The fragment of the 2nd Battalion that formed up in the hall was heartbreakingly small, only a bare handful of men. To my surprise, Otto and Wagner had made it as well, and I let out a small cry.

“Oh ye of little faith!” Otto laughed at me. “The only way I’m dying is long after I’ve retired. Herr Otto on his farm, surrounded by doting wife and grandchildren. This big lug can come with, I’ll need stablehands.” He clapped Wagner on the shoulder.

“Oh, my friend, you got that wrongways round,” Wagner replied. “When you run your farm into the ground, I’ll hire you on to muck out the stalls for me. Bit of honest labour’ll do you good!”

We all chuckled, but it felt forced. Despite Otto’s bravado, his hat was missing and half his brow scorched red, the mix of grease and lamp black he used to keep his blonde hair regulation-dark set in trickles down his temple. The combined effect was gruesome, and with his sharp features tightly drawn he looked like something that had emerged from a nightmare.

I realised Wagner was walking with a limp, and my own shoulder was aching, though the bleeding had stopped. I gingerly prodded it, relieved to discover that the cut was mainly over the bone, and thus shallow. Unless it got infected, it should heal up without issue.

Despite the fact that we were all battered one way or another, we had not had the worst of it: we had been able to retreat, after all, something I feared most of the injured would not have afforded.

A minute passed in shared silence. I’d caught sight of Major von Staffen leaving the hall, one arm hanging limply at his side, but the command of the battalion was decimated, only a harrowed-looking leutnant remaining.

Eventually, he heaved a deep sigh. “Better start cleaning your arquebuses, men. No hot water here, just give them a good scrub, I suppose.” He sounded as tired as I felt.

His sigh was echoed across the group of us that remained, as we began scraping at the fouling on the insides of the flintlocks’ barrels. The obscuring smoke was not the only product of black powder explosions -- it also left a crusty residue on the inside of the barrel, bits of unburnt charcoal and crystallised nitre and I didn’t know what else.

Usually, after a battle there would be plenty of time to boil water and pour it down the muzzle, the hot liquid dissolving the worst of the fouling and loosening what remained, but this was far from usual. I supposed the leutnant was concerned we would be fighting again within minutes, and I could not blame him. Even now, I heard a dull thudding start up: something battering at the door. It did not take long before the sound was duplicated somewhere else around the palace, and again.

Most likely we would hold the outer rooms for as long as we could before falling back to the keep, the true last line of defence, but after which there would be no more escape. If the Torreans broke the door there, it would be the end of the sides.

My grim musings were interrupted by the reappearance of Major von Staffen, sweeping in as quickly as he could without jarring his arm. At some point while he was gone someone had used a pair of belts and a sliver of wood of some kind to splint it and fashioned a sling from something, but his jaw was still tightly clenched as he walked.

A shorter captain followed behind him, rushing to keep up with the major’s long legged stride. The juxtaposition was oddly comical, von Staffen’s billowing coattails and gaunt features making him look like he’d just stepped out of a painting while the captain gave an altogether less flattering, more fluttering, impression.

When he arrived Major von Staffen exchanged a cursory greeting with the leutnant, but immediately afterwards his eyes began to scan what was left of the battalion. Diminished as we were, it was not a long process, and they quickly came to rest on me.

“Schreiner,” The major called.

I blinked. “Sir?”

“With me. Everyone else, I know it has been a hard day of hard fighting, but it will grow harder yet. You have been imparted with a mission by Her Majesty the Queen herself, on which Captain von Holzt will lead you. I dearly wish I could do it myself but --” He gestured with his left hand to the cumbersome mess of belts and cloth holding his right arm.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

“I should be a hindrance to you all. I have nothing but absolute faith in your abilities; you are the finest men I have ever had the privilege of commanding, and I know you shall continue so.” He abruptly stopped, pausing for a moment.

“But time is short. Heavenspeed, soldiers.”

Turning on his heel, he gestured for me to follow him, and I did so, wondering what I had done to be singled out. Dozens of possibilities spiralled through my mind as we walked, from the mundane to the ridiculous. Perhaps he needed an errand boy and I was just the least-injured looking person present, or perhaps I was under suspicion of high treason for aiding the Torrean invasion -- why I would be suspected, I had no idea, but to my exhausted mind it seemed not beyond the realm of reason -- or perhaps there was some other squad being formed, or maybe…

Whatever was going on inside my mind, Major von Staffen was not inclined to stop to explain and it was not my place to ask questions, so I simply followed him as we walked deeper into the palace. The corridors twisted as we went, left and right until they doubled back on themselves, intersections unmarked and no windows piercing the stone walls. If I did not know the way we were going myself, I would be quite lost, but I did:

The keep.

Unfortunately this knowledge did little to restrain the menagerie of reasons I might be called out running loose in my head, as it was the seat of most of the goings-on of any import now. The command staff, with Oberst von Weider and -- I flinched mentally -- the General himself, the royal family, and everything attached to either of those two. Still a great many things.

We finally came to a halt outside a door flanked by unsmiling 1st Company Guards. Major von Staffen, apparently unimpressed, ignored them in favour of rapping sharply on the door.

After a series of clicks, an iron panel slid back and the cautious eyes of an officer of the 1st Company peered through.

“Major von Staffen with Gefreiter Schreiner,” the major said.

“Sir.” The acknowledgement was clipped, but I heard the bolts being worked straight away, and after a moment the door swung inwards, the officer standing next to it perfectly at attention.

“Major von Staffen with Gefreiter Schreiner!” He announced to nowhere in particular, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Nervous, I trailed behind the major into the room, and had to suppress a gasp while I copied his gesture and removed my hat.

The room was richly furnished and decorated, with plush rugs sharply at odds with the by-and-large bare stone of the corridors to the keep, detailed tapestries and drapes concealing the cold walls, and a full crystal chandelier suspended from the high ceiling. Myriad candles lit the room cheerfully, banishing the oppressive weight of the fortifications felt so keenly outside, and ornately carved armchairs, couches, and side tables filled the space.

None of this, lavish as it was, was what had taken me aback. Seated on what could only be called a throne at the far right end of the room was Her Majesty Queen Theresa Anne, queen regnant of Immerland and the Empire. Flanking her on the right and left respectively were Prince Consort Karl and Prince Franz. A table with some object covered by a cloth stood between us, but we were approaching.

I was, all of a sudden, acutely aware of the fact that I stank of sweat, powder, and blood, in roughly that order, that various parts of my coat were in tatters and my boots hadn’t seen polish since before the war, and that I was, overall, not making a terribly good impression. It was a mercy when Major von Staffen dropped to one knee and I followed. It took my weight off my suddenly-treacherous legs.

Another suddenly-treacherous part of my mind quipped that I had been less afraid to charge a melee of things not of this world than to face my queen, but I ground that down as soon as it popped up. The last thing I needed to do was nervous-giggle; aside from the fact that I should be personally mortified and wish to charge back outside blade in hand to seek absolution in battle or die trying, it would hardly be a good reflection on Her Majesty’s armed forces.

It felt like an hour passed kneeling there, sweat beading on my brow and uncomfortably concerned that my knee was leaving a stain on the carpet that would surely not wash out, before the queen addressed the major.

“So this is the one you and Oberst von Weider selected, Major?” She said. Her voice was refined and graceful, but oddly uninflected.

“Yes, your Majesty,” Major von Staffen replied, not looking up.

“Very well. Gefreiter, what is your name?”

I stammered for a moment before collecting myself. “Friedrich Schreiner, your Majesty.”

“Attend us, Gefreiter Schreiner.” I looked up to see the queen leaning forward on her throne, staring at me as though looking straight into my soul, or possibly beyond. I once again felt very, very small.

“We have decided our son the prince should make a diplomatic visit to Szekerya. As it is necessary this be undertaken quietly, we have determined that you will escort him and ensure his safety.”