The assembled soldiers trembled at the reformed barricade. Even though each of them now had at least two crossbows and some other melee weapon, the fact of the matter was that they were still untrained and prone to running if things looked bad.
Captain Jacob Drax of the 126th Light Infantry, First Battalion, regarded his opponent with mild disdain. His crack troops were now assembled a good three hundred yards from the enemy barricade. The wide boulevard left them plenty of room to maneuver, and there was plenty of cover for his men to take cover behind.
Something was worrying the veteran commander, however. While the other units that had been assigned to assault the evacuation camp had mild success in driving back the enemy troops, the unit that had been assigned here had been almost completely routed. While the few survivors were in little condition to report on the defenses, the result was obvious to Drax. The overconfident, boisterous troops of the 35th, lead by known incompetent Captain Harbinger, had attacked this barricade expecting a rout, had been counterattacked in force, and fell back in surprise. Drax would not make the same mistake. His troops were well trained, well disciplined, and above all, brave. If there was a hope of victory, they would fight on.
Not that he wasn't concerned, however. The forces here were reported to be conscripts, as the main body of the enemy Army was embroiled in battle some miles to the north. The entire reason that they were attacking this place in the first place was to try to draw off troops from the main body of forces, weakening them at their most crucial moment. That, and if they could take the refugee camp then they would have a perfect flanking position on the Allies. Harbinger may have been incompetent, but overall the 35th, particularly C Company, was almost, if not quite, as good as Drax's own men, and the fact that they were routed at all worried him.
What made him reconsider the order to advance, however, was the fact that the whole thing worried him. This was the closest route into the camp, and the least defended. Yet, the other nearby streets were completely blocked with debris, and the small, pathetic barricade in front of him almost seemed like a trap.
Yet, he had no choice. General Melchett would not allow anyone to second guess his judgment, and woe to anyone who did. Reluctantly, he gave the order.
"There they go." Jack said, grinning.
"Poor bastards." The soldier next to him said.
Packed into the buildings along the wide street were over a hundred troops, each one armed to the teeth with weapons taken from the defeated soldiers, and everything they had managed to scrounge from the camp.
"Sir, I've got a good bead on their commander. Can I take the shot?" Private Ferguson, a self proclaimed master with the bow and arrow, stood at the window, bow slightly drawn.
"Wait, goddamit!" Jack replied. "You know the plan. Not until they've gone too far to retreat. In any case, I take the first shot."
Ferguson grumbled, but relented. It had taken nearly the entire hour it took to get everything in place to get the soldiers to accede to the plan. Most had called it cowardice, but Jack had won the argument by reminding them that a live coward was worth more than a brave dead man. Most of the time, at least.
The barricade began to open fire, randomly shooting their new weapons into the advancing Battalion. Most of them were wasted shots, as while the crossbows had the range, the men firing them could have barely hit the broad side of a barn with an RPG. Jack winced at every missed shot, but forced himself to relax. Remember the plan.
The attackers started to pick off the defenders, carefully taking aim and picking off anyone unlucky enough to be sticking their head up at the wrong moment. As the first platoon dropped out to reload, the second platoon took their place, a well drilled fire and maneuver tactic that would embarrass some militaries back home. Steadily, they advanced, and gradually the swordsmen took their place at the front of the line, bearing down on the decimated defenders. Just as they reached the barricade, the defenders broke, scrambling over themselves to get out of the way. The swordsmen broke formation to chase them getting closer and closer to their prize.
Suddenly, the defenders swiveled around, aimed their weapons, and drilled the attackers point blank. Many of the shot missed, but the sheer volume took the swordsmen by surprise, as did the rapid counterattack, the crossbowmen shedding their unfamiliar weapons and drawing out large, battered swords.
"NOW!" Jack shouted, and fired into the crowd, the rear guard now fifty feet past the house. A dozen buildings on either side of the street opened fire, the rapid stream of arrows cutting down the closely packed Battalion.
As the confused attackers started taking potshots at the houses, fifty new men broke from the edges of the refugee camp and plunged into the confused line, lead by Sam.
"Focus on the crossbowmen!" Jack shouted. It didn't matter. The entrenched men were simply pouring bolts into the fray, although fortunately most had the presence of mind to try to fire away from where their comrades were attacking the line.
As each crossbowman fired, he instantly dropped his weapon and picked up another. That weapon would be quickly reloaded by another trooper, and quickly put back on the firing line. With this system, they were able to keep up a murderous rate of fire, and with the closely packed battalion unable to maneuver, nearly each shot put another man out of action. Just as the enemy regained their wits and started taking cover behind the bodies of their comrades and returning fire, three improvised Molotov cocktails were thrown into the crowd in quick succession, furthering the destruction.
Even the most hardened troops have a breaking point, and these soldiers had just about reached theirs. In a testament to their professionalism, they performed the best fighting retreat they could under the circumstances, backing away slowly over the corpses of their own men.
"They're starting to break! Move, now!" Jack got up and rushed down the narrow stairs, followed by a good dozen men. Kicking the door open, he emerged onto the street along with a good fifty men from his house and the one across the street.
As Jack emerged onto the street, his crossbowmen ceased fire, leaving only an eerie silence as the melee fighters withdrew as well. Of the five hundred troops that had marched on the defenses, only about a third were still standing. Their regimental flag was perforated with a dozen jagged holes, and the rich scarlet banner was drenched in blood.
No one moved.
"Where's your commander?" Jack shouted.
There was a general murmuring amongst the soldiers, and a tallish, bearded man walked out to the front of the line, arrow embedded in his shoulder.
"You wish to make demands?" The commander asked.
"I offer unconditional surrender. Lay down your arms, and I'll ensure that as long as you're with me, none of you will be harmed.
The commander thought for a second, then shook his head.
"It's more than I expected. I surrender."
He drew out a long, engraved sword, then threw it onto the ground at Jack's feet.
