An hour had passed. There was no need to switch reserves or command units; no, every man was there, on the wall, fighting. With not much left to do, Rory had joined the remnants of unit 1. He was not a particularly good shot, and really, did not add much physically, but none of the men wanted to look weak in front of the little man. He had promised that he would fight with them, and by gods, they would fulfill their side of the bargain.

       The Aklan soldiers had almost entirely abandoned their shields, as they proved poor cover against the musket balls that they faced. Their siege material all but forgotten, they ran up the walls on the corpses of their dead brethren, their minds filled with naught but slaughter. What was once the most orderly force in the continent had become a group of rabid dogs, engulfed by bloodlust.

       A man jumped up onto the wall in front of Rory. He saw his blood-shot eyes, his gut-covered uniform, his dirt scrawled face, his fractured arms. Take aim. Line up the iron-sights. Press the trigger. And then another popped up. Take aim. Line up iron-sights. Fire. Two more now. Not enough ammo. Stab with bayonet. Ignore the blood. Back up. Reload. Go back. Take aim. Fire. Go back. Reload. Take aim. Fire. Ignore the blood. Take aim. Fire. Take aim. Fire. Back up. Take aim. Fire. Ignore the blood. Take aim. Fire. Ignore the blood. Fire. Back up. Reload. Fire. Back up. Reload. Fire. Too close, stab. Go back. Ignore the blood. Ignore the faces. Take aim. Fire.

       It was robotic, automatic. There was no thinking involved; just instinct and muscle memory.

       But stamina had never been Rory's strong suit. He slouched back onto the ground and another soldier filled his place in the line. He sighed and looked up at the darkening skies. So, this was how he would die. He could've never imagined it; not in safety of the modern world, not in the drudges of the orphanage, not in the luxury of nobility. Death had never really appeared in his mind. He always had such grand plans, and yet, plans had a way of turning awry. It wasn't enough; he needed more. There were still too many Aklan's. He should've cut more down. He miscalculated. And it would kill him. Fair's fair, he supposed.

       He struggled back to his feet, using the stock of his gun as a makeshift staff. If he was going to die, he would die going to Valhalla, damn it! An enemy's sword in his gut—that's how he's going out. Not sitting on his butt.

       He scrambled forwards towards the line. He pushed himself through and smirked at the men next to him, who replied in kind.

       "You did a damn fine job, kid."

       "Didn't I? The Aklan Army will have this humiliation on them till the end of time."

       "Well, come on. Let's die," the man said, shooting another Aklan in the meantime.

       "Let's." Take aim. Fire. Ignore the—

       Suddenly, echoing throughout the plains, a great horn blew out. Everyone—the Aklan's, the Vyncis forces, everyone—stopped what they were doing. Swords and muskets alike were held lax. They all stared, scrambling over each other mentally if not physically, at the source. And there, near base of the hill, stood a 6,000 knights, the Adringum banner standing next to the Ayell standard. All was silent.

       "CHARGE!"

       And then they charged.

       In all the history of human warfare, there are few more frightening experiences than having a mass of horse and armored man charge at you. And one of those few is having a mass of horse and armored man charge at you from behind.

       The Aklan's had had enough. The enemy had reinforcements, they were flanked, they were being charged at, they were miserable, they were burnt, and they didn't give a shit about the King or his damned prince any more—nothing was worse than this.

       Rory was still amazed, but he quickly got over his shock.

       "The enemy is routed! Charge!"

       And with a whoop, the soldiers leapt off the wall and chased the fleeing Aklan's, butchering any that they could find.

       Rory himself slumped to the ground. I'm alive. I'm alive. We won. We fucking won! He let his head drift downwards, when he saw a hoof land near his hand. He lazily looked upwards to see tendrils of soft brown hair and a familiar face.

       "Aria..."

       She smiled. "Seems we arrived just in time. Come, get on." She held a hand out.

       He shakily grabbed onto it and she pulled him up onto the horse. Exhausted, he leaned back against her.

       "You... didn't answer."

       "Sorry about that. The King ordered us to stay put."

       "But—"

       She winked. "I was never one to do what he wanted."

       "What about the men?"

       "Our men are professional, you see. Not conscripted noblemen. They're people of the land: farmers, workers. They care not for the ploys and plots of the nobility. They simply saw their Kingdom being invaded by foreign forces, and jumped at the chance to help."

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

       "The King's not going to happy about this."

       "Oh, he's going to be far less happy about me in the future, trust me. But look; look at what you've accomplished!"

       They had rounded up a cliff. He looked down—there, blobs of blue were still being run down.

       "We won," he whispered.

       She smiled. "You have indeed."

       The historians of the future would name this the beginning of the end—the end of sovereign nations. It was the start of future conquests, the start of the world's largest empire, the start of the first, and perhaps only, unified human front. But that was a tale for another day.

       Night had fallen, but the people cared not. On the morrow, they would mourn for their lost. Then, they would continue the campaign. Tonight, however, was the time for celebration; for mirth, for dancing, for drinking. Great bonfires were lit, tables were set, and the beer was brought out.

       At first, faced with barrels of alcohol, Rory had been hesitant, various laws regarding drinking age having been engraved into his mind, but then he realized that he had spent a day shooting armored men with a musket, laughed, and began to drink.

       Aria walked over. "They're starting the music," she said, pointing over to one of the bonfires where a group had taken out their instruments and begun playing. Already, there were groups dancing.

       "And?"

       "Care to join me?"

       "No—" Rory began, but quickly amended. "Sure."

       "Oh?" she said, surprised. "You actually accepted?"

       "You saved my life. You may do as you wish—"

       "Alright!" she interrupted, dragging him over.

       "I have no idea what I'm doing."

       "Oh, it's not that bad. Just move your feet."

       "Everything's spinning..."

       "That might be a problem."

       "I... I need to... sit down..."

       Rory stumbled into a spare chair and slumped over.

       "What, did you drink too much?"

       "...probably."

       Aria sighed. "You barely had three jugs."

       "I'm... too young... going to get arrested..."

       "Arrested by who?"

       "The... po-po..."

       "Here, have some water," she said, sliding over a glass.

       "Thanks." He took a drank. "How long are you staying?"

       "I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

       "Really? What's the hurry?"

       "I have business in the capital. I hope by the end of your campaign you could join me."

       Rory's eyes widened. "You don't mean—"

       "Yes, I do mean that. Now, shh. There's people around. Don't worry, I'm leaving my Knights in your command."

       "Aria."

       "Hmm?"

       "Stay safe. Now that the invasion has failed, the King will be on edge."

       "Worrying about me? Hah. I'll be fine. By the way, where's your wife?"

       "Wife? I have a wife?" Rory felt something hit his head from behind.

       "Yes. I'm behind you."

       "Oh, Rosa! Hah... uh..."

       "I see you've been very friendly with this woman."

       Aria laughed and began to walk away. "I'll leave you to it. Oh, yes, and it seems you have some guests over there."

       "Guests?" Rory asked, startled. When his eyes began to straighten out, he saw small, uniformed bodies in front of him. "Oh! You're back!" It was the Roniceri. "Where've you been? We won! Wait..." He scanned through their numbers. "Where's the masked one? Eris?"

       They looked at one another. Finally, Emi, the girl from before, spoke up. "She was captured."

       At once, Rory began to grow serious. "Captured? How?"

       "She... we found where the general was, and she... she killed him, but was captured afterwards."

       "What! I told you to only attack the supply chain! Didn't you stop her!?"

       "Yes, but she insisted..."

       "Damn! Did you try to get her out?"

       They looked at the ground. "No."

       "Why!?"

       "You... you ordered us not to endanger ourselves—"

       Another one of them interjected. "I knew it! We should've—"

       "No, no," Rory said, taking a deep breath. "You did the right thing."

       Rosa put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't do something hasty."

       "Hasty... No, no I won't." He cupped his head with his hands. "We're... we're going to stay on course. Push the remaining army to Ien. It'll all be over then. Stay calm. Stay calm."