A man and his army rode through clearing, having been shielded by the woods. They tread lightly, wary of the forces they'd meet in the great flats of Mitfheld. Waves of grim silence wafted across the endless rows of men. Though the skies were clear, and the Day God's banner flew unrestrained across the skies, a somber beat still followed their silent march.

They did not know what they would face. They did not know what waited for them.

They did not know.

Sat atop his steed, the man lead his men through the open flats. He rode ahead of his cavalry, wearing not much more than the rest. Every man wore the same iron plates, the same veil of chainmail where iron would not bend, and they carried the same shields. This man was no different.

He held his hand up in a fist, and the mass of men halted. Knights rode to his side.

"Sire Obba, the Magfelters report no traces of magic," said the knight nearest him, breathing a sigh of relief. "They are but men."

The Obba paused to gaze upon the camp on the hill. There was nothing of note among the tents, but the men within and around them told a different story.

There were barely enough to fill a village's militia, just about twenty fit men and women rushing about their small encampment. They were dressed in the green of leaves, covering their entire bodies. There was a bulk around their chests, covering the front. Each one held in two hands, which seemed to be a jet-black crossbow with odd bits about them.

Those looking at the Obba's army had their dark wands pointed at his army, staying perfectly still behind meager defenses. Others dove in and out of the tents and disappeared behind the one solid building in the center.

The Obba broke his gaze and turned to his knights. The prophecy had foretold the arrival of strange men upon the plains of Mitfheld, with magic beyond what one man could ever hope to wield. The power to destroy cities in minutes, to kill hundreds with costs immaterial.

Of most relevance was how any man could wield this magic for themselves. These men were strange, that much was certain. But if there was no magic, there was no threat. No arrow could pierce his shields.

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"Shields, into battle."

The knights nodded and turned to face the mass of men behind them. They rode out across the lines, placing themselves evenly among them. They raised their hands in unison. The massive army peeled back, and a new wave of men filled the vacated front.

Obba looked to the small encampment ahead of him. It was silent, and all of the little green men pointed their sticks at him. From under his helm, a grin reached his ears.

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Holy shit, my first actual encounter! Does Naird have some plan to use his vehicles in a tacticool way and plow through the massive army of flailing pointy swords? Does Naird have some sly trick to wipe out this army in one fell swoop? Is the first section right behind them, hidden in the trees waiting for a chance to strike?

No, my plan was to book it and hope First was alive, maybe meet up with them later. We've got a radio, anyway. Why risk it?

The only reason we haven't was the report for 1300. We needed to tell the Colonel we were leaving, and I did not want to risk losing my modern gizmos by cutting my link off from home.

Quinn and the rest of Third took up positions with us as they finished packing up. With the vehicles crewed, mortars set up, and the guns trained on the army across from us, we could do some real damage for about one minute. Then we were dead, or fighting in a melee we wouldn't win.

Hey, bayonets don't work when the bad guy's bayonet is longer and sharper. And he's wearing bayonet-proof gear, too.

"Sir, we've finished packing up. Vehicles are crewed," said Quinn as she took a wall next to the little hole I was in. I nodded in acknowledgment.

Clearing my voice, I spoke into the radio. "Alright, the plan is to stall for as much time as possible and tell the Colonel we're leaving by 1300. Then we book it." I took a breath. "We'll be putting on a light show out there, keep an ear out for First." I took my hand off the push-to-talk and set my sights on the slowly encroaching line of shields across from us.

"Mortars ready, sir."

Perfect.

"Mortars, do you have range on them?"

"Aye, sir. Too big a target to miss," replied the radio.

"You're confident you'll hit them on the first go?"

"Aye," came another reply.

"Stand by, shag 'em on my command."

I signaled to the rest of Second to follow after me, as I lept out into the open. I trotted forward, trying my damnedest to seem unfazed by the affair.

You know how Generals tend to put on a show of courage and strength with all the bravado in the world in front of their men? The worse ones would shrink when you left them alone and stripped them of their rank. The best of them fucking loved the carnage.

I had to stop myself from smiling.

I cleared my throat and yelled as loud as I could. "G' day, gents! Not one step closer or I'll fuck you up."

I looked to the mass of shields encroaching upon our little camp. Still shimmying towards us, they didn't stop. Either they didn't hear me, or they don't know English.

Shit.