Fallout:Blood and the Bull

Chapter 24: the costs of war



Any opinion and comments are welcome

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With over a hundred slaves specialized in blacksmithing, we had built an efficient machinery for the creation of military equipment—a worthy fabricae. We used more advanced forges than those found in local smithies, allowing us to process large quantities of iron in less time. The constant flow of materials and tools meant our ranks were better equipped each day, but all this came at a significant cost. Much of the gold earned in past campaigns—selling damaged equipment, looted food, and captured slaves—was being invested in the purchase of more slaves and iron.

It was a calculated sacrifice. Building an army wasn't cheap: boots, tents, armor, weapons, pack animals, construction materials, and food—all came at an enormous price that kept me constantly raiding the enemies of our contractor. But the initial cost always paid off over time, if managed correctly. I now had two cohorts composed of the men who had followed me from the north: battle-hardened veterans with discipline and experience in organized combat. Alongside them were two additional cohorts, formed entirely of slaves.

These slaves, though physically capable, lacked the skills and experience for real combat. Most had been torn from their lives and thrown into war with little time to learn more than the basics. But I knew that once trained, they would become a formidable force. For this reason, their training wasn't confined to the field. To harden them, I regularly sent them into nearby dungeons and tunnels—dark, claustrophobic places where the dangers were real and the pressure relentless.

Accompanied by veteran officers, these slaves learned to act under tension, to hold formation even when fear threatened to break it. The dungeons didn't just pit them against human enemies but also savage beasts and traps, forcing them to think quickly and trust their comrades. It wasn't just a physical exercise; it was a lesson in survival and cooperation.

My officers reported regularly on their progress. Some slaves displayed a natural talent for leadership or surprising combat skills, and these were quickly promoted to minor command positions within their ranks. Others, less capable or more prone to panic, were used in support roles where they could serve without endangering the rest of the unit. Natural selection within these cohorts was inevitable but necessary.

Each passing day, the differences between the veteran cohorts and the slave cohorts diminished. Though the slaves still lacked experience in large-scale combat, they were beginning to understand the discipline and tactics that would make them effective on the battlefield.

Meanwhile, at the camp, the blacksmiths worked tirelessly. Chainmail, short swords, and sturdy shields were produced in a constant flow, equipping both veterans and slaves. Though my resources were limited, every piece of equipment represented an investment in the survival and effectiveness of my men.

Deep down, I knew this was more than preparation for current campaigns—it was the foundation for something greater. These four cohorts were just the beginning. Every trained slave, every forged sword, every dungeon conquered was a step toward my ultimate goal: an army so disciplined and effective that no Free City could rival it. Today's sacrifices would become tomorrow's victories.

Tarn was the first to truly resemble a legionary—a towering figure embodying the vision I had for my forces. His equipment, crafted entirely of iron and leather, was functional and intimidating. Due to his colossal size of over two meters thirty, every piece had been custom-made by the slave blacksmiths working tirelessly in the camp forges.

He wielded a gladius longer than the standard design, tailored to exploit his reach and superhuman strength. It was simple yet effective—a sharpened iron blade Tarn wielded with brutal precision. His galea, reinforced with additional bands and complemented by a bandana that covered his face, left only his eyes visible, lending him an unsettling air. The rest of his body was protected by a lorica hamata, further reinforced with a lorica squamata made from the scales of common dungeon monsters. These scales, as tough as iron yet lightweight, not only provided exceptional defense but also gave his armor a near-mythical appearance.

His scutum, larger and sturdier than the standard issue, was a mobile wall of wood and iron, designed to withstand the fiercest attacks. For ranged combat, he carried two pilums: one heavy, to pierce enemy defenses, and another lighter, for quick, precise throws. His legs were protected by padded trousers and iron greaves, while robust leather-reinforced boots completed his formidable presence. Tarn was a walking fortress, a representation of what I dreamed all my legionaries could become.

In his first battle equipped as such, Tarn exceeded all expectations. He claimed the lives of more than fifteen mercenaries in a single engagement, moving through enemy lines like an unstoppable storm. Every strike of his gladius, every shield bash with his scutum, was a brutal reminder of why I had invested so much in him. His presence on the battlefield was not only lethal but also inspiring. Even my most seasoned men looked at him with respect, while the slaves in training began to see him as an ideal to strive for.

At the end of the battle, when the dust settled, Tarn removed his galea and approached me. His face was slick with sweat, but his eyes shone with an intensity found only in warriors born for combat. I called him aside as the others began gathering loot and organizing prisoners.

"Fifteen men," I said, meeting his gaze directly. "More than many can claim in an entire campaign."

"Was it enough?" Tarn replied, wiping the blood from his gladius with a cloth. His tone was dry, almost indifferent, but I knew those deaths weren't mere numbers to him. They were small steps in his personal pursuit of vengeance.

"More than enough," I corrected. "You've proven what I hoped: with the right equipment and training, even slaves can become something greater. You are the model, Tarn—the standard I want for every man under my command."

Tarn looked at me with an expression that wasn't pride but also not rejection. He knew what I said was true but also understood the price of being a symbol.

"If that's what you want," he finally said, "then make sure the others measure up. I don't want to carry dead weight."

"And they will," I assured him. "Soon, Tarn, you won't be the only one who looks like this. Every legionary will bear that weight, and each will be as lethal as you."

Tarn nodded slightly, his gaze hardening as he returned to sharpening his gladius. As I watched him, I knew he hadn't just justified the investment in his equipment; he had set a new standard for my army. The combination of iron, discipline, and carefully directed hatred was beginning to bear fruit. And this was only the beginning.

That night, as slaves and legionaries gathered around the campfires, Tarn sat silently, adjusting his armor and ensuring every piece was in perfect condition. No one dared disturb him. His actions on the battlefield spoke louder than any words, and every man in the camp understood that Tarn wasn't just a soldier—he was a war machine.

Our actions continued to sow chaos around Flussdorf, destabilizing the region. We attacked merchant caravans, burned villages, and enslaved peasants. The city's forces, spread too thin in an attempt to defend everything, became easy prey for our swift and disciplined tactics. Control of the situation seemed firmly in my grasp, and I relished the autonomy that came with it.

However, the tranquility of that autonomy ended abruptly when a messenger arrived at the camp, panting as he approached my tent. His face was drenched in sweat, his body hunched with exhaustion. Without saying a word, he handed me a scroll sealed with Freimarkt's emblem. I broke it open quickly and began to read.

The contents were concerning. Brückenstadt, known for its constant intrigues, had convinced a high-ranking church official that the best solution to the bridge dispute was for them to take control. It didn't take much imagination to understand how they achieved this: gold, promises, and well-placed bribes.

Apparently, the church had accepted the proposal, and consequently, they would deploy an order of knights to secure the bridge. That last part made me pause and reflect for a moment. It wasn't hard to imagine what kind of force they were sending.

The knights. That word had lost much of its luster in these times. I doubted these men would be clad in full steel plate armor—such equipment required resources these orders simply didn't have. Most likely, they would be equipped with bronze and iron armor, riding horses that had seen better days. In purely physical terms, they didn't seem like an insurmountable obstacle.

But the problem wasn't the armor or the lances. The problem lay in what accompanied these orders.

If the church was behind this, it was almost certain that priests would be among their ranks. Their presence was a real challenge in any battle. A priest didn't wield a sword, but they could keep a soldier standing far longer than should be possible. Wounds that would normally incapacitate a man would be closed with a chant, and his renewed strength would return him to the fight before his enemy could catch their breath. And it wasn't just that—their blessings could transform mediocre soldiers into lethal combatants, strengthening their bodies and weapons.

Moreover, there was the possibility of mages being present. Even one of low rank could be a problem. A well-cast spell could disrupt a line or cause enough chaos to break a formation. The combination of priests and mages could turn any battle into a prolonged headache.

Fortunately, Freimarkt's merchants seemed to have some common sense. They weren't interested in provoking open conflict with the church, which would only complicate their business and endanger their position. Instead of supporting us in a direct confrontation with the order of knights, we were ordered to take no action against them.

The logic behind this decision became clear quickly: the merchants planned to handle the problem as they always did, through bribes. According to the message, they had begun negotiations with the church's representatives, promising generous payments to convince them to withdraw their forces from the bridge.

It was a practical solution, though hardly inspiring. The merchants of Freimarkt weren't interested in loyalties or military strength. Their only god was gold, and their primary concern was maintaining the constant flow of wealth and trade. If that meant paying off the church to avoid conflict, they would do so without hesitation.

I couldn't help but smirk as I read the rest of the message. Bribes to undo the bribes of another Free City. It was a reminder of how these cities operated: an endless game of influence and wealth, where swords were only drawn when gold wasn't enough to solve the problem.

For now, my task was to wait. While I didn't like leaving something as important as control of the bridge in the hands of negotiations, the order was clear. My men and I would not intervene. If Freimarkt could buy off the withdrawal of the knights, all the better. If not, I would have to prepare to act on my own.

I studied the map of the bridge one more time before rolling it up. The situation could still change, but for now, this war wouldn't be won with swords—it would be won with coins.

Although the orders were clear and forbade us from taking any action against the order of knights, that didn't mean we had to remain idle. After all, Flussdorf's farmlands were still there, ripe for the taking. This matter with the bridge didn't affect our campaign of attrition. If Freimarkt's merchants wanted to play with coins and bribes, so be it; we had our own tasks to complete.

"Gather the men," I ordered my officers. "We proceed with the plan."

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Any opinion and comments are welcome


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