The mass of soldiers scrambled to separate. They weren’t fast enough. The explosive crystal fell in the center of the group and, once again, John found himself tumbling over the ground.

Facing down, his body skidded to a halt, dirt getting inside his helmet through the visor’s slits. Someone fell on his back as he attempted to push up, forcing him against the ground again.

John pushed again, managing to get the person out of his back and discovering that it wasn’t a person. At least not a whole one as his bottom half wasn’t attached to the rest of his body.

The explosion left at least five other soldiers in similar conditions. Six if one counted the geomancer’s smoldering remains but, without his magic, he had already become useless.

Jumping over the walls, the enemies came in droves, weapons in hand. John still didn’t have a sword. He searched the man who fell on top of him, but there were no signs of his sword, likely lost along with his bottom half.

“Here,” Jacke said, extending a muddy sword hilt towards John. “Take it and try not to die.”

His clothes were smeared brown with dirt, and he now sported a fresh cut on his forehead, oozing blood down his eye. On his other hand, he held a lance half again his height with a red and white banner from some minor house near its tip.

John didn’t refuse the weapon, and Jacke unsheathed his own sword from the hip as soon as his hand was free again. “Spread in a line,” he yelled this time, trying to make himself heard by anyone still standing. The incoming enemies had already covered half the distance from the walls. “Don’t stand too close to one another until we’re in actual combat. Even if they still have more crystals, they won’t dare hit their own companions.”

“Don’t waver! They may have caught us by surprise, but we still have the strength advantage. Without their explosives, they can’t stand against us.”

25 meters. “This is where we separate the warriors who stand and fight from the rats who hide in the dark.”

“For Somerford!” Jacke cried out and raised his sword up high as the first enemy crossed the ten meters mark. Kicking the ground, he propelled himself forward, covering the distance in two steps and fully displaying his strength as a Paladin. And more importantly, displaying the difference between himself and an army composed mostly of Crusaders and Fighters.

His sword flashed through the air, slowing down for a single moment as it cleaved through the first enemy’s waist. A swordsman swung his weapon in response, drawing a bright red line over Jacke’s arm. The captain ignored the wound, twisted his body, and used the lance to stab the man’s throat. Two down, hundreds to go.

No matter how strong, a single, unarmored Paladin wouldn’t be able to win this fight. If John had to guess, Jacke was already aware of that fact, and yet the man advanced anyway.

Because it was never his plan to do it alone.

Back at the line of soldiers, John took note of those by his side. The men and women looked ready to advance, and yet no one took a step, all still shook up by the rain of death from a few minutes ago.

Jacke’s display inspired them to do what they had been trained to and, like a powder keg, they needed one spark to blow up.

John raised his sword up high. “For Somerford!” he yelled, trying to sound as authentic as possible while crying out for a place that, quite frankly, he still couldn’t consider home. It didn’t matter though. All that mattered was getting the rest of the soldiers to move, to fight so that he and Jacke didn’t end up swarmed by the enemies.

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

Jacke disposed of three more enemies during this interval, but he was already getting surrounded. Circling behind a tent, a woman in a studded jerkin tried to sneak behind the Paladin.

John ran her through before she could spring her trap, using his momentum to hilt the sword on her back. Stopping for just a moment to yank his weapon free, he continued to run.

An axeman turned his attention from Jacke to John, placing his wooden shield in between the two. It blocked the first strike, and the man responded with a swing of his axe that found nothing but air.

John slashed at the side of the man’s leg, then brought the sword back towards me man’s neck. The axeman tried to block with his shield but, too slow, only managed to deflect it towards his own face. He fell down screaming, and John finished the job by stabbing him in the chest.

More enemies approached, and Jacke was slowly being pushed back. There were too many for just the two of them to deal with.

“For Somerford,” a woman in the dark gray armor of the Rochdale guards cried out as she sped past John and crashed into the enemy lines. She wasn’t alone. Two more soldiers came next, then even more.

John smiled under his helmet. It worked. Now to push those bastards back. John charged in again, always keeping the red and white banner in sight as to not stray too far during the confusion. There were no lines of soldiers anymore, nothing that even resembled organization.

He slashed at a man’s abdomen, easily cutting through the leather jerkin. Another axeman swung at John’s arm, and the metal vambrace turned what would be a debilitating injury into just a dull pain from the impact. A soldier in full plate armor stabbed the man’s neck, and John turned towards the next enemy.

People died left and right, and the earth became sodden with blood. Vasilis’ followers could do little against the better equipped, better cultivated soldiers.

A speartip thudded against John’s breastplate. He hacked through the weapon’s shaft, then through the arm that held it. Marleya was right, he thought to himself after what could’ve been another serious injury. If not for the armor, then I would already be dead.

His mother’s fighting style worked well enough in normal combat, against well-defined enemies. A battlefield was different. A battlefield was complete chaos. He hadn’t even noticed the spear until it hit him in the chest.

With every passing second, the combat came closer to the walls. They were gaining ground. John looked around in search of the red and white banner, managing to catch just a glimpse of it as it fell down to the ground.

Jacke fell down to his knees, a sword tip protruding from his back. The assailant pulled the weapon free. Her helmet covered the top of her head but left her face exposed. John had seen the woman before at the castle as she accompanied Vasilis. His wife Marietta.

A soldier had been advancing past John when he too noticed Jacke’s fall, stopping dead on his tracks.

John couldn’t risk them being getting this far, only to waver now. “With me!” he cried out, pointing his sword at Marietta. “That’s Vasilis’ wife. Kill her and we’ll be one step closer to ending this war.”