15^th Illumis, 460 AG, 18:57PM, Heodal Kingdom

Paul had never cared for such things as the simple dusk, but right now, he felt like he should. Just a few moments ago, he was stressed about what his son had found, and now something far worse arose at his doorstep. The world thinned at the edges, its colors flowing into one another until only the hard shapes remained: the village's wall, the gate, his sword and shield.

At the eastern gate, the light ran orange over everything, covering all the confused men with the last warmth it would ever know. He felt it slide over his helmet, something like a pressure-less hand, and then it was gone, replaced by the heavy dark behind the tree lines, along with the oily smoke that covered every breath. Who were the attackers? And why would their nameless, poor village be a target for such a large force? Paul could imagine the answers, and none of them were good news.

“Where’s your kid?” Paul asked, and his good friend replied.

“I sent him to your place.” Zlodey’s voice was rough. “No way I’m bringing him to such a battle.”

Scouts had reported a large force of soldiers in the forest to the east, as if they'd suddenly appeared there. The village barely had any time to react, so not many knights were available.

They were lined up five ranks deep, Paul and Zlodey near the front, Captain Jaros stalking the rear with his imposing authority. The other men consisted of apprentices and poorly trained novices, with two of the king’s men who were currently in the village on an errand, and one of the merchants’ son who’d spent the last hour vomiting in the bushes and now stood white as snow, and his shirt on backward.

Jaros had split the forces so they were even between the east and north gates, with the rest of the villagers themselves crowding the inner square, boxed in behind overturned carts and whatever furniture they’d had time to drag from their homes. If anything, they could escape to the west.

Paul moved his eyes over the barricade, searching for weak points, places where the wall could be easily broken into, any spot that already looked damaged. He focused back on his front; the land dropped away to a shallow ravine, if it could even be called that, then climbed back up into the forest, each tree now shuddering with wind and the low, predatory hum of an army in motion.

He found himself hating the silence on their side.

“They’re waiting for the sun to finish.” Zlodey broke the silence, rumbling without turning his head. “Don’t want to risk the light at their backs.”

“Can’t risk much if they’re setting up siege lines…” Paul muttered. “They’ll shower us with boulders before they send anyone close.”

Zlodey’s laugh was one dry cough. “Maybe they hope we’ll talk ourselves out first.”

Paul gave his friend a nervous smile, then went back to scanning the woods. He could hear the enemy even before seeing the whole thing. The slow, synchronized beat of boots, the grind of a siege frame being dragged through the dirt. Even the wind had a rhythm, as if it promised every next beat would be the last.

He shifted the load of his shield, flexed his fingers around the strap, and thought of his wife, Katyl. Not her face, not even her name, but the shape she would make once he could hold her again in his arms, hoping it could be just like when he’d first come home from the war twelve years ago, and found himself for a moment, something other than a soldier.

Then, a whistle spread through the air. It was thin and sharp, just above the range of possible hearing, but every man at the line turned to follow it. Paul ducked and raised his shield, as the first boulder flew out of the woods and crashed into the ravine with a tearing sound.

The ground shook. Pebbles slid down the sloped ground. Two more followed, then a third, but this one was followed by a line of flame that lit the treetops and crashed into the village itself, destroying multiple buildings. Both Paul and Zlodey felt like running back to check on their loved ones, but abandoning the battle would be a disgrace as knights.

“Hold!” Jaros screamed out, his voice so steady it might even have been bored. “Keep your shields high, don’t break!”

The enemy began to move. Not a charge, but a slow and steady approach. Black iron ranks slipping out from between the trees, every man marching in perfect step. Behind them, a tall flag emerged from the shadows. It was mainly red, with some black symbol in its center.

Argo Kingdom… Paul thought to himself, recalling the last time they attacked. It ended as a victory for Heodal, so who could have thought they would decide to attack again after so long.

Paul braced. The men beside him did the same, most of them barely old enough to shave. Some wore armor so ill-fitting it left gaps at the neck, the shoulder, the wrist. But they held, even when the next volley of boulders struck the wall with such force that the dust shot back into their teeth and eyes. Nobody was prepared for an all-out assault, and the defeat seemed certain.

He felt the impact in his feet, a vibration that traveled up his calves and through his chest. He blinked out tears from the dust flowing into his eyes, wiped his face with the back of his gloved hand, and set his stance, with knees loose and the shield angled to catch whatever blow the enemy attempted.

“You ready!?” Zlodey let out a low, amused grunt, as if he was excited for the battle now.

“Always.” Paul grinned. Returning the feeling.

The front rank of enemy troops had finally reached the bottom of the wall, forming a line equipped with pikes and axes. They were clean, professional. It made the hair rise at the back of the defenders’ necks.

Jaros let them close, then shouted, “Now!” He shouted.

Both Paul and Zlodey lifted their shields over the top and battered down on the first soldiers to reach them, smashing their plated helmets and faces into the muddy dirt below. The wall shivered as dozens of boots closed in, their heavy steps pounding into the earth. A ladder went up, then another, then a third, all in perfect sync.

Paul slammed his weight into the first from behind, knocking off three men before the fourth made it to the top of the wall. The enemy knight came down softly, like a cat that did not care about height, and jabbed a short sword straight for Paul’s gut. He blocked it with his shield and felt the blade glance off, then pivoted and smashed the man in the head with the hilt, sending him sprawling off onto his back. But the next one was already up, and the next, and soon the line became chaos of the bang of steel upon steel.