The battlefield was hot. They always were. The iron, leather and felt that protectively enshrouded you also baked you to the point of heat exhaustion. The padding in her helmet had adsorbed as much of her sweat as it could, and it now poured from her saturated hair into her eyes and down her cheeks.

Blurred though her vision was, Delta saw the opening almost instinctually and brought her glaive down with a quick snap and clang. The Imperialist staggered back, giving ground, and relieving the pressure on the shields she was defending. Her glaive back to vertical, she moved in the space behind the shields looking for the next opportunity and, occasionally, at the tenor of the greater battle.

What she saw did not hearten her. An early charge had disrupted her unit and invalidated all the carefully plotted out tactics they were given. The ensuing chaos had ground up her five companions. Dead, down or lost she did not know. Cut off and disorganized, the feet of the troops she ended up with had followed the terrain and ended up in a shrinking circle on top of a small rise.

Unexpectedly Delta clashed into someone else. Hours of drilling with her polearm drove her to smoothly spin and take two steps backwards. She faced off against another fighter with a spear, who had reacted almost identically. The spearwoman was short and looked to be from the Southern provinces. By her markings she was another mercenary, and by her wandering, probably also separated from her unit. They grunted at each other in mutual acknowledgement.

The spearwoman nodded her helmet back the way she came. “They’re doing their turtle thing back there, and I can’t get a point in. Think you can make an opening for me?”

Delta nodded and moved past the spear, focusing on the masses of shields pushing against each other. A quick scan showed no other poles. The Imperialists were old fashioned and favored ruddy great shields and short stabbing swords. Not much of a threat to her. At least not while there were enough of her own shields alive to screen her.

Her world narrowed down to the blunt force of massed shields their opponents had brought to bear on her line. By weight alone they were driving the line in, on itself. If there was a breakthrough, it would end messily. It was a strong formation, and they had clearly drilled this maneuver a lot. However, it was pretty telling that they had really only trained against themselves.

Her glaive came down, rattling on the helmets and shields the second rank was holding aloft. No targets there, but that didn’t matter. Delta pulled the glaive back, with the edge facing the sky and the back spike downward. She felt it catch, and then smiled. She pulled, working the blade a bit to the left and right, finding the point where she had the most leverage. It doesn’t matter how strong you are, how heavy your shield is, or how much you train. Hook a shield at the outer edge and not even an ogre can beat leverage. Slowly, inexorably, and almost effortlessly, she peeled the shield back. Not far, but far enough.

There was a loud cry as a spear shot through the space between their own shields and then through the gap Delta had opened. She saw the shield drop out of the formation as the wielder sank to their knees. Delta smiled grimly and brought her glaive down on the next fighter over, whose shield had dipped to try to close the gap opened by the other shifting shield. The blow gave them pause but caused no appreciable damage. However, Delta’s glaive was now on the upper rim of their shield and, once more she had leverage. Not enough to push it out of the way, but enough to keep it from rising.

And, there, the spear flashed again through the gap. Not sure if it got through the eye slit or not. Didn’t really matter. Only the incompetent counted kills. Dead or rattled was just as good. What was important is that they gave ground and broke formation. The pressure was equalized, and their own forces were pushing back, straightening the line. As the enemy adjusted to this change in momentum, Delta kept it up. Finding purchase, applying pressure, and letting her companion’s spear go in for the strike.

After enough abuse, the tight shield formation backed off to regroup. Delta stood back from the line and tried to shake the sweat from her eyes.

“Nice to be working with someone competent”, said the spear fighter, who had backed off next to her. “As soon as they get word up the ranks, we’ll be the number one target for their archers.” Delta nodded and pulled herself up to her full height and looked about the field.

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They’d lost.

Although the fighting was far from over, there really wasn’t any question about it. She had hoped they could hold up long enough for the main body to sortie to reunite them. Possibly catch some of the enemy between them. But all she saw were a few other knots of resistance, and the main mass in retreat, harried by scouts on horseback.

“Who’s in command?” asked Delta.

“You are”, said the spearwoman.

“I am not in command”, said Delta.

“Of course you are”, said the spear. “We’re the only poles left, and I’m too short. Besides”, she looked around, “do you see anyone else who wants to take charge?”

Delta looked. There were no officer crests she could see. And the shields they were protecting were way too focused on keeping the line against the harassment from the enemy.

“Does that mean I can surrender?” asked Delta.

“If you think that’s the right command, go for it.”

Delta surveyed the field. The warriors had broken their shield formation and spread out to take up station around them. The pressure had eased on their line. They were forming a cordon with the odd champion coming in to keep the shields occupied. A good leader could rally them and make a strike for the weak point. The troops were thin enough that if they got a breakthrough, they might make an escape of it. Probably only lose half the people. She doubted she had the tactical mind or the faith of these troops to do that though.

The cordon parted briefly, and a commander came through. One thing about the Imperials: their antiquated traditions made their officers easy to spot. The crest of red bristles, cape, and clean armor. He stood, surveyed them, and with a gesture pulled his people back into line.

“The day is ours”, he said loudly and clearly. “Put down your weapons and we will give quarter. Swear an oath before Sky Father to never take up arms against the Empire and we will even repatriate you.”

“Never!” shouted a voice from their shields. “We will never surrender to scum like you!”

There was a pause as the commander ignored him and looked up and down the ranks. In the quiet a wise guy to the commander’s right said “Funny thing about scum. It rises to the top.” There was laughter up and down their line.

Delta snorted and shook her head. She raised her glaive above her head in the generally accepted gesture of submission and pushed through her shields. She stopped before the commander and waited.

The commander shook his head. “Two?”

Delta looked down and found the spearwoman had followed her out, spear over her shoulder in a similar gesture. “Just following your lead”, she said with a wry grin.

The commander sighed. “Alright. Raginald, escort these two along with the other wounded to the medical tent for processing.” The wisecracking soldier limped forward, saluted, and beckoned with a nod of his head. Delta and her companion followed without looking back.

A busy bustle had set over the battlefield. No longer the battle cry and clash of weapon and armor, but the groans of the wounded and body details.

Once clear of the line there was a pause as they stopped, and everyone took off their helmets. Delta slung hers over the pole of her glaive by its chinstrap and rested it on her shoulder. A finger pushed her shoulder.

“Aren’t you the clever one”, said Raginald, looking sternly at her. Delta squared off against him, waiting to see where this was going. He nodded at her companion. She had taken off her helmet revealing long dark hair, tightly braided and deep black eyes watching him warily. “A right mess the two of you made of our tortoise.” Delta continued to watch. Then Raginald broke into a grin. “Salut!” he said, giving them the same salute he had given the officer. He clapped her on the shoulder and limped off.

The two followed. Not exactly under guard from the wounded, but still mobile troops around them, but not exactly free. The surrounding army made any sort of thoughts of running away moot.

A large sideless tent had been put up. The ground inside was littered with bodies and people rushing between them. A page gave them a once over, singled out the soldier with a gut wound, and sent the rest to an outdoor area. There the soldiers stripped down their armor and examined their wounds. A bottle was passed around and the wounds were washed with the liquid that came out, often accompanied by howls of pain.

After his turn Raginald passed it to Delta, and grinned. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s just water”, said Raginald. He took a swig and pressed it into her hands.

She felt. Despite having seen numerous soldiers drink and wash with it, it had the heft of a full bottle. She splashed a bit on her lips. “Mother!” she cried.

Raginald laughed. “Cold, eh?”

Delta scowled at him. Then she drank deeply of it and passed it to her companion. She guzzled it, then poured it liberally over her head, down her back and down the front of her armor.  “Brrrr”, she exclaimed, shaking her armor out. Raginald took it back and passed it to a new group arriving.

“Imperial magic”, said the spearwoman. “Rumor is they’re rotten with it.” She shook her head. “Nice to see magic used for something useful though.”