In the backyard of a dilapidated church, dozens of ragged beggars sat on the ground, hugging their knees, their eyes fixed lifelessly on the ashen walls before them.
The kind-hearted soldiers extended some semblance of hospitality to Eleanor; not only was she allowed a decent meal and a cup of hot water, but in their generosity, they threw her a set of old hemp clothing—a layer worn under the guards' armor. Although no heavy armor was provided, the oversized hemp garment hung on Eleanor comically, looking for all the world like she was draped in a bedsheet. Her arrival prompted a rare burst of laughter from the listless beggars.
A soldier approached a middle-aged officer and saluted, "Report, Captain. We've assembled the quota of fifty. Shall we proceed with the next step?"
"Do it," the captain said with an icy gaze that swept over the gathered lot, betraying not a hint of emotion on his stern face.
And so, Eleanor was set on the westward journey she desired, albeit in an unfathomable guise.
The emaciated beggars and lowly folks traveled slowly, additionally burdened with learning a script they were to recite with conviction if questioned: that they were elite reserve troops from the Eastern Province, come to support some noble or other (Eleanor forgot who) in a victorious cause.
Day by day, this haphazard band of fifty inched westward. The soldiers must have been well funded, for they procured uniform supplies at every town, intent on disguising their pathetic contingent as a bona fide battalion.
About ten days later, they reached the Eastern frontier and successfully rendezvoused with the main force. Once all five thousand souls came together, they were escorted by a genuine reserve army unit straight to the battlefield.
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The acrid scent of char invaded Eleanor's nostrils, wrenching her from stupor. Lying amidst furrows scarred into the earth, she frantically checked her body for wounds. Finding none, she breathed a sigh of relief; she had survived another day.
The grim battle had raged for seven days, of which she had seen only two. The kingdom's troops assaulted, rebels fortified the city; everyone fulfilled their roles methodically.
Looking back, Eleanor felt, regardless of choice, death seemed certain.
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The two days before joining the main army were her happiest; the commander seemed all too eager to believe their ruse, issuing them full supplies and requiring only that their infirm band hammer stakes and erect fences for food.
Then, the horrendous conflict began, the no-man's land between the army's camp and the rebels' walls turning into a butcher's block, strewn with flesh and blood.
All ranks did their duty, even General Erwin exchanging blows several times with the rebel dukes. Eleanor vividly remembered a time when an invisible wind blade nearly decapitated her, leaving a trench in the earth; the aftermath as glaring as the cleaver's mark on bone.
Innumerable assaults by the officers were repelled by the city's defenders, and news spread through the camp: the enemy allegedly possessed new magic weapons capable of piercing through men effortlessly.
At first, many deemed it an exaggeration. Yet, the presence of soldiers with inexplicable wounds, wailing accusations of the enemy's advanced weaponry, cast a pall of dread across the camp.
The unrest did not escape the officers' attention. In response, General Milton or some such figure conducted an extensive and drawn-out sermon that brought many wounded from the brink, revitalized the mildly injured, and calmed the soldiers' nerves. Order returned to the encampment.
Days passed, and losses mounted on both sides. Some of the weak and elderly conscripts from the East had been dispatched to the front lines, never to return. Meanwhile, the rebels had eked out an advantage, fortifying their position with trenches beneath the battlements, their renowned firearms raining iron shot upon the advancing forces.
After days on edge, it was Eleanor's turn; her group was chosen.
A battered leather cuirass was thrown at her by the quartermaster. Considering her age and stature, she received only the upper piece. It featured two ominous holes—one in the chest and one in the back—stained at the edges with the former owner's blood.
It seemed a grim prelude to Eleanor's fate.
"What's the use? It's practically worthless," Eleanor muttered indignantly.
"It offers some warmth, at least," came a hoarse reply.
Eleanor turned to see an elderly beggar from her group, who added with a weak smile, "You can charge behind me; maybe the odds of survival will be better."
Armed now with a chipped blade, Eleanor returned to her tent in low spirits.
The mood inside the tent matched the sinking sun—everyone there knew this could be their last night.
Sleep eluded them and, at dawn, they were roused by the supervisors, driven to the camp's entrance like sheep to slaughter.
Milton stood on a raised platform, flanked by two robed clerics.
Moments later, the trio began their prayer. Their words were crisp and their rhythm soared. Eleanor felt her trembling subside, her courage swelled; foes no longer seemed fearsome, and she was invigorated as in her prime.
Their prayer concluded, the assembly below processed their bolstered condition, steeling themselves for what was to come.
"Soldiers!" Milton spread his arms wide upon the platform, his eyes skyward, "March forth! Fight for the kingdom, and offer assured victory to the great, merciful, sole Goddess of Victory!"