The steadily improving reports that flowed to Marshal Agrehn were a source of positively intoxicating joy to Rohmhelt. Reports of their progress on the southern flank were especially positive as the expansive breakthrough led by his Gadisian allies had forced an ever-larger amount of Duronaht’s army to swing south simply to contain the threat. As those men were pulled off the northern and central fronts, his forces could gain further in those places.

He noted Agrehn, who was fed by a near-constant stream of messengers, moving his figurines further east on the map with each update. Elsewhere, the cavalry had begun to reform on the river’s west bank while the infantry continued their push on the east side. There were notably fewer horsemen as the lines reconstituted themselves than there had been when the cavalry set off. I would ask Agrehn how many we lost, but he would know and it would be a tragic number.

“Your Imperial Majesty, if what I’ve just received is accurate, we should be making some notable progress in the center shortly,” Agrehn said, his voice muffled as he still was focused on his map.

“Is there something new?” Rohmhelt asked.

“Apparently one of their divisions is defecting to our cause.”

With a stunned smile, Rohmhelt looked across the river at the indistinguishable mass of soldiers fighting. It was an indistinguishable mass of chaos. I’m glad he knows what is happening because I’ll be damned if I can determine anything from up here.

“Very welcome news!” Rohmhelt cheered in response. “Then it’s fair to say that we’re winning this battle? Our men are fighting better than you thought?”

“Quite so,” Agrehn acknowledged. “It had been so long since the western armies had fought any war. I simply took what others said of the eastern armies as truth. I should have had more faith.”

“That’s all fine,” the Emperor said happily. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Still, they’ve not committed everything,” Agrehn said joylessly as he pointed toward the east. “I see that they’re leaving 4th Army in reserve just back from the center. 4th Army has some of their best men and it will be fresh. One hundred and five thousand, I think. That’s not to be trifled with.”

“If they stay loyal.”

“Quite so, but I find it best to assume that they will,” Agrehn scolded.

Though he tried to contain his excitement at the prospect of so swiftly avenging his father, Rohmhelt managed to avoid expressing that to Agrehn. There was a quality to Agrehn’s steely constancy that dissuaded him from wanting to express vengeful intent. He decided to try a different approach.

“Should we triumph today, this will be among the most glorious battles in history,” Rohmhelt said.

“Wars fought for glory never end for there is no glory in war,” Agrehn mumbled mournfully in response.

Amidst the screams and shouts up and down the lines, it was difficult to disagree with that sentiment.

~~~

Attached to the 19th Army on the battlefield’s northern portion, Lyfress and Cesord had been tasked with attempting to save the lives of wounded soldiers who poured back from the front lines. They shared that responsibility with a hastily assembled grouping of seemingly random individuals, varying greatly in age, skills, region, and so on, but they had all become part of the army’s support apparatus.

For the battle’s first stages, few treatable wounds had come back to them as either the archers were killed outright or were forced to continue firing arrows so long as their wounds had not been too grievous.

While Cesord grew increasingly depressed over the battle, Lyfress saw an opportunity to reaffirm the High Angel’s glory in the midst of hundreds of thousands of soldiers who might succumb to fear and despair. A horrendous battle fought for causes that these men scarcely understood was certainly fertile ground for such doubts and crises of faith. Displaying Forynda’s new gift to the soldiers, however, would quell those concerns. In a perverse sense, she was almost looking forward to the inevitable streams of wounded she could help. In her own thoughts, she admonished herself for allowing her mind to wander into such a twisted place.

Twisted or not, the opportunities inevitably came. In their tent some distance from the river, wounded began pouring in. First, a large number of cavalrymen came with sword cuts and stab wounds in varying places. Lyfress first focused on applying ordinary bandages and salves to sterilize the wounds, but with more dire cases she decided that there was nothing to lose by trying to invoke Forynda’s gift.

A cavalryman lay near-death in front of her, a deep wound penetrating to his liver and another near his heart. A very young man, he called out with a high-pitched voice for his mother. Lyfress couldn’t bear it any longer and resolved that this would not be a death on her hands. She held out a silver amulet emblazoned with Forynda’s symbols, a golden heart emblazoned over a platinum shield, and she heard again the words Forynda had spoken to her and her father. As she did, she felt a burning light inside her that flowed to her hands. As though a phantom force guided them, she moved her hands back and forth over the wound, imagining it closed and the bleeding stopped. She felt as though she traveled into the blood itself, flowing away from the open wounds. Then she became one with the flesh on both sides of the divide, closing one toward the other until they were fused.

She was then back in her own head with her eyes closed. Then the young soldier grabbed her hand.

“You… How did you do that?” he asked in a notably stronger voice.

Her eyes opened to see him looking up at her with a mixture of awe and profound gratitude. Indeed, his grievous wounds were healed. Her father, just feet away working a much less dire case, appeared astonished as well. She felt that her hands were still burning and looked down to see them encircled in a shimmering white glow.

“It was a gift from the High Angel,” she said softly.

The soldier grasped her hand again, reaching over with his other hand as well.

“Then praise be to the Serene Mother,” he said.

Rising from the bed, he walked to exit the tent, still hobbled somewhat, but certainly alive. Another gravely wounded man was carried in and Lyfress prepared herself to heal him as well, but her father’s gaze distracted her. Unable to fully accept what had just happened, she took some seconds to acknowledge him.

“I will show you, father,” she said at last. “But it’s not a thing that can be watched and understood. You must feel it.”

“Then I will try to feel it,” Cesord said. “I pray that the High Angel sees fit to help me keep these souls from joining her this day.”

Merciful Forynda, always and everywhere you are owed praise, but that is especially so now.

~~~

Forbidden by Grand Marshal Ventov from moving the 4th Army to engage, Vildrious sat atop his horse and watched the central front slowly retreat its way toward him. A persistent trickle of wounded soldiers was carried past him and deep into the rear lines where some of the older civilians from Zarmand had established medical care for their soldiers. They had not been forced to come, but rather had followed the armies from Zarmand to the gates of Methrangia to aid in the provision of supplies and care for the men.

Vildrious found that all very admirable, but he wished they had also brought more soldiers with them. The Traitor King Rohmhelt’s legions had proven to be more numerous and, defying all expectations, better-disciplined than the eastern forces. Their loyalty had never wavered while defections were rife among the Zarmandian forces and their allies.

At last, as the battle neared Vildrious, Ventov sent a messenger, but apparently could not be bothered to give the order himself.

“4th Army to cover the retreat of the Emperor’s forces,” the hastily written scroll read. It went on. “Deploy 4th Army as skirmishers – delay enemy advance at all costs. Once main army has retreated, rejoin.”

The orders were clear. They were also crushing. Vildrious’s role in this great battle was to be one that would never garner attention. Especially not if the battle resulted in Duronaht’s swift defeat. He refused to believe that this would be his end. Evidently, so did a familiar presence, who hovered nearby.

Myrvaness lurched forward, seemingly out of the air itself, and grabbed Vildrious’s shoulder. Her sharp metallic fingers dug hard into his flesh, sending shooting cold pains throughout his body. His chest felt like it was being crushed in an icy vice and his breath left him almost entirely.

“You are not beaten,” she whispered into his ear.

Already terrified, Vildrious glanced around him, which revealed his worst fear. Officers and soldiers alike stared at the spectacle of their marshal being controlled by one of the angels.

“No no no. You shouldn’t be here!” he said weakly. “If Forynda knows…”

“Cyrona never said we could not speak to you,” Myrvaness interrupted with a still harder grip. “I told you before, I have watched more folly in battle than I care to contemplate. Timidity will be your undoing. Strike fast and hard at their southerly flank.”

“My… my orders are…”

“From a loathsome preening fool who is losing this battle,” she spat and pulled Vildrious closer to her. “This entire battle has been conducted with flaccid and sickly movements, the commands of frightened fools who do not know war’s purpose.”

Vildrious weakly looked back into her eyes, which pierced into his mind as daggers.

“Victory. Always victory. Anything that fails to achieve that aim is a waste. Now, attack!” she declared.

“But I… that would be the end of my command,” he protested.

“Only shall you fail. But you will not. This will be a triumph to crown triumphs,” she bellowed in a loudening voice that the surrounding officers and men could also hear. “Glory awaits you and all that follow you. All you need to do is seize it.”

Her words drew immediate cheers from those elements of 4th Army able to hear them. Myrvaness glowed in the adulation, which only drew more of it. Vildrious had no choice but to follow her instructions. He contemplated Ventov, and possibly Emperor Duronaht himself, severely punishing him for the disregard for proper orders, but he concurred with Myrvaness. The survival of their entire enterprise relied on achieving something that could at least be considered a victory.

He raised his hands skyward to quiet his men, even as the battle’s tumult approached not but several hundred yards away. Breathing deeply, he summoned what courage he could muster.

“We attack! Prepare yourselves, my brothers!” Vildrious screaned.

In virtual unison, officers and ordinary soldiers alike raised their arms in the air to cheer. For the first time in any of his commands, Vildrious felt he finally had his troops’ affection, even if he owed it to Myrvaness. He would take the glory while he could.

~~~

A leaden weight lay upon Duronaht’s heart as his armies began forming up to withdraw where lulls in combat allowed. Ventov’s logic had been impeccable. “The Army will not survive if you keep it engaged on these terms. They have us here, but we can regroup and attack them later if we withdraw now.” Now that he reconsidered what Ventov said, he regretted acceding to it. What army will I have if I retreat now? Half of them will probably desert by morning. The other half will see that and quit not long after. Without the angels…

He then stared out in Methrangia’s direction, recalling again and again the moments where he had slain his father. Each twist of his dagger in his father’s eyeballs, accompanied by those horrid squishing sounds and sensations, was as fresh at that moment as it had been when he did the vile deed. A portion of his mind celebrated it. It had been his crowning triumph, after all. The moment he became emperor. Another portion of his conscience, however, insisted that it had not been truly his decision. Another force had guided his hand: Parlon’s. And far from making him emperor, it had given his brother more legitimacy. It had been a cowardly act, one from which he had fled to avoid facing its consequences. That second line of thoughts, though, was too horrible to contemplate. Were that true, he might as well surrender that moment.

His horns called out staccato bursts. Duuuu-Duuuu-Duu-Du-Du-Du. They repeated that same cadence again and again and again. It was the sound of retreat. The anthem of cowardice. Were he to die that day, he was quite sure that he would hear it on his descent into the lowest levels of the Ceunan afterlife, taunting him relentlessly through the mournful bowels of eternity. All the while, his brother and father would cackle from above in the vaults of angels, reveling in his misfortune.

He would have been outraged by it all, but instead he was simply utterly fatigued. All that he had hoped for lay before him at this battle as shattered corpses. The first units, up and down the line, began their withdrawal. However, he noted to the south a massive surge of his men moving forward, toward the Nehal River, in attack formations. The 4th Army.

Grand Marshal Ventov spurred his horse up alongside the Emperor’s. He placed his hand above his eyebrows as if to be sure that the sun’s glare was not blinding him.

“He’s supposed to cover our retreat! What’s he doing? What’s Vildrious doing?!” Ventov shouted with incredulity. He motioned toward a messenger, who came running toward the Grand Marshal. “Boy, run down to Marshal Vildrious and order him to break off this nonsense at once! Tell him if he doesn’t I’ll have him flogged for insubordination.”

“Yes, sir!” the messenger shouted as he spurred off.

“Belay that order, my boy,” Duronaht interjected while the messenger was still in earshot.

Ventov appeared scandalized by the contravention coming from his emperor, but Duronaht cared little at that juncture.

“Let’s see what he’s able to do,” Duronaht said, a smile returning to his face. He saw an avenue by which he might be able to forestall disaster and he was not willing to give that up for certain disgrace.

On the southern edge of the salient that had developed around the central bridge, those forces that had been engaged against Rohmhelt’s army fell aside to allow the 4th Army’s fresh forces to charge into the gap and relieve them. The three dozen mages helped to lead the assault, letting loose ferocious blasts of ice and lightning in whirling beams that cut deep into the Traitor King’s lines, fraying at a crucial juncture. Duronaht cackled in boyish glee, drawing a disdainful lance from Ventov. He drew in that disdain with joy as it was utterly embarrassing for the Grand Marshal. He couldn’t even get his own subordinates to follow his orders, orders which were delivering Duronaht’s armies a defeat. Marshal Vildrious, however, spurred by whatever force of courage or desperation, stood on the cusp of correcting those prior errors.

The 4th Army’s lines charged forward, maintaining strong cohesion against the ramshackle forces of the Karmandians that stood before them. Duronaht grinned as those black-iron ranks, confused by the sudden surge of fresh crimson-clad foes on their flank, began breaking.

The Emperor glared across the river and saw a small detachment of horses, surrounded by what he saw to be Solnahtern. Duronaht smiled from ear to ear observing what outwardly appeared to be panic in their ranks with riders and messengers scurrying in every direction.

Ah, do you like that, brother?

~~~

Rohmhelt tried to believe that Duronaht’s last gambit in the central front was only a death rattle. He expected such a move. His brother would never take a defeat easily. What he had not expected, however, was what he saw with his legions melting away with several divisions routing and fleeing across the bridge. In their fright, they clogged the bridge, blocking additional reinforcements from aiding the central push.

He stood in front of Agrehn and his marshals while they deliberated over the latest developments. Growing resentful of not being informed of new dispatches, he pivoted toward them in a clear rage, drawing a series of empty stares.

“Why are you all standing around like frightened children? What’re you afraid of?!” he bellowed. “It’s not as though we’re losing!”

Marshal Agrehn stepped forward and stroked his beard while the other marshals hung their heads in shame.

“Quite so, Your Majesty. However, our center has become unstable and we need to withdraw back across the bridge,” he stated dryly, with a slight note of disappointment. “We have no choice.”

“Retreat? After all of this? Retreat?!” Rohmhelt protested.

“Either that or we suffer a crushing defeat. Time is of the essence. Shall I give the order?”

Rohmhelt wished to refuse the request. The collapsing central line, plainly evident from even a cursory glance, convinced him otherwise.

“Very well,” he sighed and returned to watch the battle’s conclusion, whatever that might bring.

And what it brought was a crushing disappointment. The better parts of two full armies became cut off from the bridge, the 17th and the 21st. Agrehn had informed Rohmhelt that the defecting division from his brother’s army was among them as well. To break through to them, Agrehn directed the reformed cavalry divisions to charge across the bridge and punch a hole in the encircling lines.

Despite their exhaustion and heavy casualties from earlier in the day, those divisions mounted a furious charge, cheered forward by trumpeters blasting out the call for an attack to the death. They understood the necessity, the dire necessity that drove them onward. Even against a crimson wall of spearmen that tried to block their charge, they spurred their horses forward at full speed. The first ranks of horses collapsed, pikes impaling them. However, their sacrifice was not without reward. Dying at full gallop, their corpses plunged atop the Zarmandians, knocking enough aside that the following ranks of cavalry continued to plow forward. Within moments, a channel had been cut to allow his men’s escape.

Their escape came at costs beyond measure, however. Fighting out of the pocket they had fallen into had been a terribly confused and bloody battle. Far from the glorious armies that had crossed the river, the forces that returned were so badly reduced that they would doubtlessly require weeks to recover.

Once the center had to retire across the bridge, the northern thrust also became largely untenable, but that withdrawal happened in good order with light casualties. The southern front, however, proved to be entirely successful, seizing most of their objectives and occupying good defensive ground. The Gadisians and the two armies from Rohmhelt’s forces still held all of their gains at nightfall. Duronaht’s army attempted a dusk attack on Chancellor Kivren’s light infantry skirmish lines, but couldn’t even break through those.

At least the last failure of the day goes to Duronaht, Rohmhelt mused.

Aside from the southern front, the remainder of both armies retired far away from the Nehal River. They distanced themselves from it as though the river itself was bad luck. With any remaining danger gone Rohmhelt’s armies relaxed and the men celebrated surviving the day.

The number who had not survived the battle was unclear to Marshal Agrehn as his lower officers were uncertain how many deserters there might have been. Nevertheless, Agrehn provided his preliminary estimate to the Emperor. Ninety-one thousand of his men lost their lives while taking with them seventy-four thousand of Duronaht’s. Determining Duronaht’s losses was a preposterous exercise as the bloodiest portions of the battlefield ultimately remained under Duronaht’s control, making any accurate count impossible.

Regardless of a precise count, it had been the bloodiest day in the Methrangian Empire’s history.

At day’s end, Rohmhelt could take solace in knowing he had preserved his army and maintained control of the capital. With the situation secure, he sent for Queen Evinda, who he had kept back in Methrangia should the battle have taken a turn for the worse or should the angels have intervened against him. At the very least, the battle had secured stability in the situation.

While he waited for her to arrive, he attended various ceremonies held by his forces up and down the encampments where they mourned the loss of their brothers in arms. One division he happened across had entered the battle with eight-thousand men and was reduced to fewer than three-thousand able-bodied men at battle’s end. Their ceremony, led by Matriarch Yldrina herself in the pitch black of night, was haunting and beautiful both at the same time. Yldrina lit a small bonfire, amplified with a white crystalline powder known as Angels’ Light, that caused the orange flames to glow white as the flames’ tendrils reached skyward. As the Matriarch explained, this was a call to Forynda to accept all of their brothers into the community of souls in Ceuna.

“Merciful Forynda, we turn to you in this darkest of hours to as for your grace and wisdom so that they may strengthen us against our implacable foes,” the Matriarch prayed aloud in her increasingly scratchy voice. She raised her hands skyward, as if she herself were offering Forynda the souls of the slain. “For those who fell today, and all of those who will fall in the coming days, months, and years, we pray that their sacrifices will be viewed with favor and that their spirits will be greeted warmly into the presences of their ancestors.”

The soldiers surrounding the Matriarch began muttering the responsorial prayer weakly and disjointed.

“Mother Forynda, please watch over us,” they said. Rohmhelt himself was among the last to utter the words, words that felt hollow to him.

Afterwards, Yldrina met with Rohmhelt just outside the camp’s perimeter. He heaped lamentations upon her for some minutes before she grasped his chin and pulled down his face to look at her directly.

“You knew this moment was coming. You have seen ruin sweep the world. All of that must come to pass. The blood spilled today is but a tiny drop when compared to the torrent to come,” she said in a haunting cadence and tone. “Rest now, my Emperor. Many more grim days await you, your family, and your empire.”

When she departed to retire for the night, Rohmhelt was left alone to ruminate. I don’t know what is worse: the future cruelly surprising me or seeing glimpses of it and flailing uselessly to try to stop it.