Michael Leonhart sat among his peers around the fire. He enjoyed listening to the conversations the men had while he sips from his waterskin. The heat from the fire was soothing to the young man, he felt at ease, and the night sky was illuminated by the pale moonlight and the stars.

“The man among men, Charles Stuart, the Soldier King,” Adam began to weave a familiar tale, “with his sword and shield he carved a bloody path along the shores of the Lazuli River, leaving the sands crimson. But the enemy smashed the River Gate, our brothers called into question the battle they were fighting. But it was Charles who mounted his stallion, rallying what was left. He cried ‘Who wants to live forever!?’ That's the day he won his warrior's crown.”

“To the Soldier King!”

“For the Warrior’s Sons.”

Michael could not help but smile. He felt an inferno rising and setting ablaze within. He stood chanting along with his brothers-in-arms. He looked up to the full moon, for an instant, a black streak went across it. Time began to slow to a crawl. Adam's life drained from his neck from an arrowhead. Michael seized and pulled the back of his collar shirt and tightly grabbed his left arm, his fingernails digging into his flesh, as the volley of arrows pierced through Adam's abdomen, chest, and shoulder, the weight of the body became a heavy burden to bear. He heard cries of coursers out of the woods.

Michael let go of his grip, he rolled and tumbled. He grabbed a spear from one of his fallen comrades, his hands were shaking, trembling, but he steel himself. The dust was kicking up, some were barking orders, and others were screaming and hollering. And the cries of the warhorses were getting closer, and closer as the earth beneath began to quake from their charge.

Not this time, he had to tell himself, I have to fight. FIGHT! The men were in disarray, he lifted his long spear in the air, remembering the words of the Soldier King, “Who wants to live forever!?” all eyes were on Michael Leonhart, “Form up and follow my lead!” he said, thundering. “We are falling back to Fort George.”

***

Elsewhere, Mifune and Ezekiel were running like lightning in the pitch blackness of the night. “Find the ringleader, get what you can from him.” Ezekiel ordered, hurriedly.

“And he dies.” Mifune said.

They nodded to one another and split off. Mifune entered the woods, and lept to the closest tree he saw; his movements were swift and fluid like a monkey swinging in between the vines. He was thirty feet above the ground, and perched on a thick tree branch, seeing the wandering torch lights below, making notes of their movements, and focusing in on what they were saying. Seven men were walking on the old forest road, they wore brown boiled leathers armed with spears and shields. Mifune smirked. This is going to be easy, he thought.

“They’ll be forced back to the fort then they will be routed out.”

“Yeah. Like shooting fish in a barrel but what about Ezekiel?”

“What about him?”

“Don’t be an idiot. He's the Soldier King’s mad dog. There are plenty a tale of him butchering a dozen men alone on the battlefield.”

“He ain’t nothing but a man, and a man can be killed. There’s a good chance he’s already dead.”

“I hope you’re right but I can’t shake this feeling in the pit of my stomach.”

“Think of the gold we are getting for this job. Think of all the women and whiskey that comes with the gold coin.”

He smiled. “I guess you ain’t wrong.”

Mifune readied his shéng biāo; an ancient weapon from the Kentaro province, a long rope consisting of a diamond-shaped blade at the end. He was spinning it and shooting it out like a viper’s tongue. The blade has gone through the back of the thug's throat, dropping his torch, and choking on his own blood. He flew in the air as Mifune dropped from the branch and rolled into the bushes. As the men turned around, they saw their friend hanged and swinging from the tree, his body had gone limp.

“Oh God…” said one of the thugs.

“Steel yourselves,” the other thug said failing to hide the quaking in his voice, “We are dealing with a trained killer.” They huddle together, back-to-back, with their spears out.

Mifune had another shéng biāo ready in hand, biding his time to pounce upon his quarry. He shot another out, piercing one of the thug's shoulders, he was yanked backward into the bushes. A scream was heard then there was nothing but silence. By the time the men rushed to save him, it was too late, his throat was opened, and all he ever was and will be, drained into the dirt.

“What kind of devil’s work is this?” the thug said, quivering in his brown boots. The others could scarcely hold back the fear and terror they felt. They went back to the old forest road. They decided to spread out and search for this devil to destroy. One by one, they were dropping like flies. Their throats were cut, their bellies slashed. There was only one remaining. Mifune forced him to his knees, he held his bowie to the man's throat and had his wrist in a tight lock.

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“Who bought you?”

“Go to hell. You devil!” Mifune twisted his wrist to the verge of snapping for his impudence. The man gnashed his teeth.

“I'm not the devil but your appointment with him is coming soon.”

“Alright, alright. We were hired by some man in fancy fucking red armor. He offered us ten pounds of gold and silver. He didn't give us his name. Our job was to make sure no one comes back alive from Fort George. Do it! Kill me, you son of a bitch!”

“Not yet. Where’s your leader?”

“He’s further down the road with the rest of the reserve. You'll be cut down before you can reach hi–”

Mifune granted his wish; he plunged his bowie into the man's heart, throwing his body to the side of the road.

***

Leonhart, with his comrades behind his back, spearheaded the mad dash to Fort George. The men clad in the armor of black and grey adorned wolves’ furs, riding hard on their destriers, running their lances through the backs of the fleeing Warrior’s Sons. The cries of men and horses blurred together as Leonhart and the band drew closer to the drawbridge. Leonhart commanded his men to raise the bridge. He ordered his men with bows to climb the spiral staircase of the watchtowers to provide cover for those who did not make it.

Leonhart climbed the spiraling staircase as well, he made it to the top of the tower, he was breathing heavily and he was red in the face. Leonhart overlooked the pandemonium of the battlefield under the pale light of the blue moon. He saw the snarling dog helm of Ezekiel emerge from the darkness. He stood calmly before the blood riders, the tip of his greatsword glittering off the moonlight

He was a whirlwind, mowing down the herd of riders to the astonishment of his friends, and to the terror of his enemies. The mad dog was unleashed from its chains, he was more beast than man. Blood and brains spattered from his greatsword; fingers and arms flew through the air.

A struggler on the battlefield since the age of twelve, his blood sang when seeing his enemies crumble from blow after blow, when his steel collided against meat and bone, he was alive; dealing death and inflicting defeat on his foes. Years of experience and struggling to survive all concentrated into the cleaves and cuts of his immense greatsword.

Riding on his courser, a man in a long white surcoat with the black sun of House Morningstar, beneath was a heavy silver plate dinted and scarred from battles before, and his huge hands were clad in gauntlets. A spiked warhammer was in one iron hand and a massive oak shield was rimmed with bronze strapped to his right arm. His men stopped fighting as he methodically approached.

“Ezekiel!” He said thundering throughout the battlefield. Ezekiel stopped the mid-swing of his sword as he turned around, his black eyes went wide. He swung his sword over his shoulder, he slowly walked to the Black Sun of the Morningstar.

He vaulted off his horse, he stood shoulder height to Ezekiel. “As I live and breathe, the Soldier King’s mad dog.”

Ezekiel spat. “You’re going to die, Moloch.”

“Only one of us has to die. Our men needn't die unnecessarily.” Moloch readied his spiked hammer and shield.

“Aye.” Ezekiel gripped his greatsword, the tip of the blade pointed at Moloch.

They circled each other like lions on the prowl, prideful in each stride, waiting for one another to make the first strike. Ezekiel took a defensive stance knowing the might of a spiked hammer makes the heaviest of plates fragile as glass. He made note of the exposed joints behind the knees, underneath the armpits. He takes a deep breath, his mouth twisted into a bitter scowl. He muttered a small prayer under his breath, “Fall down and die.”

Sparks flew off as their weapons collided. Moloch was raining down his spiked hammer forcing Ezekiel on his backfoot, parrying every savage strike while making his own that was caught on Moloch’s massive shield, wooden splinters flew in the air. They pulled, dodged, parried, and countered. Hacking and slashing at each other for what seemed like an eternity. When steel met against steel it rang like thunder miles throughout. The two giants backed away from each other for a brief respite.

“Not bad for a lap dog.” Moloch said, breathless.

“Shut up.”

Ezekiel made a ponderous charge at Moloch, raising his greatsword for a killing arch he raised his shield and it shattered, Moloch’s heels dug into the mud. Moloch with the fury of the ten men, smashed his hammer into the side of Ezekiel, leaving him gasping for air and spitting out blood. He threw away his broken shield and gripped with both hands his mighty hammer to put down the Soldier King’s mad dog. He raised his hammer above his head then his whole world turned red in a flash of great agony, a sickening thump was heard as he fell to the ground right next to his severed arm still gripping his spiked hammer. The Warrior’s Son cheered in victory as their enemies were falling back into the woods.

Mifune covered in blood and gore from head to toe, emerged out of the forest. He walked to Ezekiel whose barely standing.

“You look like hammered shit.”

“Fuck you.”

Ezekiel leaned on Mifune as they walked back to Fort George.

“I can’t believe you have slain that vicious bastard in single combat.”

“I don’t believe either, that man was a monster. Toshiro?

“What is it?”

“We truly at war with the Old Man.”

Mifune sighed heavily. “Once the time is right and everyone has their bearings. I’ll tell you, Charles, and the rest of the divisions’ heads, what I discovered.”

***

Leonhart along with the rest of the archers, went downstairs to the main courtyard. The men splintered off into groups, sitting together, exhausted. Michael leaned against the wall and slid to the floor with his face to his knees and curled up. Curiously his mind drifted to the story he heard about one man who singlehandedly slew seventy men and fell the Storm Lord. How does one keep his humanity after slaughtering so many?

“Michael…” a familiar voice called out, he thought it was his father, “Michael,” he touched his shoulder, and he looked up, it was Brandon.

“Come join us in prayer.”

“I’m not the religious sort…” Michael paused for a moment, “You know what, sure.”

Brandon smiled. “You should take the lead on this, the men want to hear you speak.”

They walked to the center of the courtyard where the men of the Warrior’s Sons had gathered around in a circle, taking a knee and their hands clasped; some were muttering small prayers while others recited verses from the good book. Michael stood center at the circle, all of the men he led to safety looked up to him, and he knelt with them. He remembered the words of a prayer that his father used to recite. “Our Lord gives us the strength to resist, to overcome, so we do not yield to the cruel indifference in this world, as man is not made for defeat. Man is made to endure. Amen.”

“Amen.” The men said in unity.

Michael rose to his feet he spoke with conviction in his voice he have not felt before. “We have a long night ahead of us. Remain steadfast as a stonewall. The dark clouds gathered around us.”