Iron & Ash 1: Old Soldiers, New Wars
Prologue:
The battlefield was a mess of blood, splintered wood, and smoke. Elven and human spearmen pressed forward in tight ranks, shields locked, stepping over the bodies of the fallen. On the other side, human and orc rebels held their ground, screaming defiance as they met the charge with crude pikes and stolen swords. Arrows rained from behind the elven lines, embedding in the unarmoured flesh of rebels. The occasional thundering impact of a flask of dwarven fire sent bodies from both sides flying.
Junior Troop Leader 4th Class Vaedir Caldorath moved with practiced calm, surveying the lines from his position atop a battered palisade. His long silver hair was streaked with dirt and sweat, his ornate officer’s cuirass dulled by the grime of battle and dented from a lone human archer. He raised a gauntleted hand, signalling the heavy orc infantry to advance.
A horn blew. A tsunami grew in his favour. As he knew it would.
The front lines clashed again—screams, snarls, the crunch of metal on bone. He saw an orc bellowing, swinging a stolen halberd, cleaving into an elven sergeant before being impaled by three human spearmen. A human rebel collapsed clutching his gut, intestines spilling through his fingers.
Another horn. Another advance.
Vaedir felt the weight of command pressing on his shoulders, the battle unfolding in layers—infantry in the centre, cavalry looping to the flanks, siege weapons hammering the stronghold’s walls. His mind absorbed every detail, every movement, every death—
A sharp voice shattered the battlefield.
“Commander! Commander, wake up!” Vaedir’s eyes snapped open.
The battle was gone. The past was gone.
Instead, he found himself inside the (blasted) “Grendel” (ALV-72), an armoured land vehicle, rumbling down a dirt road. The dim interior glowed red from the tactical displays, casting shadows over the five-man crew and ten soldier complement. Engine vibrations hummed through his bones. His fingers twitched against the cool steel of his rifle’s receiver.
Lieutenant Jonas Harlowe was staring at him. “Sir, you with us?”
Vaedir exhaled slowly, shaking off the haze of the old war.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” His voice sounded tired. He could have sworn that this new class was more comfortable than the last. Why did his bones ache so much?
Harlowe nodded toward the flickering display. “IR picked up goblin infiltrators on the ridge up ahead—at least four. Looks like they’ve got ‘Griffins’.”
Vaedir stiffened; now wide awake. GAVW-4 Griffins. Shoulder-fired high-velocity guided anti-vehicle warheads—cheap, devastating, and designed to cripple ALVs like theirs. If the goblins got a clean shot, they’d be a burning wreck before they could react.
“Distance?”
“Two hundred metres, obscured by the rock formation on the right side of the road.”
“Give me the company radio.”
“This is Ironfang-Central, all Grendels halt. Ironfangs One and Two, dismount infantry and pincer the goblin infiltrators.”
The ALV’s radio crackled. “This is Ironfang-One, Copy Central. Dismounting.” That would be the dwarven lieutenant - the platoon commander of the troops in One and Two.
Vaedir’s tired mind started warming up and calculating as it had for centuries.
The goblins weren’t common insurgents.
Infiltrators were saboteurs, specialists in deep penetration raids. Only veterans were a threat - those that survived more than one mission were extremely lucky. Most of them were worse trained and motivated than rookie rebels. Their doctrine was simple: cripple convoys, disappear before retaliation.
As the vehicle slowed to a stop, Vaedir tightened his grip on his rifle.
No more dreams. No more old wars.
This one was very real.
Note: a departure from my usual stories. It's born from the Gate genre, but asks two questions: what if they had no magic? And instead had modern tech? The HFY factor will come in later and the reasons why both worlds are different (other than species) will also.