Last Charge

A breeze blew in from the west. Caressing tall grass like a lover's hand, it came with the sweet scent of autumn's final harvest, with a whiff of distant homes and the promise of a warm hearth to return to.

It broke against steel backplates and stirred banners and pennants. Here, a red lion on a white field flapped in the breeze. There, a white skull on black. To Crosar Andrasis, it was a miserable thing for bringing its sweetness and reminding the men of their families. Beside him, Hijel grunted what sounded like an agreement to Crosar's unspoken thoughts. Years of campaigning together meant Hijel knew enough of him to know how he felt before battle. Crosar raised his visor and spared a glance for his scarred friend, who merely nodded.

A horse snorted, and Crosar trotted his own forward: the one man before the entire line, and rightfully so, as their leader. He turned to face his men, his bluff, confident face bare to every man to see as he swept his gaze up and down the line. From the heavily armoured cavalrymen before him to the mass of foot soldiers further down, he saw nothing but determination. Perhaps that brief reminder of home told the men of what was at stake better than he could. No matter, now, he thought as he removed his helmet.

'Attend!' he called as he trotted his horse down the line, faces blurring past as they turned to watch him. Determination here, in a leathery old farmer's face as he gripped a spear and shield, and there, where a smooth-cheeked young man gaped up from below a battered helm, probably his father's. Resplendent in plate armour and imposing on his black charger, Crosar was the very image of a leader to them, and they gave him their attention.

'We stand here as one, my brothers!' he began. 'For our homes, we stand before the monster of oppression! For our wives and children, we stand defiant against the wicked Empire! Once, they stole our lands and put our fathers to the sword. Never did they take our pride or the courage in our hearts!'

He paused there as the men before him cheered, raising gloved or gauntleted fists into the air and beating spear shafts against shields. He raised his own hands, and they fell silent.

'We drove them out, but the vile Empire is relentless. It has been many centuries, my brothers, since we cast off the chains of servitude and won our freedom, yet still they return to bring us under their yoke once more. Remember, my brothers, the burned temple of Andur! Remember well the stolen children of Dol Garath! I say to you, my brothers, never again shall they take our freedom, and never again shall they squeeze our lands and rob our fields while their own paupers live as kings!'

When the men quieted once more, Crosar continued, 'We are the shield! We are the rock upon which their waves shall falter! While one of us yet lives, none shall take Amardia!'

*

The cheering in the distance was but a dull roar here, where Lord Berendyl Reza sat with his advisors as messengers trotted in and out of the tent carrying orders. The tent itself was sparsely furnished, hardly one befitting a man of Berendyl's rank, but to him, that did not matter.

'I still don't see why we're even giving them battle here, Berendyl,' Fendayn repeated himself. A man of advancing years, Fendayn was a sharp, intelligent man whom Berendyl trusted to make all the right decisions. Now, he was becoming tiresome.

'We have to make an example, Fendayn,' Berendyl replied wearily. 'If we do not, then how many more upstart lords will raise their petty armies and try to reassert their independence?'

'Be reasonable, Berendyl! Battle would simply be a needless waste of life here! Better that we send emissaries to negotiate with this Andrasis fellow rather than wasting Dramaskan blood on these backward people.'

'They are stubborn, Fendayn, and you know it,' Berendyl told his friend as he handed a packet of orders to a messenger. 'Look at them! They're still wearing armour and waving their spears like savages! If the might of the Empire will yield to even these people, then where does our pride go? What is the point of having the finest armies in the world if we are not willing to fight a rag-tag assortment of rebels and peasants?'

Fendayn raised his hands to concede. 'Fine. Have it your way, Berendyl. What do our colleagues have to say?' He directed the question to the other three around the table, who had been studiously paying attention to everything but the dialogue up until they were addressed.

'My Lord,' one began, 'We may wish to move some of our reserves closer to the southern flank...'

*

Crosar pulled his sword from its sheath and waved it in the golden light of the morning sun, cutting imaginary foes out of the chilly air. 'Let there be no mercy for prisoners, for the Empire will not treat us with dignity! Let us fight with all our hearts, brothers, for if we fall, the wicked men of the Empire will not hesitate to desecrate our bodies and deny us the blessing of Koroon's embrace in the afterlife! We are the bulwark against their oppression! We are the sword of the gods, charged with the death of the decadent, heathen Empire!'

As the men cheered, Crosar returned his sword to its sheath and returned to his place with the cavalry, replacing his helmet and taking his lance from Hijel. 'Now, we ride, my brothers! Ride to victory, to glory and freedom!'

He knew those at the far end of the line would not hear him. Thousands of men would not have heard those words, but thousands more would have seen their noble leaders trotting their horses forward. Sunlight flared off burnished steel as the horsemen rode forth, and following their example came the footmen, spears raised and shields steady. Thunder rumbled through the earth in their passing.

Crosar held his lance perfectly still, fearless as he led his men over the last ridge they would have to crest before the Imperial army came into view. The breeze from the west picked up again, and their banners fluttered. Men would die, he knew that. He was sure, though, that many more would later return home to loving families and a good harvest.

*

'Enemies in sight, sir,' a messenger reported as a distant thunder was heard in Lord Berendyl's command tent.

Without any sign of agitation, the assembled commanders took their leave of Berendyl and made their way to where their men awaited their orders. Berendyl called to Fendayn just as the older man was at the tent flap. 'Fendayn,' he said, 'I doubt very much that there will be much Dramaskan blood spilled today, if at all.'

'One would hope,' was the curt reply, 'but it never does to underestimate one's enemies. The Amardians may be backward savages, but they believe their gods guide them in this. One would be surprised at how such faith emboldens men and gives them greater strength than one expects.'

Berendyl said nothing as Fendayn left. Holding down the corners of the maps before him were cups and ceremonial daggers, but one was held in place by a small figurine of a woman holding a child: his wife, holding his son. A gift from the Emperor, himself. He very much wished to be home before the winter to see his family, and a very good harvest, from what their letters said. Giving the figurine and the maps one last look, he stood and made his way out of the tent.

He had a battle to fight.

*

A golden eagle on a field of black was the first thing Crosar saw as he topped the rise. The Imperial banner flew brazenly above the lines of men below it, a great, hateful symbol of tyranny and oppression. There, golden light flared off steel as well, though instead of armour, it glinted off musket barrels.

In all his campaigns, Crosar Andrasis had only truly encountered the fearsome Dramaskan Musketeers twice, and both times had cost him dearly. Hijel bore marks from one of those confrontations, and they were only part of the few who survived them.

Now, though, the gods favoured them. The omens had been favourable when they rode to this battle, and the gods shielded them from harm. Somewhere in the ranks of cavalrymen, someone raised their voice in a hymn to the Death God, Koroon, to be joined by other men in short order. No, not even the Empire's technology would save them this day.

'Earth's sweet embrace, we welcome you...'

Against courage and faith, what could prevail? Nothing, thought Crosar, as he lowered his lance, the other horsemen following his example. What good would heathen weapons be against their shield of piety and the stout plates of their armour, engraved with prayers? Beneath hooves and mighty steel, the oppressors would be trampled and crushed.

'Brothers, for glory! Charge!'

*

It was the slow, thundering sound of horses charging that started the battle. Berendyl shouted, and his men raised their weapons to their shoulders, rank upon disciplined rank ready to open fire as soon the order was given. Each black-coated rank would shoot and then retreat to reload, while the next would do the same. Their weapons would spew a vicious, uncompromising storm of lead that would spell death for any man caught within it.

Above the thunder of hooves and feet, Berendyl could hear singing. Singing! The savages actually believed their gods would protect them here, in the face of vast technological superiority!

The Amardian line was a rolling wall of steel and flesh as the charge reached full speed. Their cavalry would smash into the Dramaskan line, hopefully holding until their infantry could arrive and exact a toll of blood with sheer numbers. Berendyl did not intend to give them that chance.

'On my order...'

He heard locks clicking and the shrill whine of Drystar propellant as it primed itself for firing, and saw the blue glow of the powder reflected off musket barrels.

He heard the other commanders readying their men, and the sound of priming Drystar rose in a crescendo as the Amardians slowly approached. To think that they would engage in perfect visibility, in terrain that gave them no cover. They truly were stubborn. One would think that after many encounters with Dramaskan muskets, they would learn...

No matter, thought Berendyl. Better them than me.

'Fire!'

*

The first shots pounded into steel, and Crosar found himself reeling as the impact of a lead bullet rang against his armour. At this range, the Dramaskans' muskets would not penetrate good plate, but the noise was already unnerving. The lines below the heathen black and gold banners were ablaze with blue fire and roaring with the sound of thousands of wine glasses shattering as volley upon volley of shot pounded the Amardian line. Crosar could hear horses screaming as shots found exposed flesh, and men further along the line wailing in agony as they fell.

They were adamant, though, and even as men fell around them, they spurred their horses on, and men urged their fellows to run faster.

Lances couched, Crosar and his cavalry would reach the Dramaskan line first, and there they would reap Koroon's bloody harvest.

*

Berendyl saw musket fire rip through the Amardian line. His ears rang with the sound of weapon discharges around him, and again and again he gave the order for the next rank to fire and withdraw. Wooden shields and simple armour did nothing to help the Amardian infantry here, and they were being mowed down rank after rank.

Towards the south, he saw the shining mass of steel that identified the Amardian cavalry. Arrogance given flesh, he knew. They would flaunt their presence with their polished breastplates and bright pennants, to tell everyone else how much better bred they were. Fendayn's musketeers were scything bloody gashes into their lines there, too, though they were relentless and closing in fast. Berendyl hoped that Fendayn had enough sense to order his men to fix bayonets soon.

Not for the first time in his career, he wished for some field guns to quicken the bloody work, for they, at least, would hasten the inevitable break in morale that would force the enemy to retreat. Very few men would press the attack when they were losing vast numbers before even reaching their foes. Still, wishes like those rarely, if ever granted in the midst of battle.

There were a lot of Amardians. No matter how many his men would shoot, they would keep coming. That was their advantage here, because the musket would count for precious little when the battle eventually came to swords and spears. He regretted not arriving earlier and overseeing the construction of field defenses. Even a hastily erected forest of sharpened stakes would do wonders for funneling men into confined spaces.

No matter. It would be over, soon.

*

Crosar was one of the first to reach the Dramaskan line. For much of the last stretch of ground, men were dying around him. Where at extreme range, shot merely glanced off armour, closer in, it sheared through steel and flesh like foul sorcery, and the sheer amount of it ripped through his cavalry. Still, if he won here, their lives would not have been given in vain. If his cavalry could take this end of the Dramaskan line, he could ride up their flank with impunity, and crush them between horses and infantry.

He heard a shouted order from the Dramaskan officer as he approached, and men were fixing bayonets even as his cavalry smashed into them, lances punching through unarmoured chests and horses biting and trampling. Lances spent, Crosar and his cavalry drew broadswords and began their bloody work, fending off stabbing bayonets and carving crimson swathes through the black-coated musketeers around them. Here and there, a horse screamed and a rider killed by the fall or by men who swarmed over him.

Amardians were some of the finest warriors in the world, and little could stop them here. Eventually, these men would break, and victory would be theirs. Already, he could see some musketeers fleeing the carnage, only to be shot in the back by their officers or their comrades.

Yes, thought Crosar, this was the bloody path to continued freedom.

*

'Fix bayonets!' called Berendyl as the Amardian infantry drew closer. With their numbers depleted by the musketeers' withering fire, it was unlikely that they would pose much of a threat, if at all, even if they came too close for musket fire. 'Brace!' he ordered, and his men closed ranks and formed up, here and there firing last shots as the Amardian infantry came in. He himself drew his sword.

In the space of moments, the orderly line of his musketeers broke into a jabbing, thrusting mass as the Amardian savages pounded into his position, desperate and looking to avenge their fallen. Spears found their way into musketeers' guts and swords and axes took the place of broken shafts. The musketeers, for their part, knew how to act in these circumstances, and they used their weapons with discipline, if not with the same strength and expertise as the Amardians used theirs.

A brief break in the line sent three Amardians running at Berendyl, their shields discarded and with short swords in hand. One was gutted from behind as he raised his sword to attack, while Berendyl fended off blows from the other two. He had no illusions of his own ability as a swordsman, and he knew that without assistance, he would be overcome by just these two men. There would be no help from his musketeers, for they were engaged in brutal hand-to-hand combat of their own. He dodged and thrust, parried and retreated. His sword was not made for hacking as theirs were, though it gave him the advantage of reach, such as that was with two men pressing the attack. Seeing an advantage, he made his own attack, taking one of the men in the ribs. The other almost put his sword in Berendyl's gut until one of the musketeers thrust a bayonet into his head from behind, before shortly being cut down by another Amardian, whom Berendyl eviscerated with a solid thrust.

It was over so quickly. All around him were dead and dying, most of them Amardians, but with enough Dramaskan bodies to tell him of the cost in blood. Elsewhere down the line, the fighting was likewise slowing down as the last of the Amardians were shot or bayoneted as they struggled to fight. Still others were fleeing back the way they came.

Fendayn's men, however, were still struggling against the cavalry. Nearly all dismounted by now, they still fought viciously, and there was little that bayonets could do against their armour, especially so close where the musket's size was a liability. With Fendayn's men dying one by one and the prospect of sending more men in with bayonets utterly futile, Berendyl knew what to do. He had done this plenty of times, but never with a friend in the battle.

*

Crosar fought with the fury of the gods. His sword carved off limbs and spilled the blood of the wicked Imperial men, and he knew that his brothers were winning the fight here. There were precious few of the Imperials left standing, and though he could not see how the remainder of the battle was faring, he was preparing to order his men to move up the line and smash the Dramaskans.

Soon, there were only a few men left: a handful of musketeers and their commander, an ageing man firing his pistol indiscriminately into Crosar's men, while his last troops tried to hold off the Amardians' furious swords.

Then, Crosar knew it was over. All around the dwindling mêlée were men in black coats, muskets levelled with little care for their own men in the middle.

Like cornered beasts, the Amardian noblemen raised their swords into the air, and screaming prayers of death and battle, charged as one at the circle of Dramaskans.

Crosar doubted that he would return to see the harvest.

*

Berendyl wanted to tell Fendayn he was sorry for not listening. There were a lot of men on the ground who would not be returning to their homes, and the bitter irony was that Fendayn would soon be one of them. The older man understood, of course, because he held his ground even as he saw the Dramaskans forming the circle. He could have pulled his men out, but he knew they were the only ones keeping the Amardians in place. For all their vaunted skill and experience in battle, Berendyl found it strange that they never understood the value of not having one's vision restricted by a helmet. Surely other men would just lay down their arms and surrender, but he knew that was not the way of these backward savages.

When they turned and charged, screaming their prayers, Berendyl had no choice but to order all the musketeers to fire. Where bayonets failed against plate armour, lead shot prevailed and holes blossomed in steel, blood and gore fountaining forth like so much nectar.

*

The breeze that blew from the west carried with it the stench of blood. There was nothing sweet in it here, where it touched the tall grass like the callous hands of death itself, bringing with it a miasma of sorrow and reminders of men who would never come home.