1710 HOURS.
SUNDAY, 28 AUTUMNSUS 1441.
BISHMARK, YONDEL.
Just at the end of his office, twenty meters away, Knight Master Gideon Papuan heard the large wooden door open slowly. He remained sitting at his desk as four individuals, three of them being hidden behind tan cloaks, entered the room in a tight-knit formation. They were professionals.
Checking the half-written letter just in front of him, Master Gideon lowered his quill. Those before him were the speculated reinforcements that the king had allocated to his city. They looked to be fighters—although their secretive nature didn’t paint them as such. However, he saw something—these bastards seemed used to the overly warm room and the uncomforting face he gave them. He could tell that their composures were under control, and if anyone attempted to strike them down, they would only be met by a swift and merciless death. Master Gideon had been on the battlefield long enough to know that these men were hardened soldiers; much like the men he commanded they would face down the Reaper without a second thought.
To the rear of the group, he spotted someone that stood out amongst the pale faces and masked expressions, he could remember seeing such a face when he was knighted. The “Chieftain”, Princess Leccamaradel’s rank, was one that grew great controversy. Why would a princess, one that went through the military academy, forgo the decision to be knighted and refuse a commission from the military? She grew great frustration and ire form those in the Royal Court—the government, and she had decided to become just a normal soldier within the ranks. Her very birthright was to be of high military and social status, so it made no logical sense for her to restrict her freedom as an officer and as a princess. Perhaps that’s why she was the black sheep of the family, someone that no one could get along with…
There was something that caught his attention, the people that stood in front of her. Who are they? Gideon wondered. They dressed unlike any warrior he had ever seen, and the way they held themselves reminded him of the proto-typical soldier he had come across in his duties. Yet, they held an aura of professionalism despite the grunt tendencies to parlay and cause havoc. Standing up from his chair, the knight master would take the time to understand who exactly the king had sent to his aid.
1730 HOURS
BISHMARK OUTSKIRTS, YONDEL.
Knight Marco Politer focused his mind that was stuck in a hazy cloud. It was as if he was stuck out of time, and just for a moment he felt as if he were unable to control his body, like he was nothing more than a soul detached. However, he was able to regain control by taking the short moment to focus his thoughts and decide what he needed to do next. Looking over his shoulder he saw the familiar faces that were the soldiers under his command—he was given this responsibility to watch them. Everything he had learned within the military academy had led up to this moment, and soon enough all eyes would be placed on him. It was an evaluation, though just an abnormal one.
Just over the oil-slick, pink, and orange horizon of the late afternoon sun, he gazed upon the coast of the ocean. The salty waters slowly touched the beach and skimming over the surface, birds with white and black feathers followed the endless line as they searched for their next meal. It was hard to believe that he was stationed here, in the Crown Jewel. Many officers fought for the billets that would either place them in the capital or Bishmark, and by mere chance he was assigned here when he fully expected to be deployed to the eastern border where all unwanted officers would be deployed to simply die off within conflicts with raiders. Taking a breath of the salty air, he was reminded of his good fortune. For the time he would serve as a field officer until he was recalled for his experience and training in communications, but for now, keeping his nose clean and performing perfectly was all he could do. There was little leeway for a junior knight like him, and the last thing he wanted to do was piss off the wrong officer and be dismissed form the army.
Rubbing his hand over the hilt of his sword, he took a quiet breath. It’s almost time, right?
He was here on the orders of his division commander. In cooperation with the 5th Garrison Guard, a sub-unit of the army under the territorial guard, over 200 knights, and 1,000 soldiers began to set up defensive formation along the north-eastern border to Bishmark. His unit was tasked with organizing a rear-echelon unit just in front of the walls protecting the city. They were to organize future Royal Guard reinforcements and guide them to the second stage positions. Everyone was gathered due to the nature of the city, and the most recent sighing reports of bandits, monsters, and demons from the 12th Mountaineering Corps. Originally the Corps was tasked with surveying the mountains and hills to the south, yet they were caught in scattered engagements forcing them to set up shop and delaying the time they could respond to the threat and send out warning messages. The 5th Guard was comprised of conscripts and poorly trained volunteers. The Corps was needed as the RGs could barely make a difference. He could only hope that the report was incorrect and that reinforcements would arrive soon to provide relief for the men on the front lines.
Narrowing his eyes, Marco focused on a sudden flashing of orange lights on the other side of the vast clear fields. He spotted men from the guard walking along their defenses, but more and more lights emerged from the forest line putting him on edge and making his heart rate increase rapidly. In the next three seconds the men at their positions began to sprint from cover as small and large dust clouds were kicked up from the ground. His breath went cold upon hearing the roar from the clouds. The men on the ground scrambled for cover, and those around him froze in place as they all watched their brothers-in-arms fall to the ground, many of them losing their limbs in the process.
“Hey, is that a whistle?” One of the nearby soldiers said aloud as he looked towards the darkening sky.
What? Giving in to his curiosity and looking up, Marco held his breath. Indeed, a faint whistle played. It was short. Too short.
“Nah man, nothing but the wind—”
A bright flash emerged above the men. Shards of light rain down upon the two: in that same instance, a thunderous roar deafened all those around. Blood was splattered onto the ground, along with shards of bone and body matter. The still intact corpses of the soldiers slumped to the ground. Just in a single second they were killed. And now, the same thing was happening to small groups scattered throughout the echelon line.
“Get to the front line!”
“What did you say?”
“Move your ass!”
Heavy breaths escaped from Marco’s mouth as he slammed his hands into the dirt. He had managed to huddle behind a makeshift barricade along with 50 other soldiers. It must be a magic spell! Marco internally screamed as he rose from the ground to the claps of more explosions. Placing his hand to the hilt of his sword, the knight drew it as a warm, crimson liquid dripped down from the left side of his head. The contingent of soldiers watched as he stepped ahead as he raised the silver bladed weapon towards the open field ahead.
“The enemy is ahead! Stay alive for the king!” His voice croaked as he boomed his order. His senses were focused on the enemy ahead, the ones that stood tall amongst his brother’s unmoving bodies.
“Damn Juna! Stay behind cover! Come back and get healed!” From the group of soldiers that were now standing, two officers emerged: one Acolyte Anne Rena and Knight Eugene Fritz. Both were academy graduates like himself.
“Stay behind cover. Stay alive for the King!” One of the three knights apart of the group, Marco Politer shouted as he focused on the maimed man.
“Heal him and get back here!” The second knight Anne Rena screamed as another wave of bolts of fire slammed into a large collection of rocks she hid behind. The embers spread to the barren ground just behind her. He ignored her order. Even if she was a healer, his command authority superseded her own as he still stood. He was the only one out of the three that had any combat experience, and he was labeled as ‘decorated’ amongst his peers. He would need to utilize both to defend his home; Anne was a healer, and Eugene was a sharpshot with the longbow on his back.
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The acolyte remained just behind him as she tended to one of the surviving soldiers who had a large gash on his right arm, no doubt caused by the debris that was thrown around during the explosions. On his right, Eugene withdrew his bow. He was ready for combat. Focusing on the front, his pupils dilated as he stared at the shadows that walked across the open fields. The fiery sunlight burned their silhouettes into his eyes and his heart pumped with heavy might as he took his first step ahead towards the enemy.
Walking ahead, his weapon was held tightly in his hands as the 50 soldiers that had survived rushed ahead of him not wanting to let him be the first one to take a life.
A second round of flashes emerged from the tree line. This time Marco could see the vapor trail that was left behind as the projectiles flew at impossible speeds. Snapping back to reality, Marco spotted a young boy, no older than thirteen sprinting ahead to a small collection of craters and destroyed wooden carriages. “Kid, wait!” He cried out, extending his arm towards the boy that had become frozen in place to the call of his voice.
Another rain of light shards fell from directly above the boy. Following in its path, a shockwave of wooden shards and a cloud of dirt obscured the air, and all Marco could hear was his screams that shook his body and burned his throat. The high temperature fireball that was created by the spell that was used was unlike any other he had ever seen before. Just right of the explosion, three soldiers fell to the ground as shard of debris ripped through their bodies; their blood coated the ground below and all Marco could smell was that of blood, iron, and burnt flesh.
“We need to push forward!” A soldier yelled out to the officers. “There fire is slowing! Now’s our chance for a counterattack!”
“No! Wait!” Eugene screeched as his soldiers moved forward under the bleeding skies.
The soldier didn’t take another step as a ball of fire, blood, and mud flew into the air.
Marco felt his grip weaken. He tried to sharpen himself for combat as he stood in the middle of the field, trying to find the strength to march ahead. Nine seconds was all it took for five plus men to die, and now their death replayed in his mind like and endless, forsaken symphony. Mud and wind flushed against his uniform, and the cries of his brothers-in-arms echoed in his mind. Somehow taking a heavy step forward, his heart pounded against his chest, and his head grew light as he pushed forward with his remaining might to the soldiers that were still trying to push forward no less than twenty meters ahead of him and the other two officers. The salty air made his mouth water and his eyes sting as another one of his soldiers under his immediate command collapsed to the ground with an arrow sticking out of his neck.
An arrow? He pondered for just a second.
Planting his foot incorrectly, Marco face planted into the mud. Recovering swiftly, he wiped the dirt from his face as he watched another group of four soldiers run forward under the fire of short-range magic spells and arrows. Two were killed, and the third stumbled in place as he tried to retain his life with the cavity from an arrow that had passed through his chest spreading bone and flesh out the exit wound.
Again, and again.
Standing just next to a small rock pile where a body lay, mutilated, Marco remained still as a sharp pain passed through his left leg and blood shot onto the rocks. He remained still. Am I injured? He turned his head downwards, his eyes scanning across the torn fabric that was burned at the ends. He could feel the blood streaming down his skin, and his mouth turned cotton dry as his hand gently clasped together putting an immense amount of pressure on the hilt of his short sword.
Looking to the darkened sky, he was finally able to see the projectiles clearly: red, black, and orange bolts. Those colors caused all this chaos, all this death. And they exploded above his men turning them into nothing but dust, liquid, and bone. Perhaps those that were hit directly were lucky. Perhaps they felt no pain during their deaths.
“Devil!”
Snapping his head up, Marco forced out a cough as he felt a sudden pressure on his abdomen. As laid on the ground his body began to shake as he saw a man with a pike about to pierce his stomach. Thousands of thoughts ran through his head: Why was he being attacked by a human? Why did the man call him ‘Devil’? Was he about to die?
Before the man could lunge forward, Eugene rushed forward and pierced his sword through the heart of the man killing him instantly.
“Marco!” Eugene shouted as he pulled the blade out from the man’s body, letting him fall to the ground like a sack of rice.
Marco understood what had just happened. He was frozen, and it was none other than the longer ranged bowman that had controlled the situation. Gently letting his muscles relax ever so slightly, he opened his eyes wide and saw that Eugene and Anne had taken control and that they were more equipped for such a fight, not himself.
“You lunatic!” Anne said as she walked up to him surveying the wound with sharpened eyes. He watched as her fingers traced the black crimson of the wool that was stained with blood. His body had stopped shaking, and now in tune with his body and mind, he could feel the gentle pressure of the acolyte grabbing his arm and gently guiding him to the ground. Seconds later she returned to probing the wound trying to determine if he would make it out alive. It wasn’t gentle. She withdrew a small handkerchief from her satchel and pressed it into the wound eliciting a groan from Marco.
“That doesn’t look right,” Eugene said as he stood above them scanning the open field for any other hostiles that dared to attack them. Looking over his right soldier, the knight’s eyes widened as he saw a flood of soldiers sprinting ahead, their guidon shined in the last rays of sunlight proudly displaying the nation’s flag.
“What’s happening?” Anne said as he looked towards the friendly forces pushing the hostile attackers near the opposite side of the battlefield.
“Reinforcements from the 12th Mountaineering Corps along with specialists from the Royal Guard have arrived!” a sold screamed as he rushed ahead with the guidon in his hands.
“They are our saviors?” Marco questioned as he stared at the collection of bodies right in front of him.
“It would’ve been worse if they didn’t come!” Eugene said trying to examine the “specialists” in the distance. “They’re the professionals. After all, people running with the Royal Guard is something not to be trifled with.”
Turning his head back, Marco spotted a group of nine rapidly approaching their position with a squadron’s worth of Royal Guardsmen surrounding them. The ones leading the way wore unfamiliar combat garb with multi-colored clothing, helmets, and solid colored gear concealed below tan cloaks. They moved in a swift manner but left no opening for attack as their unfamiliar weapons remained trained on the nearby environment scanning each body they came across. Reaching their location, the guardsmen moved ahead, while the strangers formed a tight perimeter around the three officers. The one to approach them was a light-skinned male and he knelt at a respectable distance.
“Are you all okay?” He shouted motioning for a man and woman behind him to move forward with a single hand. With no response, he looked directly into their eyes. “Shell shocked! Sergeant Malkovich, you got first aid. Guy on the ground as a laceration on his leg!”
“Rog.” The darker skinned man said as withdrawn a multi-colored satchel from his belt.
“Chieftain, Mike! Take care of the other two!” The man boomed as he moved with the Malkovich separating Anne and Eugene from the injured Marco.
“Who are you people?” Eugene asked.
Reaching out with a hand, the person that had reached out to the knight removed the hood of her cloak; her silver hair shined in the silver moonlight and her brown eyes shined, “I’m Chieftain Airish, commanding officer of these Holy Knights.” She said in a calm, reassuring voice that sounded like a bell. “You will get out of here alive.”
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Publicly Available Information: Jonah Simon’s Journal Entry #13:
I don’t know who will read this, but it is important that these words get written down.
My name is Jonas Simon, I’m a Private First Class, and I am a part of the United States Army 75th Ranger Regiment. Well, perhaps I should retract that last statement. Though I am still a Ranger, I am no longer on Earth. The place I am in is known as the “Kingdom of Yondel” on an unknown planet. This place is unlike Earth. Everything seems to be flipped on its head; magic exists, science is a mere afterthought, the world is like a medieval show, and things I don’t know how to describe, just, exist.
It was during our mission in Pakistan. The mission to eliminate a gunrunner in Peshawar went sideways. Not only did the strike team comprised of Delta operators and Pakistani SSG got killed in combat, but two of our own, Jackson and Ramirez were also killed in action. During our escape from the city, communications were subsequently eliminated, and a full spectrum blackout prevented us from contacting any friendly coalition forces. Not only did this prevent us from calling in a MEDIVAC or CASEVAC, but we couldn’t get a ride out.
I lied, we did get a ride, just not to a place I ever wanted to be.
Either way the current situation my and the others are in is not good. What looks to be a whole fucking army waiting to strike the city were in, Bishmark, is preventing us from leaving this fucking country. The only reason why I am writing is due to the Princess. (She seems to be fond of a certain someone, I wish him luck.) She’s coordinating a response team with two other units outside of the city, but I fear it won’t be enough to mitigate damage to the city.
My hope is that I live long enough to burn this journal, but I would still be opened minded to someone reading it if I get killed in the future.
Well… I don’t have any more words for now.
I love you Cassidy, take care of dad for me, okay?