Morn struck. Marcus Novus Germanicius sat in his saddle atop a fine chestnut horse. He looked over the gently sloping fields where the Vyncis forces had constructed a wall of sorts, a stretch of what looked like gray rock almost three meters high. He could see eyes peek out at him.

One of his officers trotted up. "Sire?"

"Organization?"

"Sire, the infantry has been organized, with the first, second, and third cohorts leading the charge. The fourth, fifth, and sixth make our second line. They stand in standard formation, with 3,000 men per row and four rows. Our three cavalry units are stationed to our right, to protect against flank attacks."

He smiled. "Very good."

"Sire, orders?"

"We march."

"When?"

"Now."

Rory spied over the concrete; the Aklan army, a massive blot of blue uniforms began to move. Earlier, he watched them form up into six blocks; three headed the charge.

One of his officers walked up. "Rory?"

"Are the cannons ready?"

"Yes, all cannons have been loaded, and the barricade has been set."

He smiled. "Very good."

"Orders, Rory?"

"Fire."

"When?"

"Now."

A huge series of explosions rang throughout the plains. At first, the men were confused, having never heard such things before. They thought that perhaps there was an earthquake, and were cursing their luck. Then, they realized. They realized that they were very, very wrong. Massive iron spheres, over a ton in mass, rocketed towards them at speeds of almost 400 miles per hour. When they hit a man, he splintered into a thousand pieces of blood and flesh. But they didn't stop there; no, the spheres, their velocities uncontrollable, sped through, running down the ranks, crushing men, until they finally skittered against the earth, where the huge chunks of brittle iron fractured into hundreds of thousands of sharp, fast pieces that proceeded to horribly impale all nearby.

"Keep moving! KEEP MOVING!" Marcus yelled.

Their loyalty intense, the men continued. Suddenly, as they began to advance closer, the ground erupted into flames. This happened seemingly randomly, as if God himself was smiting them from above.

"MARCH FORWARD!"

The soldiers lived and died for Aklan; that would not change. But, they thought, if there was ever a hell, this world of flame, of thundering iron, of flying flesh, where death rained from the skies and men fell like flies, would be it.

"Rory, they're within 200 meters."

Rory smiled. "Alright, boys. Time to get those guns out."

The Aklan army began to near the Wall. Thousands of men were dead or injured by now, but, under fierce command, they marched onwards. The wall brought relief for many, as it marked the end of their suffering; all they needed to do was breech it, and they were done. They could escape, they could live!

3,000 Vyncis heads appeared from atop the wall. They brandished what looked like long sticks with peices of metal sticking out the end. Some of the men began to joke.

"That's what they're armed with?" "Can't even afford a sword." "Pathetic."

Then, flashes of light erupted from the end of those sticks, and the Aklan's realized exactly what they were; it was a miniature of the device that sent those chunks of metal flying. Mirth turned to despair, as the men's hearts were filled with dread.

"MARCH! MARCH FORWARD!"

But under relentless pressure from Marcus, they continued on, stepping over the dead and wounded. The Vyncis men ducked, and out came a fresh batch, who fired. Then, they ducked, and another unit of fresh guns came blazing. By then, the first had finished reloading, and they promptly took charge. The gunfire rang non-stop. The cannon's continued to ring. Mines continued to explode, killing hundreds.

Before, the men wondered how the situation could ever grow worse. Their question was answered.

"Rory, the enemy has advanced to 100 meters!"

Rory sighed. This would be the most difficult part to execute. They had drilled, and drilled, but practice only went so far, especially since they couldn't actually perform the act, only pretend. "Start the drums! We retreat!"

At his order, great drums were beaten, and the men began their practiced retreat. They filled the cannons to the brim with gunpowder and began to flee. Some were too slow, some were caught, some were confused, and they all perished. Some stepped on their own mines. But most escaped up, to a second barricade, exactly the same as the one before, except perhaps smaller, as the fields began to shrink up the hill. Rory fingered Chronos; he would have a dangerous job—twenty minutes, in twenty minutes he needs to run there, set the fuse, and run back...

The Aklan's cheered—the Vyncis were fleeing! Fleeing! They rushed over the wall in great waves. Already, the blue Aklan flag waved atop it, victory in their hands.

And then the barricade exploded.

And, out from the ashes, and the guts, and the bleeding, groaning men, the remaining Aklan's saw another wall, exactly the same as the one they had just scaled, and they knew they would face the exact thing as they had faced before. Their stomach's dropped; this was far worse than any hell. How many Vyncis men had died? Fifty? A hundred? How many of their brethren had died? Ten thousand? Fifty thousand?

At the back, Marcus was reconvening with his officers. He cupped his head with his hand. Grime and blood tarnished his fair armor, as even he could not fully escape the slaughter.

"Casualties?" he asked.

"30% of the infantry is dead or injured. The Cavalry units were caught in the strange iron strings the Vyncis laid across the fields and were forced to dismount. I placed them in reserve."

"How much of the first three cohorts survived?"

The officers looked among each other. Finally, one spoke up. "Less than half, sire."

"That's the end of our professional force, then."

One of the officers coughed, and spoke up: "Sire... we should retreat."

Marcus turned towards him with fiery eyes. "No! We will continue. We shall not suffer the shame of being defeated by 11,000 men!"

"Retreat! Retreat!"

Rory called for his forces to once again back off; this time, to their final stand, a circular fort constructed at the top of a hill. From his vantage point, he could see the Aklan's hesitate as they neared the second wall—fearful, of course, that it would explode as the previous had. Rory counted in his head; one, two, three...

The ground just before the wall suddenly erupted into flame, killing a few thousand soldiers who stood atop it, and causing the rest to recoil backwards. They planted the explosive charges not in the wall itself this time, but the ground before it, and it had worked beautifully.

Rory looked over the fields; even after all the death and destruction that had been wrought upon the Aklan army, huge blobs of blue still dotted the land. 100,000 was simply a ridiculous number of men! He grimaced—even after more of the Aklan's would no doubt perish getting to the last fortification, they would still outnumber them by at least 3 to 1.

He backed off and picked up a rifle from a chest and began to bark orders.

"Alright, I want a sixth of you to be reserve. The rest, order yourselves in three groups; Remember, nonstop fire!"

He walked over to the artillery men. "Keep firing. When they reach 100 meters, fill the cannons with gunpowder, set a fuse, and roll the cannon's down."

They saluted him and set to work. He sighed and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his hand, swiping off a film of soot and gunpowder in the process. This was going to be a long day.

"Sire, we have encircled the fort!"

Marcus grimaced. "How much of our forces are left?"

"40%, sire!"

What an utter catastrophe. 60,000 men dead! Ridiculous. That damned Adringum King would hear of this—an easy job, huh! Just 11,000 men! But, it was almost over. They would have their victory; an exceedingly costly victory, but at least a victory.

"Slow advance up the hill. At 500 meters, begin a charge. Place all reserves in the assault. We will crush them here."

Rory looked down: under the setting sun, a ring of blue circled them. He turned towards his men.

"Alright, boys! This is it. There's nowhere to run, and after what we've put them through, no hope of surrender. Fight! Fight to the last! We may fall here, but we've showed them that we're a goddamn force to be reckoned with! For the Kingdom! For the Vyncis! For your families! For the land!"

They cheered and set to work.

The Aklan's began to ascend slowly, as cannon fire and mines wreaked havoc upon their lines. Then, as they reached the final stretch, they charged, a mass of flailing, screaming flesh. Here, finally, they would be in actual combat with the Vyncis forces, who, up to this point, had fled and left the Aklan's to kill themselves.

Rory stood in the middle of the circular encampment, ready for any status updates.

"Rory, unit 4 is exhausted!"

"Swap with the reserves!"

"Rory, unit 1 is under pressure!"

"Shut up and deal with it!"

"Rory, what should the artillery squad do?"

"Pick up a gun and help unit 1!"

"Rory, injured men from unit 4! What do we do?"

"Bandage and clean the wounds of those who can still fight! Leave the rest!"

"Rory, unit 6 is too weak!"

"Unit 4, reinforce unit 6!"

"Unit 2 is being deplenished!"

"Deal with it! Reserves are at with unit 6."

Rory grimaced; they simply didn't have enough men! The reserves were already out, no medical supplies, surrounded on all sides... it wasn't looking good. The cannons were gone, though they still had plenty of ammo. They wouldn't last at this rate—eventually, one unit would crack, and when they cracked, he would be forced to stretch his lines out further, and then the Aklan's could concentrate on that point and break through...

Well, they did a damn fine job regardless. Who would've thought—11,000 barely trained men, taking out most of a 100,000 strong force. It was a battle worthy of Thermopylae! The King may win out here, but a hell've a price he'd pay for it!

"Rory, unit 1 has loss half of their men!"

It had to happen eventually...

"Stretch out unit 2 and 3!"

Rory smiled. It had been a good run.