At the top of the Theocracy military stood the generalissimo and directly beneath him—two marshals, Valerian Ein Aubigne and Gael Lazerus Bulgari. The former was in charge of the campaign against the elves.
Central command was run out of a tent quite close to the elf capital, and Valerian was seated within, accompanied by six strategists. While he was in his fifties, all of them were still in their twenties.
Age was hardly a reliable indicator of strength, but in a position requiring intelligence and experience, it could serve as a sort of benchmark. By that logic, these strategists were arguably far too young.
Each had deep circles below their eyes and furrowed brows. They wore the faces of men who’d long labored under a heavy psychological burden.
Valerian ran his eyes over documents that were the most likely causes of their fatigue.
These were the casualty reports stemming from the elves’ night raid. Considering the early-morning hour, the attack had happened mere hours ago.
“That’s a lot.”
He’d expected it, but no other words came to mind.
Still, the Theocracy had far more faith casters than other countries, so any casualties who still lived and could be recovered, even the critically injured, could be made whole. As a result, the killed column was a far smaller figure than the wounded. And the majority of those wounded were currently getting treatment.
But the number of elf dead left on their side was even less than the Theocracy.
It seemed unlikely they’d recovered the bodies and retreated while conducting a night raid. Thus, the reported fatality count was likely accurate.
An extremely poor kill ratio.
“Yes. This close to the elf capital, they’re clearly sending in their strongest; these casualties are the result.” The speaker was the man who’d drawn up the figures. “But the enemy seems to be operating with a smaller, more elite force, so we believe even these losses are significant.”
One hero was worth a thousand soldiers. On the other hand, the loss of even one hero was painful. The raw number of dead didn’t reflect the true impact on military capability.
That was the strategist’s point, but this was hardly a comfort.
“I can already imagine how the troops will look at us now,” another one muttered.
“It’s only natural for them to hold a grudge.” Valerian sighed. “They’ve all lost friends.”
Everyone wanted people to like them, and a commander who lost the faith of their troops was at a major disadvantage. For those with a commanding class like Valerian, their support power functioned only if the troops were following them willingly.
“We’ve been fending off their night raids thus far, so the issue is less with our defensive formations than the simple fact that if they send in their elites, we need comparable defenders to counter them.”
“Exactly. Our side has a number of powerful soldiers, but the bulk of them are faith casters. If the classes are different—you need a more substantial power differential.”
In a frontal assault, those faith casters would be a huge asset. But in a night raid, ranger skills had the clear advantage. They didn’t need to look any further than these casualty counts for proof of that.
“What we need to do is increase our defenses so that no additional night raids can occur. Anyone have any ideas?”
The raid itself must have put that idea in their heads; the strategists all had proposals ready.
Valerian had thought of several himself, and they had some that hadn’t occurred to him. If they could incorporate all of these, the result would be a substantially stronger defensive position. Problem was, doing so would require significant labor, resources, and time. They would have to prioritize the most efficient measures and discard the others.
Worse—
“Sir, defenses are all well and good, but is there actually a point in spending the time to stay and fight here?”
That was the obvious question.
“The top brass have sent their orders.” He looked around the table. “You’ve all read them. They need us to stand our ground a while longer. Understood?”
No one disagreed. But their silence was not acceptance.
He had not expected them to be on board. He knew exactly how each of them felt, and despite his many years, he knew he could not dismiss this as the folly of youth.
Frankly, they were entirely justified.
The lives lost in last night’s attacks had simply been wasted. These losses had been entirely avoidable.
The Theocracy armies had placed their camp close to the capital, virtually on the front lines. It could be argued that this meant information reached them quickly and they could respond to enemy actions promptly—but it also carried the risk of their headquarters falling if a particularly strong elf made a suicidal charge directly at them. The elves were on the ropes and increasingly likely to employ such tactics. No question about it—the Theocracy should be launching their full assault as soon as possible.
Simply put, if the enemy’s most powerful fighters were forced to take up defensive positions, the risk of the Theocracy headquarters falling was significantly diminished.
But the leadership had ordered them to sit here and merely probe the enemy lines. They must have been aware that would lead to elven night raids.
Certainly, the collapse of their front could lead to evacuations or desertions, and orders to park themselves close by and swiftly move to prevent that made a certain amount of sense. Valerian was even on board with the idea of dangling bait before the elven elite or the elf king—who had barely shown himself. But those strategies were contingent on the participation of the Firestorm Scripture.
Why were they not here, helping?
Certainly not because their subleader had perished at the hands of the elf king.
Supreme command had sent word that the Firestorm Scripture were busy with another mission, but nobody here took that at face value.
Valerian knew the truth, and though young, these strategists were all brilliant and knew exactly what the top brass were thinking.
Withholding the Firestorm Scripture had several effects.
First, experience.
For humans used to city life, survival in this forest was much harder than they’d imagined. A far cry from the safety of home, here they always had to be on the lookout.
This battle was one big lesson.
Elves had merely taken the place of forest beasts.
If there were future opportunities to gain similar experience, they likely wouldn’t bother—but it also wasn’t something you wanted happening often.
But that goal did not require actual losses.
If experience was the only goal, they need merely train somewhere safe. They could have the Firestorm Scripture fill the same roles as the elves. Obviously, high command knew that, too. So why take this approach? Did they not care about the losses it incurred?
No—
It’s all about their state of mind.
If a soldier was to protect anyone, they needed techniques used by hunters and rangers.
By going up against creatures who excelled at forest combat—like the elves—the rank and file learned ways to fight in this environment. Some might learn enough to acquire the ranger class. And fatalities were a real incentive. The more friends they lost, the more threatened the survivors felt.
For that reason, command had refused to send in the six scriptures—especially the Firestorm—on the grounds that they would make short work of the elves.
The very thought of this cold logic made Valerian want to grimace.
He understood why. But that didn’t mean he liked it.
“Sir, a proposal.”