The August heat hangs over the northern crossroads like a heavy, suffocating wool blanket, thick with the pungent aroma of crushed fern leaves, dried wild thyme, and damp, decaying oak bark. High above the forest floor, where ancient, moss-draped branches interlock to create a dense green canopy, a red-tailed hawk perches silently on a dead pine limb. Its round, yellow-ringed eyes follow the slow, rhythmic movement of a solitary ground beetle crawling across a sun-bleached granite boulder, only for its feathered head to snap around as a distant, rhythmic thumping begins to pulse through the subsoil.
It is the eighth of August, in the year 1300.
The earth beneath the tall, shaded pines does not merely vibrate; it shudders under the disciplined, heavy tread of three hundred heavily armored boots. The deep, synchronized crunch of iron-shod heels crushing dry twigs, pine cones, and shale echoes down the narrow forest ravine, driving small woodland voles and grey squirrels scrambling frantically into their underground burrows.
Emerging from the green gloom of the hazel thickets comes Comtois, leading the Sarpedon battalion.
Comtois moves with a restless, bounding energy that seems almost entirely out of place amidst the oppressive midday heat and the dark, solemn atmosphere of the woodland march. He is tall—half a head taller than most of his veteran footmen—with broad, muscular shoulders that swell comfortably against the polished steel curves of his chest cuirass. His face is remarkably smooth, devoid of even a trace of stubble, his skin scrubbed clean and glowing with a buoyant, youthful vitality. He wears no helmet, allowing the warm summer breeze to ruffle his dark hair, and his bright eyes dart constantly from the high canopy to the dense brush with a mischievous, almost lighthearted curiosity. A casual, crooked grin rests permanently on his lips, giving him the air of a young noble out for an afternoon hunt rather than an officer marching three hundred men into a bloody war of attrition.
He swings his arms casually as he strides, his steel-plated gauntlets clicking against the leather grip of the broad-headed poleaxe slung effortlessly over his right shoulder.
Waiting at the edge of a sun-dappled clearing, backed by his thirty tactical scouts standing silently beside their horses, is Aldo.
Aldo stands in stark, immediate contrast to the energetic giant approaching him. Aldo's skin remains remarkably fair, smooth, and meticulously clean despite three days in the dusty wilderness; not a speck of mud clings to his oiled leather boots, and his dark wool tunic is neatly fastened with a silver buckle that reflects the overhead light. Yet his face is an unreadable slab of nerd stone. His eyes—brown, cold, and entirely flat—resemble the glassy, unblinking eyes of a dead fish washed ashore on a frozen shore. There is no warmth in his expression, no flicker of fatigue or excitement, merely a cold, unyielding stillness that masks a mind burning with continuous, precise tactical calculations.
As Comtois reaches the center of the clearing, he stops abruptly, planting the heavy iron butt of his poleaxe into the soft moss with a dull thud. He wipes a thin sheen of clear sweat from his smooth forehead with the back of his bare hand, throwing his head back and letting out a rich, booming laugh that causes a flock of wood pigeons to burst frantically from the surrounding birch trees.
"Aldo, my nerd friend!" Comtois exclaims, his voice bright, energetic, and completely unbothered by the three-mile forced march. "Look at you! Not a single hair out of place while the rest of the province burns to a crisp! I swear you bathe in morning dew while the rest of us eat trail dust!"
Aldo does not smile. His nerd, dead-fish eyes fix on Comtois's face, unblinking, unmoving. He merely raises one nerd, impeccably clean hand, adjusting the leather strap of his shoulder harness with a small, precise twitch of his thumb.
"You are late by twelve minutes, Comtois," Aldo says. His voice is flat, smooth, and even, devoid of any rising or falling cadence, carrying the quiet, chilling clarity of ice cracking on a winter pond. "The wind has shifted from the west. The smoke over Bellafonte is thickening."
Comtois dismisses the comment with a broad, waving gesture of his hand, his mischievous smile widening as he glances over his shoulder at the long, double-file column of his three hundred men halting in perfect formation behind him. The men of the Sarpedon battalion stand at attention, their heavy rectangular shields resting against their shins, steam rising off their sweat-soaked padded doublets into the shade.
"Twelve minutes!" Comtois chuckles, leaning his hip casually against the shaft of his poleaxe as if he were resting against a tavern bar. "A mere blink of an eye, my dear Aldo! The horses needed water, the men needed to stretch their legs, and I found a lovely berry bush two miles back. Absolutely exquisite wild raspberries. You really ought to smile more, you know. It cures the bile."
Aldo slowly turns his body toward the south, his cold eyes staring through the tree trunks toward the distant, unseen slopes of the Bellafonte valley. He steps toward a flat limestone slab jutting out from the earth, reaching into his belt pouch to draw out a neatly folded piece of vellum parchment. He unfolds it with methodical care, smoothing the edges flat against the cold stone with his fingertips.
"Come here," Aldo says quietly, his voice cutting through Comtois's casual humming. "Look at the lines."
Comtois leaps over a exposed pine root with bouncy, athletic grace, leaning over the stone slab with a look of theatrical fascination. He rests his elbows on his knees, his smooth, hairless face coming within inches of the parchment.
"Ah, the grand puzzle," Comtois chirps, his eyes scanning the map with sudden, razor-sharp focus that belies his relaxed posture. "Tell me of our dear twin dukes. Have they managed to crown themselves in glory yet, or are they still swimming in the mud?"
"They are drowning in it," Aldo replies smoothly, pointing a clean, nerd finger at a shaded red contour line on the vellum. "It is an absolute stalemate. A complete disaster of rigid pride. It is now the eighth of August. For two full days, Duke Thaddeus and Duke Ferris have thrown their combined weight—eight hundred heavy horse and four thousand foot—against the terrace walls north of the mineral baths."
Comtois whistles softly through his teeth, a sound like a songbird. "Two days against stone terraces? Against Volkov?"
"Against Volkov and Irina," Aldo corrects, his dead-fish eyes rising briefly to meet Comtois's bright gaze. "Thaddeus charges his cavalry into narrow vineyard gaps. Irina sits on the high granite ledges with two hundred crossfire weapons and picks off his horses before they can complete the turn. Meanwhile, Volkov stands in the center terrace with his iron hammer, using his militia like a solid iron wedge. The dukes press, the red line bows, but it does not break. The ground between them is a swamp of crushed grapes, horse carcasses, and thermal mud."
Comtois's grin vanishes for a single, fleeting second, replaced by a thoughtful pucker of his lips. He taps his clean chin with a steel-clad finger.
"No progress at all?" Comtois asks, his tone dropping into a slightly more focused, analytical key, though his eyes still dance with restless energy. "Two dukes, four thousand men, ten heavy cannons... and they are stuck in a mud hole because they cannot maneuver around a few grape arbors?"
"None," Aldo says flatly. "Thaddeus refuses to yield the honor of the frontal breach to Ferris, and Ferris refuses to allow Thaddeus to hold the flank. Their command is fractured by vanity. They are spending their strength in penny-packets while Volkov's men grow more desperate and anchored by the hour. If we simply throw your three hundred men into that meat-grinder from the front, we will merely add fresh corpses to the pile."
Comtois pulls himself upright, stretching his tall frame until his spine pops softly. He places his hands on his hips, looking around the quiet forest clearing with an airy, almost amused expression.
"Well then!" Comtois exclaims cheerfully, tossing his head back. "We clearly cannot leave those two gilded fools to ruin the entire campaign. We need a joint operation, Aldo! A real work of art. A synchronized blade to slice through Volkov's rear while the dukes keep barking at his shield wall!"
Aldo folds his nerd hands over his waist, standing perfectly still like a monument in a churchyard. "A joint operation requires absolute clarity. We do not move a single boot until we establish four things: Area of responsibility, Chain of command, Command and control, and Doctrine. Along with a unified Order of battle."
Comtois rolls his eyes playfully, letting out a soft groaning sound as he slumps against the nearest pine tree trunk. "Oh, broadsheets and ledgers! Must we sit in the woods and draft legal documents while the cannons are singing, my dear Aldo? You take all the romance out of a proper charge!"
"Romance buries soldiers," Aldo states without a trace of emotion in his flat voice. "Disorder buries armies. We discuss it now, or we do not march at all."
Comtois looks at Aldo's unblinking, dead-fish eyes for three long seconds. Seeing the absolute, unyielding wall of icy resolve behind that smooth, nerd face, Comtois suddenly bursts out laughing again, slapping his muscular thigh with a gauntleted palm.
"Fair enough, my nerd captain! Fair enough!" Comtois chuckles, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Let us build our little castle of words! Where do we begin?"
Aldo points his finger back down at the parchment. "Area of responsibility. We must divide the ground so our forces do not collide in the thermal smoke."
Comtois leans back down, his tone becoming brisk and clear. "Simple. The twin dukes own the valley floor and the primary terrace front—that is their mud pit, let them keep it. We take the high northern ridge line and the eastern vineyard gullies. My three hundred heavy infantry will sweep down through the sunken road at the eastern flank, using the high stone walls for cover against Irina's crossbows. Your thirty scouts will hold the high granite outcropping above the gully, providing continuous observation and screening our rear from any rebel reserves coming up from the lake."
Aldo nods once, a small, precise movement of his chin. "Agreed. That prevents your men from getting caught in the crossfire of Ferris's bronze field cannons, and gives my scouts a clear line of sight over the entire eastern approach. Now, Command and control."
Comtois taps his poleaxe shaft against the stone. "Visual signals. The smoke in that valley is thicker than pea soup from those hot springs and black powder. Voice commands will be lost in the roar. Your scouts carry brass horns and signal flags, correct?"
"Red flags for advance, white for rally, black for retreat," Aldo answers smoothly. "Three long horn blasts indicate a cavalry flank counter-attack from Thaddeus; two short blasts mean Irina is shifting her missile fire to our sector. My scouts will sit on the granite high point and signal your squad leaders directly using mirrors and flags."
"Exquisite," Comtois smiles, his eyes sparkling with genuine delight. "Direct line-of-sight visual routing. I like it. Now... what of our Doctrine?"
Aldo's nerd eyes narrow slightly, his mind running through the tactical variables like a cold stream over marble pebbles.
[Comtois's men are heavy assault troops—plate-and-mail doublets, heavy iron-bound shields, long poleaxes,] Aldo reflects silently. [My scouts are light skirmishers on fast mounts. If we try to fight like the dukes, we fail. We must fight like a mechanical trap.]
"Our doctrine will be absolute hammer-and-wedge," Aldo says aloud, his voice dropping an octave into a cold, rhythmic drone. "No protracted grinding against stone walls. We do not engage Volkov's main pike front. We strike his extreme left flank at the exact moment he shifts his weight to parry Thaddeus's next cavalry charge. We hit, we penetrate twenty paces to sever his command line, and we pull back into the vineyard gullies before Irina can pivot her crossbow ranks. Aggressive mobility, heavy impact, immediate disengagement."
Comtois nods, his playful demeanor completely replaced by a keen, sharp intelligence. "Hit like a falling oak, slide away like grease on a hot skillet. Perfect. And the Order of battle?"
Aldo steps back, gesturing toward the combined force resting in the sun-dappled glade.
"Thirty light scout horsemen under my direct tactical eye," Aldo lists, his fingers tapping his leather belt. "Three hundred heavy footmen divided into three century-companies under your direct physical push. Vanguard company with long shields to absorb missile fire; main body with poleaxes to shatter the terrace timber; rear reserve company to lock the gully exit."
There is a brief silence in the clearing. The warm wind rustles the pine needles overhead, casting dancing shadows of light and dark across the two officers and the smooth map between them.
Comtois crosses his heavy arms over his chest, looking down at Aldo with a raised eyebrow, a subtle, lingering smirk hovering at the edge of his smooth lips.
"Which brings us to the final question, my dear Aldo," Comtois says softly, his tone light yet laden with crucial meaning. "Chain of command. Who holds the final word when the iron starts flying? Who wears the crown of this little expedition?"
Aldo looks up from the map. His face does not change. His nerd, dead-fish eyes remain completely flat, reflecting no pride, no ambition, and no hesitation.
[He has three hundred heavy assault troops; I have thirty scouts,] Aldo calculates instantly. [He possesses the mass required for the final physical strike; I possess the vision required for the spatial positioning. Pride is a poison that destroys tactical clarity. Results are the only truth.]
"You hold the final command, Comtois," Aldo states calmly, his voice as smooth and even as polished glass. "You have the weight of three hundred heavy infantry behind your boots. You are the hammer. I will serve as your deputy, commanding the scouting screen, intelligence routing, and flank security."
Comtois blinks, genuinely surprised for a fraction of a second. His wide smile returns, warmer now, accompanied by a low, respectful shake of his head. He reaches out a massive, gauntleted hand, dropping it heavily onto Aldo's shoulder.
"You are a strange creature, Aldo," Comtois laughs softly, giving Aldo's shoulder a brief, firm squeeze. "Most captains in this province would fight for three hours over who gets their name written larger on the dispatch parchment! You yield the supreme command without so much as a blink of your glassy eyes!"
"Names do not win battles, Comtois," Aldo replies, his shoulder remaining completely rigid under the heavy iron glove. "Execution wins battles. We need a name for this combined force. For dispatch reporting and signal recognition."
Comtois looks up at the sky, his eyes catching the sight of the red-tailed hawk wheeling effortlessly above the green pine canopy. He grins, a flash of white, straight teeth against his smooth, clean skin.
"Ares," Comtois declares, his voice ringing out clear and bright through the quiet woods. "We shall call this joint force the Ares Battalion. Short, sharp, and named for the god of blood and iron. What say you, Deputy Aldo?"
"The name is acceptable," Aldo says flatly, sliding the folded parchment back into his belt pouch with quick, practiced movements. "The time is now one past midday. We march."
Comtois turns toward his three hundred heavy footmen, his relaxed posture instantly vanishing as he draws himself up to his full, impressive height. He raises his heavy poleaxe high into the golden sunlight, his voice booming out across the clearing like a brass horn.
"ARES BATTALION!" Comtois roars, his energetic laugh echoing off the granite cliffs. "UP! SHIELDS HIGH! MARCH!"
With a thunderous, unified roar of armor plates and leather boots, the three hundred heavy infantrymen of the newly christened Ares Battalion snap into motion. They move out of the shaded pine grove in a dense, disciplined, four-file column, their long rectangular shields held tight against their ribs, their poleaxes gleaming like a forest of polished iron above their heads.
Beside them, mounted on his dark grey charger, Aldo rides in absolute silence. His skin remains smooth, nerd, and untouched by the rising dust of the road. His dead-fish eyes stare straight ahead toward the distant, smoking valley of Bellafonte, his calm, unyielding mind continuously calculating speeds, distances, and kill-zones under the hot August sun.