Mortal Potential - Haroun

The ground was naught but mud.

Marching on campaign was always a sordid affair, and despite being used to it, the unpleasantness continued to grate at the edge of Harouns’ mind.

He had considered leisurely taking to the skies or elsewhere while off rotation, to alleviate the constant dirt, the overwhelming drudgery. But to galavant off by himself would be a betrayal of his comrades in arms, in his mind. Much better to put one foot in front of the other alongside the rest of his men, eat, sleep, complain, fight with them. If not merely to maintain morale, then to give them the respect of knowing them in some small way before he inevitably became the shepherd of their souls.

They’d known going in that it was not going to be easy, not only due to the monumental task that lay before them, but that the kind of campaign required had been rarely fought on Etera or anywhere. Usually, wars were fought in a campaign of maneuver, with perhaps one or two pitched battles, the defeated withdrawing from the field in good order, terms settled, glory for the dashing victorious commander. Often, duels of single combat had decided the outcome, with relatively light skirmishing all that the larger forces engaged in.

They’d known there would be doctrinal issues going in, but suitably preparing a host as large as they had to deal with them was nigh impossible: all the supplies must be brought along as a supply train is too vulnerable, scouting is extremely dangerous and can only be executed in a limited scope, there would likely be no pitched battles due to the assumed nature of the Ghostlands.

This was a war of blind attrition, the likes of which no veteran had yet endured, and no amount of amateur preparation was going to make it any easier.

The first week had been relatively easy, the arrayed expertise and raw prowess of adventurers and their elite cohorts buying breathing room for the rank and file. As they pushed further into the blighted terrain, it turned against them. Small skirmishes against bands of undead that could be handled by an adventurer or two thickened and blended into one long constant battle, spanning day and night. Postings at camp turning into warbands to repel the onslaught, turned into a continuous frontline of fighting.

As it turns out, fighting undead is not like fighting your fellow man, for he tires, is wary of injury, and can be broken. They threw themselves at our men, making each hour a fight for survival, a trail of corpses hastily buried, a cohort exhausted. Thankfully, even a conscript armed with spear and shield is more than a match for a mindless zombie, and low casualties helped keep morale steady.

Roderik slapped Haroun on the back, breaking his quiet contemplation.

“Hey, Cap. Busy?” He asked, a lopsided grin showing Haroun he’d want to know, even if he were busy.

Haroun smiled a greeting at him and raised his bowl to his lips, finishing the soup quickly.

“What can I do for you, Roderik? Babel second needs support again?”

The Setlaar Free Rifles were a boon if ever there was one. Recently formed and hired, they were composed of veterans from Eatash Alram with light infantry expertise; and it showed. Tirelessly screening the hosts’ vanguard, they provided some of only accurate scouting without serious casualties to date.

Roderik bobs his head. “They’re doing a lot better now. Freddie and his boys are keeping an eye on them.” Haroun nods his head in affirmation and for him to continue. “Third’s just confirmed your ‘pomps reports about the reduced activity yesterday. Looks like an army camped afore the woodlands a day's march inwards. Unsure on leadership, not been able to get anyone close.”

Haroun’s brow furrowed. The explanation was welcome, the inexplicable tapering of undead numbers had been concerning, as surely something was afoot. At least now they knew.

“Thank you, Roderik. Make sure this intel gets up the chain, we’ll need to prepare for battle order with fresh troops, yours included. First and Second should be safe to pull for the evening?”

He winks and quips, “Already done, Cap.” before dashing off between the soldiers of the column and disappearing.

Word quickly spread throughout the army as the commanders reorganised what they could into a more traditional structure suited to meet an army, and a certain anticipation hung in the air, Haroun felt. It was not dread, but almost relief, as many of the men eased themselves back into the well trodden mindset of the night before battle.

In the morning they marched, zeal in their eyes once more, and it was not long before the tattered pennants of the enemy host were visible, fluttering in the breeze as they marched down a hillside. Wasting no initiative, the various Eteran light forces moved to forestall a retreat and allow the heavy infantry to deploy its flanks. With the distant cracking of gunfire and inhuman shrieks growing raucous, the thickets of Eteran spear, sword and shield quickened in their advance, Haroun closed his eyes.

He breathed in a lungful of the cool morning air and exhaled slowly.

As righteous fury and ravenous hunger broke each side into a charge, too many wings bore him aloft, a burning halo blazed into place above his head, adding a dull red glow to the morning sky.

As the forces slammed into each other and battle joined in earnest, an Angel of Death hung over the field, a wordless message in the hearts of every man.

“Pharasma is with us, and we will have this day.”

The ground would be naught but blood.