"Shields to the front!." he watched as a few men waddled up. "Bucklers count as shields!" He shouted at an estranged looking conscript one who looked much younger than him. "The rest of you stay low, and you might not end the day skewered with a thick Cabal bolt." He watched the terrified boy weave his way through the crouched formation. He grabbed him for a moment. He whispered into his ear amidst the murmuring of the formation.

"Pick a spearman that doesn't have a shield and focus on him not dying. That's it." The boy nodded, but Sion could see the sweat pour from his face and his eyes darting randomly. His ragged breathing made it all too apparent. He sighed beneath his breath hoping to not let anyone know of the fate beholden.

Suddenly a second volley crashed into them—accompanied by the twang of string. He ignored the fresh wave of casualties, their moans, agony broadcast through the air. He pawed at his face feeling a sly tingle. His hand came away stained by blood, a grazing bolt he couldn't see…

The enemy was close enough to accurately fire their crossbows. They were targeting him, and it would no longer be a question of luck. How long would everyone endure? Sion thought, and looked around distraught.

He watched their black painted spear tips pointed toward his men, slowly inch forward. One step at a time, he felt a new rush of excitement. He wanted to avoid looking at their numbers or examining their equipment too closely. But the mixed in crossbowmen at the centre of their rectangle began to feel like the least of his concerns. He could hear loud moaning, howling even, behind him. That last volley must have been sent over the front line's heads. Attempting to bypass the tenuous line of shields. He hated to have men felled by such a cowardly means. The torn voices of wounded men, moaning and grunting behind him put him on a sharper edge. They had more spears! Sion's eyes flashed in desperation.

"Breakers! Ready up!" He hoped the desperation of his mind would not echo across his worn vocal cords. He wished not to imbue the same fear he felt into the men. Fueling their submission beneath the foe. The spear points crept closer. No breakers have been deployed. His teeth locked and ground a little before the pressure set them in place. "BRACE!" His mouth pried itself op open to its peak, and he emptied his lungs driving the air across his larynx.

The men stood firmly beside him. He could hear the enemy's commander, distant and incomprehensible. Each fellow soldier seemed to occasionally place an arm upon him. He wondered whether it was reassurance—comfort… trust. The spears began to thrust out, their lengths about the same. Each formation poking at the other. Probing in a way. He saw men felled on both sides. Only to be dragged back, into a sea of arms and legs, intertwisted men. Oh, how he wished for breakers.

"Deploy the breakers!!" He shouted his command. Desperation was breaking through. It was their only chance. Their force must have been nearer to 500 men. In a match of equal length spear conflict, (combat of attrition) the side with more men just wins. That's without mentioning the devious crossbows firing devils shooting at will. Slicing into men around him with no reprieve. As long as both groups kept each other locked at bay with spears. The crossbows would not relent their fire. He looked around. Seconds had passed since his command was not fulfilled. In three places he identified them. He wanted to jump for joy, to leap for freedom. He uttered a low guttural scream of pleasure.

Suddenly each pair of men thrust forth the breakers and begun to spin them. Breaking the enemy spears shafts before many caught on and attempted to pull them back. Several spearmen where plucked by the tight grip of the breakers on their spears. They were quickly skewered many times over. Left to bleed out. The spears retracted, and the breakers too were cast aside. Their ball like appendages wrapped around the wood and eventually broke it off or pulled it away from the enemy. Layered with an unusual texture that guaranteed their ability to wrap around the enemy weapons.

The soldiers of the empire shouted triumphantly. Sion joined in raising his eyes and sword to the heavens for a brief spell. Just as a spear arced overhead and crashed down a little behind him. He turned his head. A man: middle-aged, heavy brow—had been flattened by the impact. The spear had torn through one of his lungs and pinned him to the earth. He tried to lift himself at first; to rip the weapon out of him. He eventually thrust out his hand reaching for help; his hand pawed at air as blood ran down the corners of his mouth.

The sounds of him drowning in his own blood rose above the sounds of clashing shields and metal. They engulfed Sion. His eyes did not blink. By the time the medic arrived, he was already dead. It was a fatal injury from the beginning. Sion could not avert his eyes from life till death. Queasy...Upset… Angry, lost. The spears continued to sparingly rain all around them. He saw many more skewered; through their calves, chests and legs. But nothing as striking as the drowned man clawing for air on dry land.

The front line pressed backward. They were being driven back to the main force. They were soon to be threatened with encirclement, at this rate. On the opposite side of the battlefield, they too were struggling against the vicious pressure. Each, was outmanned and breaking apart against the relentless enemy. Pushed back with brutal, unyielding force. What hope was their left to muster?

Most of the spearmen were wounded or dead. Accurate on both sides and as such Sion was fighting. Slashing out at enemy openings. The tendons on the arm, a slash to the head, a parry and then a cut to a throat. An endless, foe, with many indistinguishable faces. Over time, the best fighters had gathered around him.

He hoped the wounded were not trampled as they steadily retreated. Perhaps, the few medical personnel kept them at the ever moving rear. Hah! He turned back seeing the lines almost merge. "We need to do something." Sion mouthed under his breath. They were being driven into a corner. If this continued everyone would not escape defeat.

He turned back, his eyes narrowed to the corpse of a man impaled by the spear. Sion, with his eyes, downcast plucked the projectile from the drowned man and sheathed his sword—taking cover behind the others. He was not an excellent javelin thrower, and still, he steadied his breath and tried to find the enemy commander. He saw a man wearing an elaborate helm tending to someone. Crouched beside him, bandaging his stomach. One hand permeating a dull glow of spellcraft.

Sion aimed and walked back leaving a few feet of distance for a run-up. He took one breath and launched the spear through the air. His aim held; the wind was just still enough to guide the point home. The man turned as he saw it flying towards him. He attempted to hurl his body away, but it was for naught. He was impaled as he tried to evade. The spear skewered him through the centre of hisa body.

The commander forced his body to stand, ascending along the spear. He gave one long indescribable shout to victory. Then saluted, at the last moment pointing knowingly at Sion with a smile, and he dared not to look away at a man's last rites. The enemy broke into them with a hectic, redoubled, careless ferocity. It quickly became a chaotic melee.

One of the commander's allies was quickly upon him. The large combatant cleaved through a crowd of his men with a massive battle axe. The entire time he did not avert his eyes from Sion. His gaze was simple. No truer rage, or sorrow had Sion seen painted. He attempted to parry; catching the axe for a moment as it slipped down the flat of his blade. He was successful but received a kick knocking him back. Then suddenly the full brunt of an axe caught him in the ribs. Such Speed...

He saw the large man wheezing—out of breath as Sion collapsed backward onto the dirt. Feeling the air amiss from his own lungs. Sion gasped trying to gather air. The rush of pain surged. It purged any thought.

He could barely see, his vision kept growing darker. Many men surrounded the axe wielder as he had left the relative safety of his comrades. Sion's own enduring entourage fell upon him with glee. Many dull sword points and worn axes, entered him and the large man collapsed straight on top of Sion. In his right hand lay a dagger. Sion felt a new wave of frantic desperation. He scrambled catching the larger man's wrist as they began to wrestle. They viciously strained over the blade. His own breath was raspy and wheezing. His lungs still not fully recovered. He wanted to scream in agony; to cry out at the pain welling across his chest.

Suddenly he drove his knee into the Axe man's side. A brief opening—the grip on his dagger loosened. Sion pivoted the blade into his own hands and drove the knife back across the jugular. He watched the man's head fall on to his chest as he felt the rushing blood soak into his fabric armour down till the tunic. Sion pawed at his chest feeling the red, broken chain mail. It miraculously stopped the axe blade. Though he very well knew he would not be free of the pain. The agony radiating from his ribs meant he was nowhere near okay. He realized he would die at the next blow to the chest—that open section littered with broken metal rings… His eyes closed for a moment. He felt himself be dragged back across the dirt in a world of darkness. He rested for the small spell, and after his hands stopped shaking, he slowly warmed up to life.

"Where are my men?" he thought to himself as he stood up bracing on his sword. As he lifted himself up, he looked around the carnage sweeping wide. It looked like they were joined to the centre line near their rear preventing true encirclement. The enemy had lost momentum and could not push them back further. The battlefield spilled into disarray.

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He dashed his head to the side, out of the corner of his eye he saw a spear emerge from his peripheral vision. It stopped right behind his ear. Lucky. Sion realized. The spearman dragged the point back. Slicing from behind Sion's ear. Drawing, the back of the spearpoint, down across the fine cut line of his jaw. Opening a trail of red across his skin, Sion recoiled back in horror. He didn't realize how much ground they had indeed given. The commander had grown careless.

A flurry of blows came as he parried the point. It even struck him across his sides He felt it's blade travel backwards across his left flank, catching on the thick fabric. Off balance, he grabbed a nearby hatchet and threw it with both hands at the far-off spear. He frantically grabbed his sword again for a moment after abandoning it. Luckily that had dropped the man. Straight onto the corpse-ridden plain.

He looked around—sword in hand, trying to find allies. The floor was covered in countless corpses, and the ringing of metal seemed to be the only sound manifesting across his ears drums. He could not tell which formation he was part of, or where the enemy began or ended across carnage of the battlefield; an endless melee reigning across the earth was the only constant. He looked down and grabbed a helmet. Fastening it over the top of his head.

He gazed at the rear of the formation. A solitary rider galloped back to camp, disappearing across the hill. He wondered what that could be about. Suddenly, he felt his body go numb and crumple beneath its weight. He toppled over to the side, his ears violently ringing. He twisted the helmet's visor so he could see.

Seems that a stout looking, blood-drenched soldier had cracked him in the head with a wooden club. "Change a sword for a club, and we don't appear much different." Sion idiotically thought. He thought they'd even carry the same smell. The stench of the Axeman's blood was inescapable. It was soaked into every pore of his gambeson. In truth all around, by appearance or smell, decay saturated the air.

He lay on his back carelessly watching the man slowly raised the club above his head. Just a moment more and the contents of his cranium would spill forth as mush.

"Anytime now." he coolly whispered. Still stunned. Helplessly watching as the club lingered, poised for an overhead strike. Suddenly! A soldier crashed into the club wielder. Taking a short sword and smashing it below the armpit in a combination of a tackle and thrust. A strange sensation washed over Sion. Relief as his assailant was felled before him. The tension left. The stranger offered his hand and smiled with a childlike innocence.

"Here Commander Sion, the day is not yet won." Despite vertigo and nausea Sion firmly took it. Nodding twice and giving him a strange look with nothing behind the eyes.

Sion felt out of it. His body didn't seem his own, even moving felt like another person sat in control, strange... Sion kept aimlessly looking around. He was yearning for something; aimlessly searching but he couldn't identify what. Suddenly the helmet which saved his life felt hot and constricting. He threw it off without hesitation—trying to breathe. The air felt thick and putrid with or without the helmet. The warmth of the sun not aiding or abetting the situation. He wondered whether the front still held. It seemed there were no hostiles immediately next to him. Only pockets of men fighting for their lives amidst a sea of corpses strewn about haphazardly. No thought was being given to their floral lite arrangement.

A new horn rose above the crying of the animated corpses. In the distance, cavalry began to slowly emerge. Sion saw crests flying high atop their polls. His eyes unwittingly widened. He let loose a staggered, shaky breath. There were far too many. Their mass stretched across the horizon. Sion cried out. He looked down at his hands. They were covered in many different cuts. He'd received them during the struggle with the Axeman's blade. That's right. He thought to himself realizing it. The adrenaline must have made him forget all about it.

He turned back to watch the cavalry. They were now in full sprint. They were going to be trampled. Everyone was going to be squashed. Sion bit his lip. What could he do? Sion wondered. He didn't honestly know. He decided it was best not to think. There was still time before they were all slaughtered. Perhaps dying with some company would prove more pleasant.

"Hey boy, lead me to anyone you recognize. We need to regain formation." The boy who had taken privy to perching atop corpse looked up whimsically to a man who bore a sullen wistful smile.

"But commander almost everyone is…" The boy suddenly stood up catching the look of determination burning quietly in Sion's eyes. "Yes, sir but…" Sion was already beginning to walk briskly weaving through the many mounds of men. His vision began to swim as the smell continuously forced its way into his lungs. He stopped—grasping his face and feeling a rush of energy at the sight of fresh and dried blood. He almost fainted, falling forward as the blood drained from his head. The young man caught hold of him. Stopping his fall. Only after making sure Sion could stand did his new companion let him loose.

"Thanks, I was just feeling a little tired," Sion mumbled still worried about the blood.

"You are badly injured commander." the strange companion softly spoke. "Let me care of your wounds." Immediately fine linens were draped around his chin and soon were clipped and secured staunching the flow of blood.

"Wait you aren't a medic… are you?" The man smiled delicately baring his well-maintained teeth in contrast with the blood and dirt smeared across his complexion.

"I saw a stash of some gauze left out for a moment. In a visible place. I utilized a soldier's discretion. Everything is a field of battle in some sense. So in a snap, I plucked it." The soldier leaned in filling up Sion's visual space.

"Do you plan to turn me in?" He asked. Sion inexplicably burst out laughing.

"Hardly, thank god I had the privy to meet you before I bled out. I am glad I made one skilled friend. No... one brother since arriving at camp." Sion steadied himself and fell backwards sitting on a corpse. "I am surprised you can patch me together as well as most medics." The thief looked over the commander longingly. Then, pivoted his hips—twisting his head towards the front. His face slowly absorbed the sight; lines of cavalry trotting towards a unified formation. Not yet ready to break into a galloping charge. His look of alarm magnified. His mouth fell agape in astonishment. He turned back finally with a distraught appearance. Sion had already come to terms with it. He merely took a seat on the body of another nameless soldier and lost in himself in the stench.

"Hey… Commander?" his beaming confidence and cheerful disposition were replaced by the same nervous mania that had gripped Sion moment's prior. "Sion, sir, we'll be fine, won't we? I don't want to be trampled." Sion looked at his gore-stained boots. They were his since before he came to the academy. How hard will it be to wash off the gore? He inexplicably asked himself internally. His companion looked peculiar down at the nonresponsive leader

"Say... Commander Sion, the cavalry... what are our chances against them? We'll be fine. We'll manage this time! Won't we?" Sion let loose a short chuckle after not being able to restrain himself on autopilot. Then suddenly his mind returned to him as if the wistful whisper of a long-ago dream.

"They taught us that there is no more fearsome threat than a proper cavalry charge against a mob of close combatants or a formation of archers. But do not worry we should be safe here. They'll pulverize the front line, friendly soldiers and enemies alike. The number of bodies still fighting, clinging to life will guarantee that they won't have enough energy to keep riding through to us. By the time they'll get to us it will be a melee. It'll be a question of numbers." The thief looked at him forming a curious smile.

"But commander by the look of it. We'll be outnumbered five to one against riders on horseback." Sion didn't have it in him to return the smile.

"That's when we'll probably perish, fighting against a numerical disadvantage." He said it calmly and wondered whether he was still actually alive. Conducting living as was appropriate. He doubted that any virtue remained in that voice of his.

Where did all that youthful vigour; endless vitality everyone speaks about when talking about the young—where did that all go? Sion's eyes drifted aimlessly to a dark beige bonnet atop the thief's head. A leather bonnet! On the battlefield, how could he not notice it earlier? This strange boyish thief. He looked awfully young, likely younger than even himself Sion realized. It left him parsing through memories, wistfully.

"You don't make it sound very positive…" The boorish boy replied, his words dispirited. "Well… anyways, my name is Martin, even it's only for a short time, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance sir. I'd hope to become friends but..." The shorter man stopped, then bowed elegantly. The lingering warmness of his voice reached far within Sion.

"Oh…" a distant voice caught him off guard. He swept around, for a brief glimmering moment he smelt something familiar, a homely musk. "You have everything now. Make sure to come home." For a second he was there once more.

Standing under the yew doorway of his home. Buried deep in the distant countryside. His father's calm, soothing voice. His warm expression and his mother's joy… Her pained smile. Back then as long had seen them—held them in his heart. Nothing would be able to stop him from returning. Then. He remembered the day he left for the academy. It graced the corner of his memory.

He tried to disappear from home before his brothers and sisters awoke. But his parents were already roused. They fed him and wiped away the dirt from his complexion. They gave their blessing for whatever journey he might find himself on. They with inhuman conviction believed he would return. They thought he would be able to fashion his own destiny and endure it. Overcome it even. He felt the forgotten sparks of courage illuminate his body. Energy rippled away at the haze of his mind. Eventually tearing through even the coarse waters of his flesh. He lifted his head and stood once up once more, tall and proud with his shoulders anchored back.

At that moment he had remembered why he was fighting. Why any of it mattered at all. It wasn't the draw of military ranks, money or the senseless violence; a sport to the death. It was because at the end, like the warm draw of a candle to a moth. He would return home. They would still be there, not swept in by the sweeping tendrils of war. He made a promise once; to each brother and sister, mother and father; those that believed in him—many living and many dead. His old friends…. Many that put their trust in him.

He looked down at his boots. His last gift: given by his father—a guarantee ahead of time he would graduate from the Academy.

"Boots fitting for a true soldier. Officer's boots."His father's sorrow-filled those words. Sion planted his feet, digging them into the dirt as the day he first put them on.

"Sorry, Martin. All I needed was a moment to find my footing. On the ground, I would never give an inch of. It was never about life for the sake of living he thought to himself, determined eyes cruising across the carnage of war.

"Martin, I have wasted too much time sulking on arbitrary fate. We need to round up and help the survivors. Some must be worse off than we are. We'll split up and try to find each other again. If we have any chance at all. It'll be with friends around us, I think that's what it means to be at war."

"The only way you ever get to come back to friends is with friends. Got it. Wise words, I'll remember them, commander. Your brimming confidence aside... you are not strong enough to fight yet. Keep your friends close as you said. We'll do this together. You can lean on me until you can stand as proud as you feel." Sion smiled and disheartedly took his friend's arm. They both nodded as they rushed off into the heart of battle. As they roamed the line of cavalry readied in the distance—before their riveting charge.

We have but one grand moment here to form the last defence. It is impossible to break the chain of fate at even the last moment. No… that was not it. He never sought to break the wheel of the spinstress. It was one final thought that had saved him. A feeling that started in the heart. There, in its forge, it soon glowed a sharp red. The most robust metal was warped with the unyielding charcoal beneath.

"Even if I die here as long as my course remains true, if not in this life but perhaps in the next, my soul will surely find its way home." He whispered this prayer aloud into the world—but only he could hear it. War would not drown out the beat of his heart, on this day, in this sole fleeting moment.