“INCOMING!” Cramdell bellowed, his voice slicing through the din of battle just as another fireball screamed from the heavens. The projectile slammed into the ground a mere few meters away, detonating with a deafening roar. Heat and shrapnel surged outward, battering the defenders in a merciless wave. Soldiers were thrown to the ground, dazed and bleeding, as the sky rained dirt and metal shards like a storm of daggers.
Cramdell barely managed to roll into a shallow ditch, his ears ringing and his vision blurred from the blast. His tongue met the sharp tang of grit in his mouth, but he pushed it aside and barked through the dust-filled air, “Get your heads down! Stay low!”
All around him, soldiers scrambled for cover, their faces streaked with sweat and dirt, their eyes a mix of fear and grim determination. Another fireball whistled overhead, illuminating the smoke-choked battlefield with a fiery glow before it smashed into a barricade, sending splinters and fire in all directions.
“Medic!” someone screamed, the raw urgency cutting through the cacophony. Two soldiers darted toward the sound, their medical bags bouncing as they disappeared into the haze.
“Sir!” Sergeant Bickers slid into the trench beside Cramdell, his face contorted in frustration as he spat dirt from his mouth. “Those damn mages have us zeroed!”
Cramdell didn't waste a moment. He keyed his radio and barked, “ACE report, now!”
The replies came back, crackling with static and exhaustion, confirming his worst fears. Nearly every position was running dry. Soldiers had started rationing their last magazines, and a few were already switching to their sidearms. Desperation hung in the air like the thick smoke choking the field.
“Where the hell are those trucks?” Bickers growled, shaking his head. “They said thirty minutes an hour ago!”
“They’re coming, Sergeant,” Cramdell snapped, his tone sharp but not unkind. “We fight with what we have, not what we wish for. If we don’t keep it together, they’ll bury us in this ditch.”
“Yes, sir.” Bickers nodded tightly, his jaw set as he scrambled back to his fighting position. Moments later, the bark of his rifle echoed across the battlefield, dropping two swordsmen who had emerged from the treeline.
Cramdell took a moment to assess his own loadout. He checked his rig, counting the magazines: nine empties, four partially loaded, and the one in his rifle. Not enough. He glanced upward, searching the smoke-obscured sky for any sign of the promised reinforcements. Where are they?
Another blast rocked the ground, snapping him back to the present. There was no time to dwell. Cramdell bolted toward the RTO, his boots slipping on loose dirt as he grabbed the handset.
“Dragon 6, this is Alpha 5 Tango! We are nearly black on ammo. What is your ETA? Over!”
A pause. Then, through the static, the reply came: “Alpha 5 Tango, this is Dragon. Current ETA unknown. We are nearing Qu-Til. Will update once Qu-Til is under our control. Hang tight—we’re coming. Dragon out.”
Cramdell stared at the handset in disbelief, his jaw tightening as he handed it back to the RTO. “Will update,” he muttered bitterly. His gaze swept the battlefield, taking in the scattered civilians crouching behind what little cover they could find. A group of them, still exposed, huddled together in silent terror.
Cramdell’s voice softened, but his urgency remained. “You two—come with me,” he ordered two nearby soldiers. Together, they ushered the civilians toward the barn, guiding them to the underground cellar where others had already taken refuge.
The battle raged on, and ten agonizing minutes later, another soldier stumbled to Cramdell, his face pale beneath the dirt and blood. “Sir, I’m black on ammo!”
“Cross-load with someone and get back in the fight!” Cramdell commanded, pulling one of his own precious magazines from his rig and tossing it to the soldier. As the man ran back to his position, a spearman surged from the smoke. Cramdell dropped him with a single shot, then ducked back into the trench as another explosion peppered the air with debris.
Grabbing the radio again, Cramdell growled into the handset, “Command, this is Alpha 5 Tango! We’re nearly dry on ammo! Where is the resu—” He stopped mid-sentence, the handset slipping slightly in his grasp.
The sound reached him first. Deep and resonant, it rolled across the battlefield like the toll of a death knell: a horn.
“Sir...” the RTO whispered, his voice trembling. “They’re coming.”
Cramdell’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the handset. He could already hear it—the thunder of hooves, growing louder with each second. The Austorian cavalry was preparing to charge.
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Eariler:
Desgan stood tall, her sharp eyes following the last of her cavalry as they emerged from the hidden gate. The ancient passage had been a masterstroke—long forgotten and buried in the records of the merchant guilds. Originally built to provide a covered path for merchants seeking shelter from the elements, it had become the perfect concealed route for her forces.
She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. The merchants who built it centuries ago could never have imagined their handiwork being repurposed to unleash destruction.
The horses snorted and stamped as they formed into disciplined wedge formations on the field beyond the gate. The ranks of cavalry shimmered faintly in the fading light, their steel reflecting the ominous glow of mage-fire from the woods. Her forces had been whittled down—nearly half gone from the initial 2,000 soldiers, cavalry, mages, and archers she had commanded. The Beastkin had made her pay dearly, concentrating their fire on her archers and battlemages.
But her cavalry? Her pride? They remained nearly untouched. The 150 long sword cavalry and 50 elite riders armed with magic lances stood ready, their mounts restless and their eyes filled with bloodlust. Even with the loss of Gideon, one of her most trusted commanders, the cavalry’s cohesion remained unbroken.
Desgan adjusted the brim of her helm, the faint smirk on her lips widening. These Beastkin dogs had fought fiercely, but now they were on the edge of collapse. Whatever magic they had would soon be gone, and desperation would set in. That’s when fear would do the rest.
She turned her gaze toward the forest, where she had repositioned 30 of her best battlemages. Hidden under the thick canopy, they would rain fire and destruction on the Beastkin positions with precision. A flicker of light signaled the first spell being prepared.
“Perfect,” she muttered under her breath, gripping the reins of her own horse. She could almost hear the cries of panic and despair from the Beastkin defenders as she imagined their defenses being shredded by magic, blades, and hooves. Today, they would know the terror of a cavalry charge—and the helplessness of facing a foe who had prepared for every contingency.
Desgan raised her hand, the signal to prepare for the first wave. The long sword cavalry readied their formations, their polished weapons glinting as they angled them forward. Magic rippled through the air as the spear cavalry summoned faintly glowing runes along the shafts of their enchanted weapons.
“Let’s see how long they hold,” she said coldly, lowering her hand.
A low horn sounded, echoing across the battlefield like a harbinger of doom. The cavalry surged forward, the thunder of hooves reverberating through the ground. Desgan spurred her own mount, following just behind the second wave, her sharp eyes on the Beastkin lines.
It was time to show these so-called warriors what it meant to face true power.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
The first wave of cavalry thundered toward the Beastkin defenses, the ground trembling beneath their massive hooves. Their riders, faces hardened and weapons gleaming, exuded a menacing aura as they bore down on the entrenched defenders.
“Hold the line!” Cramdell shouted, his voice cutting through the cacophony. The defenders’ rifles barked in unison, their overlapping fields of fire creating a wall of death. The front ranks of the charging cavalry crumpled under the hail of bullets, men and horses tumbling to the ground in a horrific tangle of flesh and steel. The survivors veered off, their formation shattered, leaving the field strewn with the fallen.
Desgan’s sneer deepened as she watched from afar. “Fools,” she muttered, signaling the second wave. This time, her cavalry adjusted, spreading out to minimize casualties. They charged again, but even as some breached the outer perimeter, they were forced to fall back under concentrated fire. Desgan signaled their retreat, her lips curling into a cruel smile. The recalled unit was a ploy—a signal for her mages, now in position, to unleash their fire impact spells.
Fireballs rained down with deadly precision, each explosion shaking the ground and sending debris hurtling into the air. Smoke and chaos engulfed the defenders’ lines. The battered cavalry regrouped, licking their wounds as Desgan unleashed a third wave, their resolve bolstered by the mages’ devastating barrage.
This time, the cavalry’s retreat was minimal, their losses lighter. From her vantage point, Desgan could see the change—less outgoing fire, slower responses, more gaps in the defenders’ ranks. She grinned, leaning toward one of her remaining commanders. “They’re running dry,” she said with satisfaction. “Prepare for the final assault.”
Lt. Cramdell sprinted from position to position, his mind racing as he assessed the situation. Almost every soldier was low on ammunition, their belts and pouches nearly stripped bare. Many had already switched to sidearms, their primary rifles reduced to dead weight. His own rig was a stark reminder—nine of his fourteen magazines were empty, and the remaining five were running dangerously low.
“This can’t be it,” he thought bitterly, his jaw clenched. “Not like this. Not because we ran out of bullets.” He scanned the horizon desperately, searching for any sign of salvation. “Where’s the recon team? Where are the trucks?” The question pounded in his mind, a mantra of despair.
A tear traced a grimy path down his cheek, unnoticed as he swiped it away. His eyes hardened, a steely resolve setting in. If no help was coming, then they would make their stand here—no matter the odds.
“FIX… BAYONETS!” he roared, his voice carrying across the chaos like a thunderclap.
The command stunned everyone within earshot. Sergeant First Class Draken, crouched nearby, looked up in disbelief. “Sir… did you just say—”
Cramdell’s cry of “FIX… BAYONETS!” rang out again, echoing across the trenches. This time, there was no hesitation. Soldiers snapped their blades into place with a metallic chorus, the clicks sharp and resolute.
“Gentlemen,” Cramdell began, his voice carrying over the smoke and chaos, “this is where we make our stand. You’ll tell your grandchildren about this day—how we didn’t give an inch, how we sent them running.” He paused, his eyes scanning their faces. “Use every bullet, every grenade. And when that’s done, meet them with steel!" He raised his rifle, bayonet gleaming in the dim light. “This day is ours! TIL VALHAL!!”
The shout rose from the trenches, raw and defiant. “TIL VALHAL!”
Draken grinned as he fixed his own bayonet, the polished blade gleaming. “Hell of a speech, sir. Til Valhal, though—what’s that mean, exactly?”
Cramdell smirked, his grip tightening on his rifle. “Something General Thompson yells when the odds are impossible. Whatever it means, it works. Let’s hope it’s enough.”
The ground began to tremble, the distant thunder of hooves growing louder. The defenders braced themselves, shoulders squared, rifles steady.
And then the enemy emerged—riders and infantry surging forward, a tidal wave of steel and fury.
Cramdell exhaled sharply, his voice steady. “Hold the line.”
The defenders roared back, a wall of fire erupting from the trenches.
The battlefield roared with chaos as Desgan spurred her warhorse into a gallop. Her cavalry followed in perfect formation, their lances gleaming in the fading light, their battle cries tearing through the air like an ominous dirge.
“Push forward!” Desgan bellowed, her voice carrying over the thunder of hooves. Her eyes burned with determination as the Beastkin line loomed closer, weakened but still defiant.
As the cavalry surged ahead, a sharp, uncoordinated cry rose from the Austorian infantry behind her. The Swords and Spearmen commander, misjudging the silence from the Beastkin lines as an opportunity, gave the order to charge. The infantry poured forward like a tide, their shields clanging as they sprinted to close the distance.
“NO!” Desgan snarled, realizing the disastrous timing too late. Her cavalry was forced to slow, their momentum broken as they collided with the surging mass of infantry. Horses reared and neighed, Austorian soldiers cursed, and a frantic melee erupted between the two forces.
From the trenches, Cramdell watched the approaching chaos with a sinking heart. The Austorian forces were disorganized, but their sheer numbers threatened to overwhelm.
“They’re bottlenecked,” he muttered, his mind racing. “But they’ll be through any second.”
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
The first wave hit like a thunderclap. Horses and riders scrambled over the tangled mass of infantry, but the Beastkin defenders didn’t falter.
Amidst the chaos, Desgan spurred her warhorse forward, weaving through the disorganized remnants of her cavalry. Her sharp eyes locked onto the Beastkin trench line, her sword gleaming as she raised it high.
“Break them! Break them now!” she roared, her voice echoing over the battlefield.
As she charged, a pistol shot cracked through the air. One of the Beastkin defenders, his rifle discarded and his face bloodied, raised a trembling sidearm and fired. The 9mm round struck true, slipping through a weak point in Desgan’s ornate shoulder armor.
The impact staggered her in the saddle. Pain blossomed across her shoulder, and a warm trickle of blood seeped down her arm. Desgan snarled, her breath hitching in rage as she turned to find her assailant.
The Beastkin soldier, emboldened by his small victory, fired again. This time, the shot went wide. Desgan’s eyes burned with fury as she drew her horse around, her lips curling into a snarl.
“You DARE?” she growled, her voice low and venomous.
She kicked her horse into a gallop, the great beast bearing down on the wounded soldier with terrifying speed. The Beastkin fired one last, desperate shot before his pistols slide locked back empty.
Desgan swung her sword in a vicious arc as she reached him, the blade catching the soldier across his chest. He staggered back, his weapon falling from his grasp. With a guttural cry, Desgan thrust her sword again, driving it through his torso.
“You think you can stop me?” she hissed, twisting the blade as the Beastkin’s lifeblood soaked the ground. “You think you’re a match for me?”
She pulled her sword free, letting the body crumple to the dirt. Her eyes blazed as she turned her attention back to the trenches, her wounded shoulder seemingly forgotten. Blood continued to drip from the injury, staining her armor as if to mark her vengeance.
Her cavalry hesitated, watching their commander with a mixture of awe and fear. Desgan raised her sword high, the tip gleaming with the Beastkin’s blood.
“NO MERCY!” she screamed, spurring her horse onward. “Drive them into the dirt!”
“Pick your targets! Make every shot count!” Cramdell barked, firing his own rifle into the fray. A swordsman crumpled as his bullet found its mark, but there were too many to hold back.
The trenches erupted in close-quarters combat as swords and spears clashed against bayonets. Beastkin soldiers fought with everything they had—knives, fists, even the jagged remains of broken battlements. Blood soaked the ground, and the air was filled with shouts, screams, and the metallic tang of death.
A spearman thrust toward Cramdell. He sidestepped and drove his bayonet into the attacker’s gut. Pulling it free, he turned to see Sergeant Draken wrestling a swordsman to the ground. Another fireball exploded nearby, sending debris raining down on them.
“Sir, we’re not going to hold!” Draken shouted, his voice raw with desperation.
The Austorians surged forward again, their numbers overwhelming. Cramdell’s voice cracked as he yelled, “TIL VALHAL!” The cry was echoed by his soldiers, their last defiant roar as they prepared for the inevitable.
And then they heard it—a low, guttural hum cutting through the chaos.
The sound grew louder, vibrating through the battlefield. At first, the Austorians hesitated, their charge faltering as they turned toward the noise. It was coming from behind the Beastkin lines.
A moment later, the first Recon truck roared into view, its sleek, armored frame gleaming as it tore across the battlefield. Mounted .50-caliber machine guns opened fire, the heavy rounds ripping into the Austorian ranks with devastating precision.
“CONTACT LEFT!” shouted the gunner on the lead truck, his voice carried over the crews headsets. The FENNEKs moved like a pack of wolves, each truck covering the next as they swept into formation.
The machine guns didn’t stop. The lead truck pivoted, its turret locking onto a group of mages attempting to cast another volley of fireballs. A thunderous burst sent them sprawling, their magic dying with them.
One truck slid to a halt in front of the barn, its gunner pouring suppressive fire into the Austorian cavalry as it tried to regroup.
Desgan’s horse reared as she pulled back sharply on the reins. Her keen eyes narrowed as she took in the devastation wrought by the trucks. “What in the gods’ names...?”
Her moment of hesitation cost her. One of the FENNEKs locked onto her cavalry, its gunner unleashing a hail of .50-caliber rounds. Riders fell from their saddles, horses screamed, and the charge disintegrated before her eyes.
“Fall back! FALL BACK!” Desgan screamed, her voice cracking. She pulled her horse around and galloped away, her forces scattering in disarray.
Cramdell, bloodied and exhausted, leaned against the trench wall as the surviving Austorians broke and ran. He let out a breathless laugh, his chest heaving.
One of the truck commanders dismounted and approached him, offering a hand. “Lieutenant,” he said with a grin, “heard you needed a lift.”
Cramdell clasped the man’s hand, pulling himself upright. “About damn time.”
The battlefield was finally still. Smoke hung heavy in the air, and the acrid stench of burnt powder and blood filled every breath. 1st Lieutenant Aron Steele of the Desert Rats Recon team crouched near the Beastkin trenches, scanning the surroundings through binoculars. His FENNEK armored scout vehicle idled behind him, the RWS rotating, its gunner scanning for enemies in the late afternoon sun.
Lieutenant Cramdell approached, his uniform streaked with dirt and blood, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “You brought a hell of a fight with you, Steele.”
Steele turned, offering a grim smile. “Looks like you needed it. What’s the situation now?”
“Bleak, but better than it was an hour ago,” Cramdell said. He gestured toward the ragged line of defenders. “Thanks to you, the enemys ran off and morale’s improving. But just barely. We’ve got wounded civilians and soldiers in the barns, but we’re holding for now, just when are those resupply helos arriving?”
Steele looked around, his expression hardening. “I don’t know. I didn’t see them while we were punching it to get up here. They’ve been stating they are on their way over the radio, so give them time. So back to where we will set up. We’ll set up in defilades here, here and here.”
He pointed to the locations. “If they try to attack again, we’ll cut them down before they reach your trenches, as long as the ammo holds out.”
Cramdell glanced over his shoulder. “Awesome, I just need to take care of a loose end. That XO nearly got us all killed thanks to his cowardice. I’m going to haul him to the Captain and let him decide his fate. I left him over in that barn.”
The two officers made their way through the battered trenches, stepping carefully over debris and spent casings. As they turned a corner, they found the former XO, 1st Lieutenant Degran Swordless, kneeling beside a wounded soldier. His hands were stained with blood as he tightened a tourniquet on the man’s leg. The soldier grimaced in pain but nodded weakly as Swordless secured the bandage.
“Hold on, Private,” Swordless murmured, his voice low but steady. “You’re going to make it. Just breathe.”
Swordless looked up as they approached, his face pale but resolute. Exhaustion etched deep lines into his features, and his uniform was soaked with sweat and smeared with grime. “Cramdell,” he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “I... I’m not a coward.” He hung his head low, the weight of his words almost physical. “I lost my mind for a while out there; I believe the stress was too much for me. But I’ve been here since. I’ve been trying.”
Cramdell’s gaze swept over Swordless’s rifle, its chamber open and smoking, the magazine empty. Beside him lay several other magazines, their contents spent. Blood stained his hands—not his own—and he moved with the deliberate precision of someone too focused to falter.
“You fought,” Cramdell said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm. “You stayed with the men and did what you had to do.”
“I failed the unit and myself, Grant,” Swordless insisted, his shoulders sagging. “But when it mattered, I couldn’t walk away. These men… they’re more than soldiers. They’re my brothers.” His voice cracked as he added, “I’ll take whatever punishment you deem fit, but I swear to you—I’ll earn back the trust I lost.”
Cramdell crouched, his eyes level with Swordless’s. For a long moment, he studied the man before him—the sweat-soaked uniform, the trembling hands, the quiet resolve in his voice. Slowly, Cramdell reached out and placed a hand on Swordless’s shoulder.
“You did your duty, Degran,” he said, his voice softer now. “You came back from the edge, and you stood with your brothers when it mattered. That’s what counts.”
Swordless’s head dipped, relief flickering in his eyes. “Thank you, Grant. I’ll do better. I swear it.”
Cramdell stood, his rifle shifting on his shoulder. “You’re not the XO anymore,” he said firmly. “But you’re still one of us. Fight with the men, not above them. Earn back that trust.”
Swordless nodded, a small spark of determination returning to his tired gaze. “I will. I promise.”
The distant hum of rotor blades grew louder, cutting through the smoke-filled air like a lifeline. All eyes turned skyward as a tiltrotor helicopter descended onto the field, its downdraft kicking up choking clouds of dust and ash. The rotors' deafening roar seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of hope, though it was tempered by the knowledge of what lay ahead.
Cramdell sprinted toward the descending tiltrotor as its massive rotors kicked up a storm of dust and ash, whipping his fatigues and filling the air with a deafening roar. The side door slid open with a metallic clang, and medics leapt out, their faces hard-set as they moved with practiced efficiency to find and load the most critical wounded.
Onboard the crew chiefs threw ammunition crates out of the tiltrotors, both to replenish the ground forces and to make space for the wounded. Beastkin soldiers scrambled to grab the precious supplies, hustling them toward the front lines where they were desperately needed.
The pilot, his flight suit streaked with grime and his helmet visor reflecting the chaos, stepped down briefly. “Lieutenant!” he shouted over the rotors’ deafening wash. “We’ve got a situation.”
Cramdell jogged closer, his voice cutting through the noise. “What’s the status?”
The pilot jerked his thumb toward the horizon. “The remnants of the Austorian force pulled back into the city—but you’ve got a much bigger problem heading your way. We’ve got reports of an army, Lieutenant. Infantry, cavalry, mages—the whole damn lot. And they’re minutes from the gate.”
Cramdell’s jaw tightened. “How big?”
“Big enough that if you don’t have a plan, this farmstead’s a memory,” the pilot replied grimly. He glanced over his shoulder at the aircraft. “One more Tiltrotors landing with two more inbound, but they’re not landing. They’re sling-loading ammo and rations. Drop-and-go only. After that, we’re shutting down the airspace.”
Cramdell frowned. “What? Why?”
“Every bird in this AO has taken damage,” the pilot said, his voice sharp with frustration. “Magic, debris, you name it. We’re it. Command’s not risking more airframes. You’re on your own after this.”
Cramdell nodded, his face hard. “Understood. What about the one that was hit?”
The pilot’s face darkened. “She’s down hard, Lieutenant. She crashed outside of the Trenbres forest, losing two. Sorry sir, but we are it.”
The pilot gave Cramdell quick nod, then climbed back into the cockpit as medics strapped another wounded soldier to a stretcher. “We’ve got room for fourteen!” one of the medics yelled, his voice hoarse but steady. “Critical cases only! Let’s move!”
The low, guttural hum of another tiltrotor filled the air, and Cramdell turned just in time to see the second aircraft touch down with a jarring thud. Its side door slammed open, and a squad of Seraphim disembarked with the swagger of seasoned operators who’d seen hell and come out laughing.
1st Lieutenant Olin Greenspike, leader of ODA Smasher, led the way, his compact, muscular frame weighed down by an 84mm recoilless rifle slung across his back. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how to use the massive weapon—and relished the thought.
Behind him, his squad spilled out, each member carrying an arsenal of cutting-edge gear. They exchanged jokes and fist bumps as they hit the ground, their camaraderie palpable even amid the chaos.
Lt. Lancer approached, a grin breaking through the soot streaking his face. “Greenspike, you showboating bastard. Good to see you.”
“Good to be seen, Chip,” Greenspike replied with a cocky grin, shifting the recoilless rifle on his shoulder. “Figured I’d bring a little firepower to the party. Heard you were running low on fireworks.”
Lancer chuckled, shaking his head. “You always did have a knack for timing.”
One of Greenspike’s men Rylus Thresher, a towering Beastkin with a cigar clenched between his teeth, slapped a crate of ammunition onto the ground with a thud. “You boys been having all the fun without us?” he asked, grinning.
“Plenty left to go around,” Lancer replied, slapping the big man’s shoulder. “Glad you’re here.”
As the banter continued, another squad disembarked, this one hauling the heavy baseplate of a 60mm mortar. Sgt. Blazer Firespike, his face grim and determined, strode toward Cramdell.
“Sir! Mortar Squad reporting as ordered. Where do you want us?” Firespike barked, his voice carrying over the tiltrotors’ roar.
Cramdell pointed to a position near the barns, his tone sharp and decisive. “Set it up there. I want rounds in the air as soon as they’re in range. No misses. Every shot counts.”
“Yes, sir!” Firespike snapped, turning to his team. “You heard him! Move!”
The soldiers hustled toward the designated position, their movements precise despite the chaos. Firespike paused, turning back to Cramdell. “By the way, sir...”
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“Glad to be here,” Firespike said with a grin, extending a hand.
Cramdell clasped it firmly, a hint of a smile breaking through his grim demeanor. “Welcome to the party.”
Firespike nodded and jogged back to his team as the clang of mortar assembly mixed with the drone of rotors and the cries of the wounded.
Cramdell turned to Steele, his gaze fierce. “We’ve got a sliver of time and a sliver of hope. Let’s make sure that’s all we need.”
Steele surveyed the battlefield, the lines of defenders weary but holding. “It’s all we have,” he said, his voice steady. “But it’s enough.”
Atop a jagged ridge overlooking Sacra-Hill, Lords Garval Jigan and Indus Palper surveyed the battlefield. Smoke spiraled into the sky, obscuring the distant ruins of the farmstead where the Beastkin defenders had made their stand. Below them, disciplined columns of Austorian soldiers marched in lockstep, their banners snapping sharply in the evening breeze. The rhythmic clatter of armor and weapons created a grim symphony of inevitability.
Garval Jigan, his darkened plate armor glinting faintly in the dying light, rested a gauntleted hand on the hilt of his saber. His face bore the hardened lines of a soldier who had seen the worst and survived it, but his eyes burned with something sharper—vengeance.
“Desgan has done her part,” Jigan said, his voice low but taut with conviction. “She’s broken their resolve and left them reeling. Now, we finish what she started.”
Beside him, Indus Palper, a broader and more deliberate man clad in the heavy armor of a battlefield commander, turned his gaze toward the distant farm. His expression was less assured, tinged with the weight of command and an understanding of the unpredictability of war.
“The mages report the defenders are faltering,” Palper said, his tone careful. “Their magic is nearly spent, and their wounded clog the trenches. If we press now, the farm will fall by nightfall.”
Jigan’s lips curled into a smirk. “It will fall,” he said with cold certainty. Drawing his saber, he held it aloft, the polished steel catching the last rays of sunlight. “Send word to the front. No mercy. No survivors.”
Palper’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing as he studied Jigan. “You’ve been eager for this fight, Garval. Too eager.”
Jigan’s smirk faded, replaced by a scowl. “I’ve seen what these so-called dragons can do,” he snapped, his voice hard. “In Mya, they tore through our lines as if we were children playing at war. My cavalry was powerless. My lancers, my battlemages—all scattered like leaves in the wind.”
He turned to Palper, his voice dropping into a venomous growl. “And when I reported the truth, I was ridiculed. Laughed at. Do you know what it feels like to stand before the king and be mocked by the leader of the First Army? To be told that no such beast exists? That we lost to shadows?”
Palper shifted uneasily, his hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword. “I know the price you paid,” he said carefully. “The fine was symbolic, yes, but the stain on your reputation was real. If what you saw was true, then this fight—”
“It is true,” Jigan interrupted, his voice sharp. “And now I’ll prove it. If those metal beasts return, we’ll crush them. Not with whispers of dragons or cowardly retreats, but with steel and fire. The king will see my worth.”
Palper was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “And if you’re wrong?”
Jigan’s jaw tightened. “I’m not.”
A rider galloped up the ridge, his horse lathered in sweat. The soldier dismounted quickly, his armor clattering as he saluted. “My lords,” he reported breathlessly. “Scouts have confirmed. The metal dragons have returned.”
Jigan’s smirk returned, his eyes alight with a dangerous mix of fear and exhilaration. “Good,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Then we ride to Sacra-Hill.”
Palper sighed heavily, signaling for the rider to return to the column. As the man departed, he turned to Jigan. “If we are to regain the king’s trust, we cannot afford mistakes. This attack must be flawless.”
Jigan sheathed his saber with a flourish. “When we crush the Beastkin and their allies, there will be no doubt who commands the Second Army. The king will not just trust us—he will reward us.”
Palper regarded his companion for a long moment. “Let’s hope your ambition doesn’t outpace your sense, Garval,” he said finally. “The battlefield is no place for redemption. It’s for survival.”
Jigan’s smirk widened. “Then let’s ensure we survive.”
Below them, the Austorian army surged forward, their disciplined ranks moving like a tide toward the gates of Sacra-Hill. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the battlefield in shadow as the drums of war began to thunder.