Garland Moon, Imperial Year 1175
The rains of the Garland Moon obscured sight. The prideful archers of Brigid could not loose their arrows to much success. But that same disadvantage turned to advantage when it came to their swift strikes. From behind walls of rain and mist the Brigid charged forward. Swords and axes in hand they engaged in bloody melee with the caravan, its guards and the Broken Blade.
Fierce as fire they fought, but when their surprise waned, they faded back into the distance. Footprints in the mud spoiling their retreat as Jeralt and the cavalry ran them down. Christophe nearly torn from the saddle again but Byleth leapt in to cover him. Even on foot he was covering their backs.
No fatalities for the Broken Blade, somehow. A goodly number of injuries, but none among their number met the goddess today.
Ten prisoners their bounty and twenty grateful Imperials.
Blue Sea Moon, Imperial Year 1175
The Goddess's Rite of Rebirth had slowed the Imperial response for the Blue Sea Moon. Even now, at the peak of war, in a country less faithful than others, the devout still made their holy pilgrimages. Those who could not reach Garreg Mach retreated to local worship and that's when the Dagdans and Brigid struck.
Tearing into the city of Elimine and its unprepared defenders. The pious took up their armaments to defend their institution and a bloodsoaked sight awaited the Broken Blade when they arrived. Soldier, civilian, it mattered not this month.
Leveling lances, swords and axes the Broken Blade fought for a week in close-combat. Again and again, every time they thought the invaders were done for they'd strike from another angle. Cassandra at one point throwing herself into thirty foes to allow time for reinforcements to arrive and safeguard a critical side alley. Her body packed with wounds when Christophe arrived with his cavalry and ran the enemies down. She smiled even as Byleth desperately healed her.
The city was half rubble by the time the Imperial Army's main forces arrived. All the invaders dealt with in the carnage. Hundreds of prisoners from Dagda and Brigid brought a hefty bounty to the Broken Blade. All for the price of severe wounds. Some thought it a miracle from the Goddess. Some even decided to join with the Broken Blade because of it. Jeralt had a different idea, but he wasn't gonna turn down able sword-arms either way.
Verdant Rain Moon, Imperial Year 1175
The wild nature of the Verdant Rain Moon slowed the primary advance of the Dagdan armies. Noticing the dampened advance, Count Bergliez set his forces up to intercept. On plains with no name, with rains thick as a waterfall the two armies clashed in incredible combat. Blood pooled on the ground as thick as puddles of water and neither army would give an inch. The count personally led troops on the front, with ax and fist in equal measure his elite war groups punched holes in the Dagdan formations.
To the sides came the Brigid hunters. Dark leathers to hide in the darkness and rain. So easy for all to miss. Save one: His son. Without a single shout he leapt into the fray of the Brigid ambushers creeping in the darkened perimeter and wrecked his fearful slaughter. Jeralt rallied the Broken Blade and all those assigned to guard the flank and joined the battle. The whirl of chaos left no thought for higher strategy or far-off concerns, just the immediate fight for survival.
Battle lasted so long that Jeralt's arms burned even without injury. Upon the horizon the sun slowly crept up. The faint rays of dawn illuminating the battlefield. There, standing atop a pile of bodies red from blood was the "High One". The prince of Brigid. His swords flashing bright and brilliant even in the low light. Those who came close were torn asunder in his skill. Sword, ax and bow extracting deadly consequences to his opponents.
Jeralt kicked his horse and charged at the fighting prince. He bounded away, using the increasingly wretched terrain to protect himself from a charge, but Jeralt had javaleins to stop that. He circled around the perimeter the prince tried to enact, hurling throwing spear after throwing spear at the enemy prince. He dodged, each and every one but not with the boundless strength of a man fresh to the action. Each spear he avoided came at cost to his flagging stamina. He dared not even fire back to preserve what he could.
And that maneuvering finally meant Jeralt could make his attack. The circumstances were not ideal but they never were. With one final toss the prince dodged into a semi-open path and Jeralt ran him down. The Crest of Seiros infusing him with enough strength to shatter a building and aimed solely at the prince.
The blow came to his shoulder, intentionally. He took the blow, moving with its direction and swinging his left blade wide, cutting at Jeralt's heel as he moved passed.
An exchange in Jeralt's favor. The whole battle now turning to the favor of defenders. Byleth came, his own conflict concluded. Around him, Alois, Cassandra and Glenn had finished their foe. The prince was not trapped, not yet, but his escapes were few in number, against opponents of incredible quality.
Beneath that hood he smiled.
And ran.
Jeralt kicked his horse—only for his right foot to slip off and nearly take him out with it. The prince had cut his saddle in the exchange. Clever man.
The prince rallied his forces into a fighting retreat. He'd earned enough distance that those wearing metal would never catch leather running in mud. A pursuit would just cause more casualties. Jeralt called it off. Rallied what he could.
To the main battle the Dagdans were forced off. Annihilated and surrendered in enormous numbers. They could not retreat as the Brigid did. Though bodies layered the ground enough to pave the city's streets, a cheer of victory rose high against the clearing skies and the rainbow rising.
None of the dead were Broken Blade. All the deaths were Adrestians, or other mercenary groups. Those few among the latter begged for recruitment. Jeralt couldn't much fault them either. Hundreds more prisoners were added to their rewards, along with a slap on the back by Count Bergliez.
Horsebow Moon, Imperial Year 1175
The defeat in Verdant Rain Moon crippled the advance of the Dagdan and Brigid armies. In response their raiding parties redoubled their efforts. Across the western farmlands the Brigid disrupted the harvest. Farming village after farming village felt the grasp of ruin as their harvest is disrupted, stolen or outright destroyed. The men hunting with their bows, isolated and unprepared for war, fall to the same arrows they slung at game. For this year, they were the prey.
Try as they might, the Broken Blade couldn't catch them. Dozens, hundreds of small groups attempted to put a stop to these raiders to no avail . They avoided all attempts at direct conflict. Content to dance around in the trees shooting without any chance of retribution. Damn smart.
With nothing to be done, Count Bergliez regrouped his forces to protect the remaining farms he could. Correspondence was sent eastward towards Grondor Field, the territory of the count and the breadbasket of the Empire, to send more food west. It would damage the stability of the east, but the war would be won in the west, there was little choice. A winter without food would destroy the army swifter than any blade.
Wyvern Moon, Imperial Year 1175
The rivers of Fódlan were rife with fishermen as people desperately tried to stock enough food for winter. Guarded at all times by soldiers, mercenaries, or the Broken Blade. Even then, the Brigid would strike.
Another encounter struck short by Byleth's prenatrual ability to sense the ambushes. Under his figure another battle was won without another death among their number. The Broken Blade moved as an extension of his will when he commanded. It was eerie.
The first snow flecks of winter began early. As the wyverns still soared the skies coming south to roost as far from Faerghus they could.
His thoughts turned for a moment to the Officers Academy. Would they host the Battle of the Eagle and Lion while a war ravaged the land? Or had the church's neutrality stopped any use of Grondor Field for such an event forever more?
Passing thoughts, nothing more, in the end.
Red Wolf Moon, Imperial Year 1175
The slightest sheet of snow now ruled Adrestia. Villagers across the Empire huddled in their homes, hunters and militia on watch for both Brigid and the red wolves. Attacks from the former no longer as effective as they had been two months prior.
The light clothing of the Brigid was not meant for the weather of Fódlan. More than once the Broken Blade found Brigid just lying half-covered in snow. The "lucky" half only lost limbs. Shivering even in heavy furs. Babbling thanks in their own tongue despite everything.
On a patrol in woods picked clean of leaves screams of inhuman fury and human terror demanded attention. Jeralt and the Broken Blade burst into a full run even among the slippery snow and slick leaves underneath.
To their genuine surprise they found a pack of giant red wolves besetting a contingent of Brigid troops. Only three of the beasts, but their jaws were red with fresh blood and the dozen bodies still on the ground was clear who was winning.
A wolf howled, its maw large enough to engulf a horse giving such power to hurt ears. Its claw tore into the rock-hard ground and slung a barrage of stone at the Brigid. They ducked and waved but two of their fifteen were pummeled from it. Unmoving on the snow when they fell.
"Broken Blade! Take down those wolves!"
This was not a time for war!
With a shout and charge their own they threw themselves into battle. Swords, axes, spears, spell and arrow striking against the barrier-ladened hides of the monsters. The wolves slavered and bite and clawed back, but once their defenses were overloaded their movements became sluggish and they sood disoriented as the Broken Blade inflicted deep wounds on them.
In desperation a wolf erupted the ground, sending the Broken Blade scattering apart in pain but it was not enough. The Crest of Seiros granted him enough might to behead the wolf to little effort after. Byleth took the second, and Cassandra the third.
Wounded, but none dead again. Even the former taken care of by the healers.
The Brigid had not ran in the chaos. Instead their bows had helped, Brigid arrows sticking out even more in the hides of the red wolves. To a man they disarmed and knelt. Shivering in the snow.
He wasn't gonna say no to free prisoners.
Ethereal Moon, Imperial Year 1175
The snow laid heavy with the Ethereal Moon this year. Only a few offenses were launched by the count and none of them involved the Broken Blade. They sat, well-rested and warm in a city. In the skies the Blue Sea Star would depart, and the goddess with it. Prayers for her return going with her.
Not enough prayers for victory, for his taste.
Guardian Moon, Imperial Year 1175
The snow so thick in Ethereal Moon had melted the very first day of Guardian Moon. A birthday celebration for his son amongst the direness of war. No presents in flowers, only another dagger. And hopefully he wouldn't lose this one. Even surrounded by all these people, all cheering for his birth, he never cracked a smile.
Orders came, a quick, coordinated strike south on all fronts. It was a plan born of utter madness at first. The roads would be snowed over, and those that were cleared would become trails of mud. Progress would slow, and stall. Armies would be forced to make encampment and leave themselves exposed to the worst of elements. Disease would run rampant, crippling the army and should the Dagdans or Brigid attack they'd be annihilated even against small numbers.
It was why it was so brilliant.
Bergliez had spent the past months observing the Dagdan and Brigid movements. After losing too many souls to winter's touch they'd cut back entirely on deep scouting. Any army marching south wouldn't be seen until it reached a city's walls. Their sentries would be few, their soldiers content and unprepared. A strong attack would shatter morale and avoid the worst of fighting.
Winter clothing was delivered with the orders. The roads south were cleared. The muddy ground reinforced with wooden planks made in the chill of winter. Stockpiles of wood and food were stored on key points on the march south. Disease would be countered with stores of medicine and contingents of doctors. It was the best any movement in winter could count on.
Jeralt gave every member of the Broken Blade a chance to excuse themselves. None did.
Together, packed warm as possible in furs, they marched south.
Three rally points they passed along the way. Enormous battalions of Imperial regulars encamped at each. Heavy fires staining the sky. A risk they had to take, lest everyone free even in their protection.
A week after their departure a third were down with some form of illness. Sneezes and coughs and red-hurt cheeks. They were among the luckier units. Others struck from vomit, or limbs losing touch or worse.
The entire campaign rested on this attack.
The white-touched walls of the city came into view. Dots the size of a thumb on the walls running about. Bells cracking at the arrival of liberators. The soldiers so few in number gathered on the ramparts.
It wouldn't be enough.
With a signal the pegasus wing of the army took flight. The white-winged horses flew through the air against a background of the same. They swarmed the walls, collapsing the few fighters in seconds. The great gates of the city opened, welcoming the Imperial army and its mercenaries inside.
Half-dressed, quarter-armed. The Dagdan and Brigid inside the city offered minimal resistance. The Broken Blade didn't even have a chance to draw their blades. The city was theirs within an hour. Thousands of prisoners were gathered. Mocked and hurt in a grossness Jeralt wanted no part in.
Within the month news came of the complete success of the campaign. More lost to illness than the enemy's weapons. A victory so great it would be called a defining moment in the history books.
But there was plenty more work to be done.
Pegasus Moon, Imperial Year 1175
The snows of the Pegasus Moon were harsh, but not nearly the bother they were up in Faerghus. Though their movement during the winter months had previously brought success Count Bergliez saw no more need to maintain it. The armed forces let themselves rest content in the warm adobes of the grateful populaces they'd rescued.
Though the defenders made sure to keep a proper watch just to make sure the Dagdans and Brigid tried nothing themselves.
Lone Moon, Imperial Year 1175
The snows of the Lone Moon melted with an unusual speed. The mud dried back to dirt, and even before the first week passed the army was once more on the march.
Three more cities were recaptured without much consequence. Glenn distinguishing himself in a particularly nasty case of house-to-house fighting. Cassandra cutting apart an entire enemy line by herself. Christophe lead a brilliant flanking maneuver on a string of enemy archers. Alois shattered a fortress knight in one swing of a hammer and earned a dozen surrenders after.
And Byleth…
Byleth was strong. That much everyone knew. He'd taken down so many students, squires, knights and even Jeralt himself. It didn't occur to Jeralt just how powerful his son really was until he saw him in action so many times. Wherever he went, the enemy lost period. It didn't matter their armor, he broke it with sword and spell. It didn't matter their numbers, he was an army all his own. Against cavalry he tore them from their saddles and took their lives. Against archers he avoided their missiles while they could not avoid his fire. Any independent troop he led camp back without a loss of life. He never came back with a scratch.
The Crest he bore could explain healing any injury, but he never was injured. Every time he came back unharmed. His clothes dirtied with the consequences of battle but never cut by conflict.
All without a touch of emotion even as everyone cheered surviving.
"Ambush!"
The word rose too late for dozens of guards cut down in expert vollies. The forested road erupted in combat as all around Brigid and Dagdan soldiers rushed at the convoy and its guards. Steel locked with steel and arrow notched into knee. From the covered wagons leapt ambush soldiers of the Empire. A chaotic, brutal melee where the line flowed like water and death awaited with every breath.
A Dagdan spearmen skewered his horse as Jeralt skewered him back. From there a Brigid striker ducked in and cut at his legs and saddle. Jeralt battered him aside but as he rose a finishing blow an arrow struck his wrist and he ducked behind his shield. Painful gasps escaped him as another arrow impaled his left shin. The Brigid moved in, only for Glenn to strike him down.
The two couldn't even exchange nods before an arrow impacted Glenn's side. He fell, surprised, cursing. Jeralt brought his horse about to cover. Searching the trees for the expert sniper pinning them down.
A few bold attackers had taken the fight to the tree line and engaged the defenses protecting the archers. There were a lot of them. Maybe five for every Fódlan making the attempt. But it didn't matter. They never lasted long against Byleth no matter their numbers.
His son's sword cleaved a bloody path without consequence and soon all others abandonied overwhelming the Imperial response to overwhelm him. A mistake in some ways, since it prevented the archery line from striking. (Not that they would succeed).
His son could take care of himself, Jeralt had to take care of what he could. He readied a javelin, hurling it into the forest. An archer screaming as it struck his shoulder. Another one in hand—an arrow into his shoulder.
He grunted in pain. He smiled. He knew where the sniper was. Heaving through pain and torn muscle he launched it into the branches. The sniper had to dodge out. No damage, but she had lost her perch.
Byleth finished off his current foe and turned towards her. He charged, knocking aside her arrow and chasing her down—only for another enemy to block his path. The sniper pulled back—another throwing spear from Jeralt following after her and this time it landed. She spun into the underbrush and out of sight.
Byleth destroyed his foe.
All around him the Adrestians did the same. The Dagdan and Brigid forces continued to fight like beasts but the tide was quickly turning. Even when victory was completely out of their hands they fought to the last. Completely unlike the usual fare they had.
The Dagdans were getting desperate. And the desperate fought the most dangerously.
Jeralt's lance pierced the breastplate of the Dagdan commander. One last struggle he threw out before succumbing to the fatal enemy. Their last great defender dead, the remaining Dagdan and Brigid soldiers slowly started to surrender before the overwhelming might of the Broken Blade. The captured soldiers were rounded up and put under guard while Jeralt went to manage their forces.
Not a single fatality again.
Every time they came through a battle without a death it astounded him. They're campaigned from spring to winter and only the start of their expedition brought about deaths. Their numbers had even grown over the course of the war. The twenty-odd men left after that early encounter were less than half the fifty they had now. Imperial soldiers, other mercenaries and the ambitious villager with plenty of heart had all joined up with them. Being known as a unit with low death was an incredible merit.
Jeralt slapped Byleth on the back for his leadership. The kid had really come into his own. He could sniff out ambushes better than anyone, that time at the start just the tip of the spear. With him on scouting they'd gone the full campaign without anything as disastrous as that. He'd spot the weakest point of the enemy and then the Broken Blade would unleash its strongest right there. A cavalry charge led by Jeralt or an infantry rush by Cassandra. With so many troops broken and fleeing the rest of the Blade brought in by Alois and Glenn had no trouble.
It was almost too good and sometimes Jeralt wondered if he was in a drunken haze or some long-term dream. But each day the sun rose and set as usual. All the food had an impact and the drink delicious.
And any real dream would have Marigold with them.
The Dagdans were put inside the city hall, one of a handful of buildings still left standing in a city that housed hundreds. Jeralt's tradition had proven correct. The Dagdans were starting to run scorched earth as they were forced back. This city was better off than the four they passed earlier
The few remaining locals were awash with fury and demanded the prisoners be brutalized but Jeralt was having none of that. They weren't having anything like "taking prisoners and treating them well meant enemies in the future would surrender easier". His men were tired sore and still wounded but they had to be protecting men they just fought and captured.
He set a message out to Count Bergliez's command group post haste. The count needed to know before things got out of hand. With the line was closing in on the Dagda front, only a few towns and cities were left before all they had remaining was Port Nuvelle. The Broken Blade would surely be called in to assist so Jeralt made sure everyone got as much rest and relaxation as possible.
Which wasn't much between prisoner duty and repairing the town and just general activities of his troops. Byleth, Glenn and Cassandra were always involved in some sort of spar. If she ever married someone they'd need stamina for months. Beyond them, Christophe and Alois went about easing the burden on the villagers as much as they could. It didn't amount to much, and no one appreciated the gesture but they tried anyway.
There weren't quite smiles. These people had been conquered for most of the war. Cheer didn't return that easily after such a trial, and keeping them from abusing the prisoners didn't help matters either. Too many altercations between the locals and their liberators. Even if order was maintained in the broad term. The Broken Blade had to double guard at one point after someone snuck in and stabbed a prisoner.
"Why the hell aren't you killing them all?"
The question arose from the cityfolk. Simple hate and retribution all on their mind. He repeated himself. To nothing but scorn. Not even a full day and they looked ready to rush the lines just to get their revenge. So much like Faerghus. But at least the Dagdans and Brigid were responsible for their suffering.
Bergliez's response team came in the day after after the message was sent out. Incredibly fast which meant things were incredibly dangerous. Things were either busy or a disaster and the messenger said the former. The count had pushed back the Dagdans and Brigid to Port Nuvelle entirely. A massive success on all fronts. All available forces were being recalled for the siege.
It was time to end the war.