Far to the northeast. Sion stood, firmly anchored beneath the hot sun. It wouldn't favour either opponent today. He was glad, and fate was kind, allowing him to abstain, from shielding his eyes of the irradiated blaze. The land of his forefathers was wrapped by a lush spirited season. The flowers bloomed. The wind carried a living scent: flowery and light, distant from the perfumes of a distinguished royal entourage. It was free, and pure. You felt your own soul yearn to pull away and chase after it. How desperately did it entice you to abandon your corporeal form? That raw dreamy whisper wrapped you in an ephemeral embrace. It was all wrong…

Spring had not yet burnt as hot as the scalding summer. Granted, he could feel the gradual warmth creeping down into his bones. Standing in the encroaching heat, he realized even he would eventually succumb to it. Though, at this time no beads of sweat had crawled onto his face. The rest of the men weren't nearly as conditioned. Many stood with heavy breaths, only recently making it into the loose formation. Sion looked across the conscripts, continuing the evaluation. He rose at the helm, the perfect survey point. His eyes strained to count the lax, staggered lines of men. He knew who they were, not in a heartfelt way as one claims to feel a soul but in the way, one can tell the unsure, distraught expression belonging to a conscript soldier. In total, he had gandered a little less than three hundred. Some who must have been afraid, or perished from some putrid disease before being assigned, would not make it. He did not carelessly don the label of coward upon them.

His hand slowly drifted to the leather braced tome. He pressed his palm against it holding on to the strangely cool surface. It soothed the uncertainty with which his heart ceaselessly beat. The item was tied off on the opposite side of his sword sheath, under its own unique lock. Which allowed the book to open but would never permit it to leave the belt of its owner. Bolted to the metal lining of the inside of the studded leather belt. He found solace in the tomes leathery texture playing beneath his hand. It bore the royal insignia, woven into its surface. He prayed that those dubbed cowards would not be put to death or if mercy held no sway… Perhaps may their end be swift he thought to himself. He didn't know which god to pray too, but he did pray regardless; he badly wished that everyone be spared from the slaughter. His eyes grim and narrow kept pacing over the supposed rectangular formation. Which seemingly resembled that of a crushed oval. Soft as dough he used to marvel. It was strange, but he grew assured that a lack of discipline appeared to be the least of his issues. Many of the men did not have own helmets or proper metal armour: chainmail, plate or anything in between. They would be slaughtered by a trained squadron of archers. If my destiny permits such a chance encounter, he thought, whimsically. Must it all rest on fate, on mere chance.

At least gambesons weren't uncommon, but even so, some men, simple and brazen, arrived wearing plain white, cotton tunics. They were a minority, akin to the rare man draped in chainmail, or equipped with greaves or bracer. Even rarer did he spy a proper length spear or sword longer than a dagger. Luckily, plenty of the men carried large wooden clubs and hatchets alongside wooden bucklers. Most of them were likely peasants Sion reflected with familiarity. Perhaps they'd be best at handling such arms. He was doing his very best to keep his optimism intact and his pessimism from driving him into a stiff panic.

"I am ready to die," he whispered under his breath. He always felt a serenity pass over him. Knowing he'd give his life to a higher purpose, by some miracle, made his life seem like it was already over. Joined to the legends. He was just watching a retelling of an old tale, a spirit from the deep. Not able to change the course of the sinking ship.

Suddenly his ears rang with the sharp note of a horn. He turned seeing a blue flag begin to wave.

"The first signal" he mouthed looking out ahead towards an incline before a small hill.

"In lines twenty wide!" Sion shouted above his breath. "Line up!" he turned back and watched everyone attempt to frantically fall in line, terrified. Fear, a motivator like no other...Least they were trying, I have to try too.

"Everyone!" he looked back across the unsteady looking mob. "Respect and fear our enemy. But remember, fear is natural. You must conquer it! If you wish to be a hero of the Empire… If you wish to return home. Fear stands before you." His voice fell softly to a lull in volume, till only a select few could hear him. He forgot to mind intruding thoughts and regained composure with a hoarse breath.

"Men the general sends his regards! He believes usable, and capable of winning, but he is a man of reason! Thus he casts punishment to those that doubt his strategy. To those that do not believe in reason and likewise turn their eyes from victory... Death!! It will come to everyone who runs from battle. Even I, take this burden willingly upon my shoulders! Proudly! So face Death on the battlefield! Conquer it like the blind bitch she is, and endure. Face death here! Not at the mercy of an executioner's sword, not at his axe! Or the hangman's noose! Conquer death and face VICTORY instead!!!" He finished shouting. Out of breath holding up his steel. The men rumbled behind him. Clashing their arms together in harmonious unity.

The horn blew a second time. A deeper melancholic sound. One to ring ears if caught near its vicinity. A great horn. Rich in bass and heart. "Men!" He gathered everyone's attention standing at the front of the formation. "Ready those weapons of yours, Let them triumphantly sing of our battle like they do for the heroes of yore." He heard an electrifying commotion take light behind him. The men began to stomp their feet into the dirt in rhythm slowly. They reared their weapons, arduously clanging them together. Everyone became absorbed in tribal fervour. Sion's face broke into a weary smile. Finally an accomplished commander. It helped ease his nerves by a craved after sliver.

The third hymn broke the air, a cutting tune, but all the more melancholic: soft enough that everyone could feel a longful stir amidst their hearts, but sharp enough as to resurface old fear.

"March forward! Keep the pace of the second and first lines!" He raised his voice above the men shouting gloom. He merged shoulder to shoulder amidst the second line and marched forward. His eyes peered over the first line. Luckily just tall enough. The left wing moved in unison. Their pace matched ours, Sion estimated. He tried to spot their black-haired commander, but he vanished into their similarly disorganized ranks. Brows furrowed in disappointment, Sion turned back to the centre. The larger host: numbering around fifteen hundred men. The appeared to hold fast. Pressing forward as a triangle though it did not reach a finely pointed tip. Near the edge, he found the sanguine giant. The sore thumb amidst all others, the centre commander. He, bold and proud, carried a massive war hammer; slung casually on his shoulder as he marched leading on.

Sion felt a burst of welling angst. His name was lost to him. He could only recall his chestnut curls and referred to him by that generic detail. This commander with hair auburn and wavy—was covered in steel plate armour. Though, only his torso, even he couldn't afford a full suit or find a decent fitting helmet. Seemingly all headgear was swept away to the noble men's ranks. No helmets for the ordinary folk, a shortage of steel after the prisoner camps (the mines) had rebelled for a short spell.

"Ugh." he mentally vomited in disgust. "What a pathetic way to meet the enemy. He watched the lanky commander raise a singular gauntlet worn on his left hand. He held it above his head as a makeshift barrier to avoid a quick dispatching bolt aimed at his head. No one knew when to expect the enemy as they began marching up the incline of a hill. Sion observed as they crossed the threshold. The men shuffled nervously behind him, their breaths were lightly ragged. Once over the threshold of the highland, all units were meant to converge—such as to allow their commanders to link up at the front of each formation.

It was eerily quiet, the flanks merged towards the centre without a clash. The expectation of ringing metal—fiery combat weighed heavy upon everyone, leaving the air irredeemably tense. Soon enough they left the beryl hill behind and arrived on to the verdant plain. Lush emerald forests lay either side of the vast corridor. At the end, at the foot of a distant hill, the distant enemy fell into view. Sion looked leftward seeing each commander break away—standing a little ahead of his cohort. Only the supporting duo, of the centre, was omitted from the vaguely agreed on assembly.

Everyone in uneasy silence exchanged strained glances. Then each man procured a small greenish flag. The trio raised their arms and let the banners soar. They waved triumphantly through the wind. The solemn moment wasted away, as the giant threw his flag down. Sion followed suit knowing the left would be doing the same. The wielder of the hammer nodded into empty space—after an awkward empty interlude. He dropped his weapon, wrapping both hands around a small delicate horn. His lungs like bellows let loose a long, defiant note that lingered in the ears of every man, leaving a caustic hanging silence in its wake.

After a moment of necessary silence. His singular gauntlet pointed to the enemy. Thus, everyone began their advance. A few minutes passed, and the flanks began to move alongside with enough distance in between to act as a supply and troop reserve but not close enough to be quickly drawn in and harassed by a cunning foe.

The flanks drew forward into the vast open plain. It seemed to widen as they kept marching. The vert forest pulling away. The left and the right quickly converged in thought. Both commanders resonated together as tacticians, signalling to their mustered troops. Changing the angle away from the centre to cover more open ground. Sion calmly—with a cast of his arm twisted his formation to march on the diagonal precept. He knew the front was too cumbersome, too heavy and disorganized. It would never be able to respond if attacked from the distant flanks. He would not let the enemy through whichever path it took.

In the meantime, all eyes remained actively drawn to the centre. The lines at the front of their triangular deployment began to separate. Staggered lines that pushed out ahead: made up of less than a dozen men each. They were jogging at a far quicker pace than the main force. Buffering room grew apparent between each small detachments. They were primed to make contact at a small titular point.

"Shock troops!?" Sion wondered. Knowing well—soon enough the clash would reveal all. The first four men struck out; thrusting their spears towards the stationary front lines of the enemy. They were quickly pushed back as the enemy battalion began to distend with the abrupt sound of the enemies horn. Each line promptly retreated. Readily bending away from the pressure. Drawing out a bulge amidst the enemy front. Even their commander who had debuted by smashing heads like ripe melons with his war hammer was pushed back. Until their lines began to fold into themselves and the men were drawn up on the sides. The thickness of the front bulge was starting to thin. Many perished trying to pull away to the main battlelines began to widen. Exponentially covering a vast expanse. Too thin and your battle formation fractures, too thick and your men are not useful in considerable enough numbers and are caught in the centre, soon to be encircled.

"So far everything was unfolding by textbook convention" Sion reasoned. He felt a little on edge as he watched the initial movements of the clash. The sound of metal grew and carried itself to their adjacent ears. He could envision all of it, almost as if it happened before him. The rumble of combat with yourself at the centre. The rushing fear chilling your heart and bone. The light ticks, as the nervous energy reaches its peak. The cold sweat even before the combat begins. Then suddenly the air crackled with unfamiliar energy. He steeled himself before the image as it sailed forth from the depths of his mind. He would not bend to the fear. He would overcome it. He repeated the thought hundreds of times.

Finally, they'd made it far enough; he raised his hand, and the formation began to slow; stopping in its tracks. His mind felt tarnished. He'd turned it off for a moment as he marched. It was hard to forget what had to come soon. Sion tried to catch a glimpse of the big man with his war hammer. He stared long and hard, but he could not find him amidst the many men veiled in the fray. He must be there, swinging that piece of steel wildly through the air. Each strike must have crushed armour and felled men—one apiece, broken with each assault. Threw them into the blood moistened dirt. The giant was not one to die early: to a stray spear or blow of an axe. Not a man of his stature Sion assured himself.

Sion's eyes kept passing over the changing battle lines. Steadily he saw the gradual appearance of shields. Usually not something peculiar enough to draw the eyes. This was different: pockets of shields along the front were beginning to form up at various intervals on both sides. He had not expected to see shield walls naturally emerge as both sides viciously pressed against each other. Sion had hoped for a rout to halt the slaughter early. Bot now, drawing from his impression: neither side would yield; permitting a quick defeat. The Cabal might have instigated the same rules barbaric for desertion.

"It don't feel very heroic slaughtering other peasants." someone muttered beside Sion, a few soldiers perked up nervously chuckling. Sion ignored it. He felt an eerie feeling in the depths of his gut. Something drifted high through the air below the blooming sun. He squinted and drew his ears forward. Faint black marks rushed across the earth He raised his hand instigating alertness. Suddenly it rang again. The poignant but challenging to locate horn. Especially on the battlefield, it would have been near to impossible to hear without a good set of ears. He didn't recognize the sound. It wasn't a note in regularly used by the empire. He felt tears emerge across his eyes as a wave, like a tsunami that swept him away in a strange exhilaration. He wiped his shameful perspiration off and looked across back to his men. Each seemed to be swept away in the alertness of the moment. Their hearts resonated and the tension quickly spread and exponentially grew. His head twisted back, his eyes widened. Crossbowmen positioned and draped in the greenery of the forest had fired on his men from several hundred yards.

He stood in shock. A bolt targeting him; crashed into his shoulder pulverizing links of chain and cutting into the fabric. Direct hit. He faltered backwards losing his balance. A man firmly grasped him and steadied his weight upright—back to centre; between his feet. Sion thanked him, turning back for a moment and giving him a reassuring nod after realizing he could not hear his own voice amongst the panicked shouting. It thickened the air, making it hard to breathe. He examined the bolt. It was stuck halfway into the fleshy shoulder muscle. The wound was beginning to throb. He steadied his shaky breathing. Then broke the bolt with a grimace and a grunt. He gritted his teeth through the initial shock of pain. He grabbed the remaining shaft and wiggled it until he tore it loose. His shoulder could still move even though it felt stiff and lacked a full range of motion.

He could feel the crushed rings of his chainmail on his skin through the thin linen of his undershirt. It felt wet. The crossbowmen began to reload as through the distant woods fresh soldiers began to flood out. Soon enough they'll form up and violate us amidst this chaos. He looked back across his soldiers. Some tried to take cover in the dirt—naturally crouching. Others were seeing to the wounded. One was shot dead: the bold had threaded the jugular. The man lay in a puddle of blood the earth had not yet taken. Some few were wounded, and one with a severely disgusting laceration: a bolt embedded into his bloated belly. Sion turned away after seeing blood and the deformed bits of yellow adipose tissue beneath the skin. He grimaced feeling something akin to bile, build at the back of his throat. The medic righted the man with some adhesive clay mixed with a particular variant of sap. Used to treat wounds by sealing them until proper treatment.

Officially a secret military derived formula everyone knew everything about—since by sheer volume alone nearly everyone was part of its manufacturing process. The bloated man soon stood up and pulled his shirt over his wound.

Wincing Sion turned to examine everyone else. The bolts were fired at a longe range. They relied on the ambush to deal casualties. He knew well enough some men who were wounded were already out of the fight. One in particular suddenly interrupted his thoughts. He sat on his knees in Sion's blind. Three bolts had pierced his chest—horrible wheezing escaped him. His face, one gripped harshly by fear. He was scared for his life. Sion watched as a medic rushed to him and drag him away. The wheezing, the sound was nails dragged across his bared skull. Sion was glad to see him gone.

He stuck his sword in the dirt and massaged his shoulder. His eyes wide and agape. His face frozen stiff—a break was necessary. The pain sent shocks through his body through a haze of a heavy throbbing heart. He hoped the bruise was bigger than the torn apart flesh. He waited until the image of the wounded had eased their grip upon him.

"Ready arms. Prepare for combat!" Sion barked, his voice audibly rougher, strained, but still an extension of his vigour and vitality. "Face the enemy! Turn on me!" The men slowly began to shift around, stumbling over the medics and wounded. He knew he needed to stagger the commands, but they were about to run out of time. Those crossbowmen would soon begin to reap chaos anew, in his meagre assortment of men. Each bolt would heighten their chances of a rut.

Each volley of bolts... Men falling over clutching their chests. Lungs, filling with blood. Drowning from the inside: on thickening, coagulating blood. It would overwhelm everyone with empty desperation and fear. He could see it, a clear picture of the future defeat. "Spears and breakers! To the front lines!" He shouted. He watched a few men begin to push through the lines. He felt all of them start to drift. It seemed the formation managed to turn. But, they were already giving ground to the enemy. Had fear already started pushing them back, pressing against their virtue, their courage? He prayed not or they would be crushed by a direct confrontation. Luckily soon enough he saw flimsy spears emerge and point outwards. Not a true phalanx but he would use it. He hoped a few men brought enough shields to limit the damage of the first wave.