The feeble morning sun cast a faint white light upon the battlefield. Soldiers clad in dirty mail and beaten plate lined the dilapidated walls of the fortress.

Across from them, just creeping over the horizon, was a black mass. A conglomerate of helms, shields, and spears. At just over five hundred in number, the Khods were coming to annihilate Dagridge.

Malt stood at that wall as well, clutching his spear with one hand and the hem of his gambeson with the other. Despite the near freezing temperature, a bead of sweat rolled down his face.

Henry had offered him a drink to soothe his nerves earlier, but he found that it was too difficult to even swallow. All he could do was sit and watch as doom approached.

It was eerily quiet. The soldiers didn’t dare to speak, their voices would most likely just get stuck in their throats. The only sound that echoed about were the caws of crows which were waiting in anticipation, knowing that they’d be guaranteed a meal by sunset.

All the soldiers more or less shared the same expression. Fear, hopelessness, and nervousness. There were very few exceptions, Geld and Stromund being among two of them.

Having faced countless battles, Stromund was acting as the centerpiece, situated on the section of wall just above the main gate. His face was solemn, unyielding, confident.

Geld had his signature grin plastered across his face. He stroked the handle of his scimitar eagerly. He was clearly excited to fight, evident by the fact that he was standing right behind that gate. The moment the Khods inevitably broke through, they’d be met with a relentless barrage of blades.

Alyss, being a healer, stayed behind in a makeshift field hospital to the rear.

Henry stood beside Malt. Although he had seen battle once before, this was on a whole nother scale. The only saving grace was that their roles were relatively insignificant.

They were to lob stones down onto the enemy, then join the melee once the gates were breached. Easier said than done.

Henry gulped, albeit after a few seconds of struggle.

“H-hey Malt. You ever seen anything like this back in your old world?”

It was a generic question, but it did well to ease the boy’s nerves.

“Nope, not in person at least. I have seen it in shows though.”

“Shows?”

“Well, there's these machines that use lightning to make moving pictures. It’s the main source of entertainment over there.”

“I see...you’ll have to tell me more about it once this is over, yeah?”

Malt’s lips tugged into a slight smile, “You bet.”

The Khods crept ever so closer. They suddenly halted just out of arrow firing range, which was about two hundred yards away. At that point they began organizing their formation. Most of them had shields, those that didn’t stand at the rear. Those that did raised them above their heads, crouching as to try to cover as much of the body as possible.

At this point, the soldiers began notching their arrows, the ones at the wall began hoisting the hefty rocks up and onto the ledge. There was a physical pressure in the air. A pressure that made it hard to move, hard to even breathe.

Suddenly, Stromund’s strong voice pierced the air.

“Stand straight, men!”

All eyes were on him now.

“I will not sugarcoat it, this battle will be brutal. Even more so than the ones before it. Many of you will not make it home to see your families.”

The already dire mood worsened. Soldier’s eyes became downcast, the life seeping from their beaten bodies.

“But let me tell you this. The fate of Astoundria lies in our hands! Every place you’ve been to, every person you know. Everyone you love and everyone you hate, their lives lie behind this keep.”

The soldier’s eyes were brought up.

“We stand on the precipice of history. How well you fight in this battle will determine the lives of millions. Will you stand there, dispirited and wild eyed as the enemy comes to take your lives? How about the lives of your loved one’s behind you?”

The soldier’s once unmotivated expressions hardened. The nervousness all but dispelled from their eyes. What remained wasn’t hope. It was determination.

One voice, alone but powerful, yelled from the crowd, “No!”

The soldiers around started yelling as well.

“No!”

“Why would we!?”

“Fuck that!”

The yelling quickly grew louder until everyone was yelling into the air, venting their fear and frustration into the skies. The soldiers were emboldened and eager to fight. They clutched their weapons, ready to battle, ready to kill.

Stromund raised his fist into the air, “Then this is where we fight! This is where we die!”

The soldiers shot their fists into the air hollering.

Before the effects of his speech wore off, Stromund started issuing orders.

“Archers, draw!”

The archers tugged at their bowstrings, pulling them back to their cheeks.

“Defenders, hoist!”

The men at the walls heaved the stones above their heads.

All was good and ready. The Khodorian commander rode to the front of his troops and drew his sword, raising it into the air.

The few moments that transpired before the sword fell were unbearable. The soldiers were restless, hungry for battle. Even Malt found himself clutching his spear in anticipation.

After what seemed like a millenia, the commander heaved a great sigh. He sliced through the air, pointing the thin blade toward the fort.

All the built up tension released at once. The Khods surged forward, sprinting for the walls. The archers loosed their arrows.

A cloud of projectiles soared high into the air before plunging into the mass of Khods. Some stuck into shields, others into the exposed faces of soldiers. Many at the front fell, instantly dead in the mud.

The Khods trampled over their lifeless comrades, desperate to reach the walls.

Once they did, however, they were met by an avalanche of stones.

Malt, after a few seconds of hesitation, heaved the stone downward. He dared not look at where the rock landed, afraid of what he would see.

But no, his sick curiosity forced him to see. Thankfully, or maybe not thankfully, the rock completely missed all targets, crashing into the mud with a dull thud.

The soldier’s around him, however, were getting more lucky. Stones crashed into the heads of soldiers, crushing steel and skull alike. Chunks of bone and brain spilled into the mud and onto the walls.

The sight was simply ghastly.

Malt felt the vile taste of vomit creep up from the back of his throat. He clutched his mouth with one hand and barely kept the bile from spilling out. This was far past what he thought he’d signed up for.

When he thought that it couldn’t get any worse, the cauldrons of rot were released. The revolting cocktail, which had been sitting to “ferment” for a week, was poured onto the mass of Khods.

Screams of horror and disgust erupted as they were doused by the foul sludge. Those affected immediately vomited, the ones around them backed away, gagging. Some even ran away, appalled by the stuff.

Fear, disgust, shock; the sludge was doing its job well.

The assault was far from over, though. The Khods continued to crash against the gate. It’s heavy steel hinges were beginning to creak as the doors caved dangerously inward.

The defense was working. Within minutes, nearly half the Khods were either dead or injured. The sight of the rotten mixture worked even better than expected. The fact that dozens of soldiers had deserted meant that these soldiers were largely amateurs.

Stromund’s voice sliced through the air, undermining the sea of yelling, “Defenders get off the walls! The gate’s about to give!”

The clear order ripped the soldier’s from the wall. They rushed down into the courtyard, forming a wall a good distance from the gate. Malt and Henry did the same, raising their shields to create a makeshift barrier.

This is when things got hectic.

The gates burst open as a wave of Khods rushed in, relieved. Their relief was short lived.

They were almost immediately met with a barrage of arrows and bolts. Almost every man in the front was killed as arrows plunged into their flesh.

The archers dropped their bows, drawing their swords.

From there, the two armies clashed.

It was less like a battle and more like a mosh pit. There weren’t many techniques being thrown out. Just frantic shoving and poking.

Soldier’s used every technique available to them. Fingers were forced into eyes and spears plunged into faces, it was a constant struggle of pushing and pulling. There was practically a mist of blood in the air.

Although scared, Malt was somehow emboldened by this show of craziness. He was in a frenzy, getting hurt didn’t matter at the moment, hurting the enemy was all that did.

Unsurprisingly, the one causing the most mayhem was Geld. His twin scimitars traced through the air, each time severing a hand or head. He weaved in between incoming strikes and effortlessly returned every thrust with a deft slash.

It was almost graceful, the way every one of his movements led into another movement, how he evaded every attack just at a hair’s breadth, how every slash meant death.

Now it dawned upon Malt, Geld was definitely a master. He was on another level.

Stromund was the same. He mowed through the Khods with his zweihander. The huge, ornate sword cleaved through everything: shields, armor, people. Sometimes even two, three at a time.

Unlike Geld, he didn’t dodge attacks. He just allowed them to bounce off his thick plate, returning the attack with a thrice powerful hew.

The image of him taking on a dozen Khods at once was truly awe inspiring. There was only one word that could describe him: Stalwart.

While Malt was being distracted by this show of power, one Khod managed to break through, making a beeline toward Malt, who was the nearest soldier.

Malt raised his shield just in the nick of time, blocking the incoming thrust with his shield. The Khod backed off, raising his shield as well.

They began circling one another. Malt’s mind was going into overdrive. The mere feeling that another person was actively trying to take his life was terrifying.

His breathing became ragged and panicked, he was on the brink of hyperventilation. Suddenly, he steeled himself, biting the side of his cheek. Those thoughts could wait for later. There was only one prevailing truth at the moment.

Either kill or be killed.

With this in mind, he launched forward, aiming to skewer the Khod’s face. The Khod ducked, allowing the speartip to glance off his helm. He used this opportunity to thrust at Malt.

The tip dug into the edge of Malt’s shield, narrowly missing his neck. This back in forth continued for what seemed like hours, even though it was likely only a few seconds.

They were both heaving now, their hot breath steaming in the morning air. The Khod, growing impatient, surged forward. He brought his shield up and pressed it against Malt’s.

A bout of wrestling began. With their spears being largely useless at this range, each side was trying to knock the other one off balance with their shields. They pushed against one another, vying for dominance.

Although they had roughly around the same strength, Malt clearly had the better teacher.

While the Khod was engrossed in trying to knock him over, Malt used his spear hand to grab the side of the Khod’s shield.

With a mighty shove, he pushed the shield clear to the side, revealing the Khod’s exposed body. Not having enough time to thrust, Malt planted his foot into the Khod’s side.

The kick was viscous and well placed, evident by the fact that the Khod landed several feet away. His shield and spear flung from his grip as he hit the mud.

Hesitation surged over Malt. Maybe he could just knock the Khod out. Killing him wasn’t necessary, was it?

In that split second of hesitation, the Khod scrambled for his spear.

In an almost unconscious reaction, Malt leapt onto the Khod. Maybe it was because of the panic, maybe it was a desperate need to stay alive, the reason didn’t matter, only the outcome.

Malt plunged the spear into the Khod’s back. Blood seeped up from the puncture, spraying into the air and onto Malt’s face. The feeling of the spear poking through the Khod’s gambeson, the sickening resistance he felt before the tip pierced through skin, the Khod’s desperate cry of pain.

It was unforgettable.

In a moment of clarity, all the sounds around him were gone. All that he could see was the Khod’s face. He was a boy, around Malt’s age. His face held no anger, nor scorn, nor malice.

Just fear.

His eyes, still innocent and young, quickly grew dull and lifeless.

A violent wave of nausea instantly engulfed Malt. He fell to the mud, grasping his throat as he vomited into the mud. Tears dripped from his eyes and unbeknownst to him, he was screaming, whimpering as the last drop of bile left his mouth.

He curled into a ball, laying on his side next to the corpse. All he could do was whimper and wail as he looked at the cadaver. What remained of the person he killed.

He knew not of how much time passed, or what had happened while he was laying there. But he didn’t care either.