“Form up! One line, three ranks deep,” Captain Cerul ordered his soldiers into position.

A mob was milling about the outside of the gate. It had been growing in size since the previous night and showed no sign of slowing. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the first brave fool to lead the press. Cerul had stationed on top of the fort to discourage such behavior.

Cerul knew from firsthand experience being a hero got you killed. His father had been a hero. He’d killed the legendary Brown Boar. The party’s spears had all broken, but he’d still gotten it with his sword, stabbed it right in the heart. As Cerul’s father had pierced the beast, saving the hunters behind him and ending a three year reign of terror, he’d been pierced in turn. Not, alas, by one of the boar’s tusks, but by the realization that he would be known in the history books as the man who had slain the Brown Boar. Manhunter, Monstrous, Deadly, Giant; all would have been true, and all would have given honour to the deed. Unfortunately, the boar had been brown and the first person to escape it had been an accountant.

And so the Slayer of the Brown Boar had dropped dead on the spot in shame. Or so his fellow hunters had surmised, for no wounds had been found on his corpse.

Captain Cerul had reminded his men of that this very morning—Not of the pig, that was kept quiet—but that being a hero got you killed. That’s what made them heroes. His soldiers were to hold firm and repel any attackers, killing as needed, but not so much that the newly implemented taxes would be wasted on a bunch of corpses. You could get money from a corpse, Queen Vesper often said, but only what you found in their pockets.

The rabble had sorted into divisions by weapon. Pitchfork wielders to the right and torches to the left. Those armed with slings and insults formed the artillery and stood behind the two assembled groups of peasants.

A shirtless man walked to the front of the pitchfork wielders and started shouting words of assurance and victory. The people cheered; a hero for sure.

Cerul signaled for his archers and waited for the whistling of arrows to put an end to it. The only whistling he heard, however, was the woman beside him, tunelessly blowing through her teeth.

Cerul frowned, and gestured for five of his elite soldiers to follow him to the roof. The archers were nowhere in sight. Cerul knew his archers, knew each one of them well. He knew which ones of them liked killing and which ones liked wiping their noses on the back of tapestries. He also knew that they would not abandon their post.

“Something’s wrong here. I want you to approach the edge in pairs, see if you can find the bodies, or even the bows or arrows anywhere nearby. Han, you come with me, we’re going to check the nearby rooms.”

Cerul headed back down the stairs, Han at his heels. The first room was empty, as was the third. The sixth was barred from the inside. Han broke down the door, and Cerul leapt through, sword drawn. He found nothing but a few old bones. Cerul would have to look into that later. They were searching the eighth room when Pnina, one of his elites, appeared.

“We found the bodies. A ways from the base of the tower, hidden behind the slope of a roof. There is no way they could have fallen that far, someone carried them.”

Someone had carried the bodies of full grown men down the tower and across the rooftops. If it wasn’t so terrifying Cerul would be impressed by the sheer display of strength and athleticism.

“An assassin. Most likely several. Let us hope our own did greater damage.”

“That’s how it appears sir. We were able to see the rabble from the top of the roof. Their numbers are much lower than expected and the stragglers have stopped pouring in.”

“I’d rather have our archers, but this will have to do. I want you two to go to the queen in case the assassins return. I’ll fetch the others. If you need me I’ll be back at my post. Good luck gentlemen.”

“And to you sir.”

The other groups had found their leaders. A one armed blacksmith was waving around a forge hammer to the cheers of the pitchfork wielders. Over in the artillery a man wielding a longbow walked up and down the line, giving orders and pulling people into position. He had unusually short grey hair and was dressed like a shepherd. Something felt off about the whole situation.

“Do we even keep sheep?” Cerul muttered as he and his elites rejoined his soldiers.

His lieutenant heard him, “I don’t believe so sir. We don’t have the land for it.”

“So what do you make of that man there?”

“He could be a monk sir. Monks are a very heroic sort I reckon.”

His lieutenant’s first thought had been about the heroism of the rebels. If the rest of his soldiers were thinking along similar lines than no amount of bloodshed would win them the battle. He had hoped the only thing he would have to worry about was the slings. He fell silent, thinking furiously. The rebels would be charging any second now. Indeed, seconds after thinking it, the whole battlefield fell silent as both sides readied themselves for what was to come. Silent except for the whistling woman.

“Soldier, what are you doing?” asked Cerul.

“It’s my tune, Captain” she said as if that solved it.

“Your tune?”

“Yeah, the one that plays for me when I battle.”

“Why would you have a tune?”

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“Got to have a tune. All the heroes have one. Bards play them when they tell their epics. I reckon the hero always pulls through to the end, ’cause they’re the main character. I thought if I had a song, then I’d be the hero, you see?”

“Where were you this morning? The hero always goes out tragically, tortured to death or beheaded by some evil king.”

She frowned, “If heroes die, then which one is it that lives to the end?”

“No one’s done that yet. The end’s a long way away.”

“So if everyone dies, then the ones that’re remembered would be the ones who come out on top, right? And that’d be the heroes.”

Cerul wanted soldiers, not heroes, but… Perhaps the only way to become sewn into the fabric of history was to become a hero. Who was he to demand his soldiers be forgotten? But today was not a day to be remembered. Heroes didn’t kill their countrymen. Monks are a very heroic sort I reckon. More heroic than his own troops. But heroes didn’t kill their countrymen.

Heroes protected their queen.

He raised his voice, “You heard her! Let’s sing our song! Heroes may die, but they will die saving their queen! For Vesper!”

“For Vesper!” shouted his troops.

“I know every one of you, and there are no cowards among you! No matter the cost, we’ll not die with wounds in our back. We will stand firm! We will stand firm!”

“We will stand firm!”

“For Vesper!”

“For Vesper!” This time the cheering shook the walls of the fort and sent the birds at the edge of the woods awing. Cerul stepped back into the line, his chest heaving. They would stand.

His speech seemed to have spurred on the enemy—Cerul noticed he now thought of them as the enemy— for they had broken into a cheer of their own.

Cerul’s troops recoiled from the wave of sound.

“We stand!”

The soldiers closest to him shook themselves. One of them began to whistle nervously. Those next to him took up the tune. A third began to whistle, and then a fourth. The woman’s song became a melody. The line reformed. Those who couldn’t whistle took to humming. The vibrations flowed around the music, harmonizing with it, carrying it high above the sounds of pounding feet. A symphony bloomed. Cerul raised his sword and shield and shouted in defiance, adding his voice to the wordless song.

“We stand!”

There was a crash and a pounding of hooves. Camil’s front runner came barreling towards them.

“To the front, hurry!”

“What, me?”

“No! All of you! Hurry! They’re killing them!”

Without waiting for Camil’s reply the scout wheeled around and charged back the way she came. Camil signaled and the column doubled its pace. The forest gave way to a slaughter. Vesper’s soldiers were an efficient bunch, and well trained. Camil would be a fool to deny that. The revolutionaries died in droves before the soldiers, at least a dozen to one, and yet it was the soldiers who were being forced back. Adding to the casualties was a crazed battery of slings which rained impartial death onto the battlefield.

“They are winning without us,” said Coldbloom, Camil’s second, “but…

“But this isn’t what victory should look like! With me!” Camil kicked the flanks of her horse and charged to the aid of the revolutionaries. Her soldiers followed close behind, drumming a beat into the dirt. Camil heard a second beat as they approached, a song. A chant was rising from the enemy soldiers. A chant which sent shivers through her soul.

We stand. A wave of rebels was pushed back with sword and shield.

We stand. The soldiers’ line slipped back a pace.

We stand. A ripple went down the line. Vesper’s soldiers pushed the line forward once more.

Even as Camil’s lance pierced a man’s side, he added one last defiant shout to the song, “We stand!”

Then Camil was past, dropping her lance, folding in the lance rest, and drawing her sword. Camil’s armour was a thing of wonder. Full plate. Legends claimed it was golem forged. Camil had reason to believe the legends. The records showed an acestor wearing it before King Stalwart’s purge, yet it was as strong as ever. A woman thrust a spear directly at Camil’s chest, but the blade skidded along the armour without a scratch. Before the woman could recover, Camil struck her in the head with her sword, “We stand.”

She pushed her sword through another soldier’s stomach, “We stand.”

Camil dismounted as the momentum slowed and her troops formed around her. Despite the song’s best efforts to drive her back, Camil’s larger force and superior equipment soon forced the enemy soldiers to seek the safety of their fort.

Camil gestured and four burly soldiers with a ram began attacking the gate. They were flanked by soldiers bearing shields to protect them, but no arrows fell. Camil didn’t have time to ponder their strange fortune, for the gate was weak and gave on the third strike.

The Vesperdom soldiers’ song came pouring from the archway, again attempting to stay what shield and strong arm could not. Again they failed as they were slowly, painfully, driven back. They fought their way across the hall, up the stairs, to the very chamber of the queen. The fighting was fierce. Each step was bought with half a dozen lives on both sides.

An enemy had made it past the chamber door. Cerul rushed forward to fill a gap in the line. A single chop from his sword caused the Derkdom or Talahdom soldier to fall back. Cerul pressed the advantage, swinging and dealing death with both sword and shield. Queen Vesper was in a fit of hysterics behind him, alternating between crying and shrieking about ‘all that damnable whistling.’

Another of Cerul’s soldiers fell, leaving him with three: Han, Pnina, and… He’s far too young to be a soldier. It was Segula. A knave girl whose training Cerul had started a few months before. Segula died even as Cerul noticed him.

Perhaps, thought Cerul as he knocked off a soldier’s helm, perhaps killing isn’t the way to valour. Han fell, though not to any wound he could see. Pnina stepped over his body to defend him and was run through a moment later. Cerul knew he should feel furious, or sad, but he felt removed from the fight, as if it was happening to someone else. Perhaps I should lay down my weapon, he kicked the slayer of his final soldier. Then the enemy, this time a true enemy, not his own people, were through the door. A blow to his shoulder knocked him down, a shield rocked his helmet backward, “I stand.”

He pushed back. Cerul raised his sword in defiance, not for honour, nor revenge, but because he had forgotten any other options. He lashed back at them, swinging with such speed and skill that the entire group of soldiers fell back as one under his onslaught.

“I stand.”

A daring blow to his knee only slowed him for an instant before he pushed himself back onto his bloodied leg. More than his mind was beginning to feel numb. It was spreading through his arms and then his tongue. He tried to whistle, but no sound came out. He sank back down, whispering to himself as he fell, “I stand.”

Vesper screamed in horror as her champion fell. She ran to the wall and tore down her grandfather’s longsword. She gripped the haft, wrong hand forward, and held it towards her foes, point trembling. The soldiers did not advance. They didn’t even notice her. They had stopped in the doorway to pay homage to the fallen captain. Ten years from now, a hundred, and the battle would be recorded. The historian would pause, lick the nub of their pen, and write a sentence about the last stand of Captain Cerul. The historian would write of his bravery, and the valour found in war. The history books would contain Cerul’s last actions, not his last thoughts, for he was no longer there to help write them. The heroes never were.

Camil motioned for her soldiers to make way. She alone passed Cerul’s body.

“Stop. Stop! You have to stop,” Vesper jabbed her quivering sword towards Camil with each word. None of the strikes came close to landing.

“Queen Vesper, your soldiers are all dead, your people against you, and you have no idea how to use that sword. Yield.”

The sword clattered from Vesper’s hands and then she too collapsed to the floor.