System in Assassin's Creed

Chapter 281: Chapter 280: The Hammer and the Anvil

---Shadow Valley - The Iroquois Front---

The morning mist clung to the forest like a ghostly veil, thick and oppressive. Dew slicked the leaves, turning the forest floor into a damp, sound-dampening carpet. Every snapping twig underfoot echoed like a drumbeat in the quiet, amplifying the tension that hung in the air.

From the ridges and hidden paths, the glint of steel and the soft rustle of disciplined movement betrayed the hidden Pennmere forces. They were ghosts moving through the mist, their breaths held, their weapons ready.

Far ahead, the main army of General Ashcombe advanced along the river road. They were visible, loud, and deliberate. Their march was a calculated spectacle: drums pounding a steady rhythm, muskets slung at ease, banners fluttering in the damp breeze. They were the bait, a shiny lure dangled in front of a hungry predator.

The Iroquois warriors, scattered along the trees and undergrowth, watched from the shadows. They whispered orders in their tongue, gripping tomahawks and bows, certain that the foolish Pennmerian soldiers were walking blindly into their traps. They saw arrogance. They saw weakness.

They were wrong. ℴ

--- In the Ridge---

In the dense canopy above the Shadow Valley, Reuben crouched with his men. The faint light caught the edges of the short swords and daggers strapped to their belts. His dark eyes scanned the undergrowth below, noting every subtle movement... a bush shaking against the wind, a shadow that detached itself from a tree.

Beside him, Shakoka pointed silently to a cluster of Iroquois archers hidden behind the twisted roots of an ancient oak. They had the high ground on the road, ready to rain death on Ashcombe’s men.

’He’s really good at spotting people at long range,’ Reuben thought as he traced the line to where Shakoka’s finger was pointing at. ’But he sucks at short distance... what a weird ability. He should stick to bow or muskets.’

”Here,” Shakoka whispered, drawing a small, curved blade.

He didn’t wait. With a single fluid motion, he dropped.

Two arrows were loosed at him mid-fall. Shakoka deflected them with his blade, the metal singing, and landed softly behind the nearest archer. Before the man could turn, Shakoka’s strike cracked his skull with stone-like precision.

The others barely had time to register the threat before Reuben’s men surged forward.

”Hold formation!” Reuben’s voice cut through the chaos, firm and unwavering. ”Do not engage until I give the word!”

His men froze like statues, poised with daggers and short swords as they trusted the famous ’Il Corvo d’Ombra’. They let the Iroquois panic, overextending themselves in confusion as they tried to find the enemy that had suddenly appeared among them.

Reuben’s lips twitched into a grin beneath the hood of his cloak.

”Now,” he breathed.

With the precision of a predator, his small strike team descended on the Iroquois line. Muskets were useless at this range; arrows were deflected or caught mid-flight. Daggers found gaps in armor and flanks with deadly efficiency. Every move was measured, every strike purposeful. Panic rippled among the ambushers as they fell one by one, their advantage of surprise turned against them.

---The Swamp---

Meanwhile, along the swampy trail to the east, Thulani’s contingent advanced.

The air here smelled of rot and stagnant water. The mud sucked at their boots, trying to drag them down. But Thulani moved like a living force of nature. His broad shoulders brushed aside low-hanging branches, his boots didn’t sink to the ground but his men didn’t notice.

His men mirrored his methodical pace, trained to hold the line even when the terrain threatened to swallow them. They were the Anvil’s edge.

Thulani’s booming voice carried across the swamp, silencing the frogs. ”Steady! Let them come to us! Let them fall into our rhythm!”

A small band of Iroquois warriors, realizing their flank was being compromised, spotted their approach. They fired arrows from behind the dense ferns.

Thwack.

One arrow struck a shield, embedding itself deep in the wood.

Thulani didn’t flinch. He flexed his massive hands and swung Excalibur... not the blade, but the flat of it... with such force that the air pressure alone severed the attacker’s stance. The warrior crashed backward into the swampy mud, dead.

”Move forward! Cover each other! Keep formation tight!” Thulani shouted. Each word drove his men, each gesture... an arm raised, a stomp of his foot... directing the flow of battle like a conductor with his orchestra.

The swamp echoed with the clash of steel, the shouts of Pennmere soldiers, and the muffled cries of the disorganized Iroquois who found their home ground turned into a prison.

Back with Reuben, his men had cleared the first wave of scouts and hidden archers. Reuben patted the sleeves of his armor and scanned the forest ahead.

”Hold positions! Pause!” he commanded. ”Let them think the path is clear. If they advance recklessly, we strike again. Timing is everything!”

A minute passed, stretching like an eternity in the fog. The sounds of Ashcombe’s drums grew louder.

Then Reuben signaled with a sharp hand gesture.

His men surged forward. The rhythm of the ambush... pause, strike, pause again... was repeated with flawless discipline. The Iroquois, disoriented and leaderless, realized too late that they weren’t surrounding the enemy; they were being funneled.

They retreated toward the center of the valley, straight into the open arms of Ashcombe’s main army.

The Pennmere soldiers on the river road were ready. Drums thundered a change in beat.

FIRE!

Muskets fired in precise volleys. They didn’t aim to kill indiscriminately; they aimed to funnel. The wall of lead guided the enemy toward the hidden flanking teams, boxing them in.

Ashcombe watched from atop a small rise, surveying the battlefield with an almost predatory patience. His orders had been clear, and now the strategy was working exactly as planned.

”The Iroquois are being pushed into the valley,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as he watched the chaotic retreat. ”Good. Let them think they have the advantage... and then, we close the net.”

Hours later, the main objective came into view: a fortified camp of roughly four hundred Iroquois warriors. Smoke spiraled from small fires, and alarm bells rang as a lone scout spotted the advancing Pennmere forces. The sound ricocheted through the camp like a death knell.

”Enemies coming!” shouted one warrior. ”Send the runners! Warn the others!”

Before the panic could fully settle, arrows rained from the trees above.

Reuben’s men had taken positions atop the ridges overlooking the camp. They used bows and fired with deadly accuracy, targeting the Iroquois warriors, then reloaded for another one.

”Okay good, now Hold!” Reuben called, his voice carrying over the screams. ”Wait for my signal!”

The Iroquois soldiers were struck before they could organize. Confusion reigned.

(>_