential at the start of the battle, and as a result, their left wing had been badly damaged by the Northern Army's cavalry. However, the enemy's left wing, which was guarding the sorcerers, had sustained fewer casualties than they had hoped for.

Coehoorn and his captains studied the map, their eyes focused on every detail as they planned their next move. The fate of the Nilfgaardian Army rested on their shoulders, and they knew that the outcome of the battle would be determined by their skill and strategy.

"We're losing, marshall." one of his captains said. "The strategy we're going for is wavering. We should send the cavalry to incapacitate their mages today. Those mercenaries have been thinned out, and those mages must've been tired right now, they're no longer defending their own army after a couple of hours yesterday, they've been overwhelmed by our mage's attack."

"While their mages attack our men, our mages attack their mages…" Coehoorn murmured. "What do you think, sorceresses?"

"Tomorrow." one of the leader sorceresses, a relatively skilled and free one, as she was the cousin of the emperor. "Our spell we'll be ready tomorrow, then the cavalry could wreak havoc on that hill. Those spoiled mages of the north must also be dead tired at that time, easy picking."

"Very good." Coehoorn hummed. "Then it's decided. Tomorrow's the day."