If you're enjoying these stories, consider leaving a comment, review, or vote.
You can also visit the Pat**on at: CaveLeather
"Company—halt!" Tiberius snapped his flag downward and roared the order. "Form defensive square! Prepare for arrow fire!"
The moment the command left his mouth, the hundred and fifty men seamlessly shifted from marching column into a tight defensive formation. The spearmen packed shoulder-to-shoulder, creating a dense hedgehog core, while the crossbowmen and pavise bearers dropped to one knee, huddling behind their massive shields.
"Loose!" Vito bellowed at his veterans.
The old White Company crossbowmen and archers went to work. Bolts were slotted, windlasses cranked with that teeth-grinding ratchet sound, and arrows were nocked and drawn in one smooth motion. A heartbeat later, the air filled with the low, vicious whistle of incoming shafts.
Of course these were training arrows—heads removed, tips wrapped in thick rags and cotton. They wouldn't kill, but they still hurt like hell when they smacked into armor or helmets. The infirmary's wine-and-herb supply had been getting hammered these past few days.
Thud-thud-thud!
The first ragged volley slammed into the formation. Thanks to helmets and torso armor, not many spearmen were ruled "down," but plenty let out pained grunts as the heavy bolts smacked into their gear.
That was just the appetizer.
Vito had hand-picked these crossbowmen—every one a veteran who'd fought beside him for at least two years. Some could thread a bolt through a shield gap at fifty paces; the rest were fast. Loader and shooter moved like they'd been born doing it, the second volley already in the air before the first had finished landing.
"Not bad, kid…" Vito muttered, watching the Lightning Company maintain formation and keep inching forward even under the arrow storm. "They're actually pushing through the fire instead of dropping their weapons and running. They're starting to understand that on a real battlefield, tucking your head and running gets you killed faster than standing your ground."
But this is still just the warm-up, Vito thought with a nasty little grin.
"Old Tom, your turn," he called.
"Not bad at all," Old Tom cracked his neck and grinned like a wolf. "These rookies have actually got some spine now." He kicked the resting spearmen to their feet. "On your feet, you lazy bastards! Time to give these greenhorns a taste of the real thing! Don't embarrass the White Company. And you—" he jabbed one man in the chest "—don't tell me your legs are still jelly from last night's whore!"
"First rank front, second and third cover the wings! Watch yourselves—these bastards have crossbows and they're waiting for us! That little shit Tiberius is sneaky as hell. He held his volley until we committed!" Old Tom spat on the ground. "Rats, get ready! And don't pull that shit like last time—crawling in too early with your knives and getting shredded by their pavise crossbows. Fucking embarrassing!"
"Hold the line!" Old Tom roared. "Heads down, protect your eyes when the arrows come!"
In the center of his own formation, Tiberius watched Old Tom's looser but faster-moving spear block advance and felt a knot of tension in his gut.
The first time they'd run this drill, Tiberius had been confident in his men—until Old Tom's single hard charge shattered the Lightning Company's front line like cheap pottery. That failure had been a brutal lesson: perfect discipline and neat ranks meant nothing against grizzled veterans who knew exactly where to bite.
"Fuck, this kid really was born for this life!" Old Tom grunted, batting aside a spear thrust aimed at his face and countering with a vicious jab of his own.
It had only been two weeks since that first rout, yet the Lightning Company spearmen were already trading blows with Old Tom's hardened killers. They weren't as slick with the spear, and they relied purely on formation and discipline to hold, but they were holding. That alone was impressive.
Kid really knows how to train men, Old Tom thought, but he kept the grin off his face.
"You bastards got mouths or what? Start cursing!" he bellowed.
His spearmen immediately unleashed a torrent of filth—every insult, every crude taunt they could think of, trying to rattle the Lightning Company.
Tiberius's men stayed silent. They just clenched their teeth and pushed forward.
That was Tiberius's rule.
"I want wolves, not dogs. When a wolf bites, does it bark? No. Got insulted? Good. Answer with the spear in your hands!"
When Old Tom realized his veterans couldn't break the line quickly, his eyes narrowed. He gave a sharp signal.
"Send in the rats! They've rested long enough—ow, fuck!" Another white lime mark appeared on his armor. "Hurry up! These bastards are tough!"
At his order, several of his spearmen dropped their long weapons, drew short knives and daggers from belts and boots, and dropped low, crawling under the opposing spear hedge.
Their job was simple: use speed and low profile to slip in and hamstring the enemy spearmen—attacking the weakest point of the formation to collapse the whole wall with minimal losses.
Would Tiberius let that happen?
"Light infantry with bows—loose! Aim for the body, not the head! Crossbowmen keep suppressing their spearmen, but watch your targets!" Tiberius snapped the moment he saw Old Tom's rats moving. He wasn't about to let a training arrow crack someone's skull.
The bowmen's arcing shots were safer—less likely to kill. His own light troops—armed with cleavers and hand-axes from the sugarcane fields and woods—slipped forward to meet the enemy rats.
These weapons were familiar to the former slaves, and the longer blades gave them an edge over daggers. Old Tom watched his "rats" get shot, hacked, or ruled out one after another, forced to leave the field.
Just as the two spear lines locked in a grinding stalemate—
The ground began to tremble. A cloud of dust rose in the distance.
"Hahaha! Here we come, kid!" Garvin and Leon thundered forward at the head of fifty armored cavalry, lances leveled, horses kicking up a storm.
They wouldn't actually crash into the formation—that was murder, not training. Instead they swept past at speed, loosing arrows and making thunderous feint charges to rattle the Lightning Company from the flanks.
The drill was reaching its climax. The cavalry wasn't there to win—it was there to make Tiberius's men feel what a real flanking cavalry attack felt like, so they wouldn't piss themselves when it happened for real.
And it was also the perfect moment to practice forming the wagon laager. If the Lightning Company didn't want to get trampled, they had to quickly link their modified wagons and wheelbarrows into a defensive circle.
Tiberius watched the dust cloud grow, eyes cold and focused.
Time to see if they've learned.