A vile blend seeped through his jacket, a lancer’s whose back was pressed against a corpse. He was saved when a hand reached down, offering to aid him. Arminius looked up and saw the face of his friend, gritting his teeth attempting to conceal his pain. Without delay, he took his hand and was stood, stumbling as his head was still half-dazed. But he had better survived the frightful encounter than the lancer beside him did.
Holding his flank that had been caught by the edge of a saber, his wound disturbed him less than having witnessed the sheer will of his allies in action. “Fuckin’ hell, he’s mad.” Colt turned his eyes down, and determining that it was no more than a flesh wound, he wiped his hand of blood and rearmed himself. “No wonder he hasn’t seen the battlefield in thirteen years.” Searching for the man in question, not he nor his squad could find him, only assuming that he was embroiled in a battle of his own.
The infantry clashed in no order, just that of blades thrusting and swinging wherever it could. The scraping of steel dueled endlessly. As reserves of bodies of the opposing fronts threw themselves into battle, hurling their lives away as if they went without a dime of desire to live, the battle became a brawl like a gladiator’s pit. Those disarmed resorted to fists and claws, rearming themselves with the equipment of corpses. Officers discharged their revolvers as the smoke of gunpowder and sparks deepened the bitterness of the air. Two immovable forces fertilized the earth with a stalemate that bled both enemies and allies dry.
Between the lines where troops hurrying to the battlefront fluidly flowed, Arminius and Károly ran ahead together. However, after a few paces, they had realized from the relative quietness around them that the footsteps of their comrades had not joined them. Coming to a slow halt, the two turned around and found seven lancers breathless. Some had faces which paled and others with blood, of theirs or not, coating them from head to toes. The squad were weighed down, sluggishly walking and dragging their feet across the mud, until they rallied around the lancer and the archer who were seemingly unclaimed by the same exhaustion as they were. Lev curled over and his breakfast was turned out his stomach. Julien patted his back, but even he and everyone else tried to shun any thoughts of fatigue. Looking to the skies, they tried to distract themselves but the heavens returned with an empty hand, with nothing that could unburden them of indecision. Their warrior hearts throbbed, commanding them to drive on, yet believing that they had not curried any favor with the gods, there was little faith. Wondering how ever he could revive his comrades, Arminius blanked in a stupor of deliberation, unnoticing the beating gallop of a horse. It rolled through the Lecher as none that equalled its rider’s prowess could bring the creature to a stop. Charging out of the ranks, a horseman had bore a hole in the Aelon and his elite guards flooded through the opening. Arminius turned but his sword was slow and its blade could do little against the might of the attack. Spun around low on a knee, Károly plucked an arrow from his quiver, drawing his bow before it was nocked properly and fired in a second’s time. Although he had aimed before ever seeing his mark, the arrow stayed true and shot at the rider. Deflected by the thin body of the rapier, the missile struck an unfortunate soul behind him. But the sudden scare of retaliation jolted the horse which reared and cast a vast shadow over the squad. Stood before the lone rider, some recognized his pretentious demeanor.
Gin marched forth, bouncing his sword on his hand, he seemed sure when he said, “Ain’t dat one o’ Vasilevsky’s?” Seeking a fight, a brow was raised.
“Gin,” Arber tugged on his collar before he would mistake himself again. “We don’t have the means to reattach your head if you lose it this time.” He disencouraged, reminding him of their previous encounter that did not end as planned.
Confederate troops broke through the Aelon gaps, pushing away those who battled to join themselves with the squad. But tenacity alone could not have vied with the swamp of strength that belonged to the Rus. Tides of enemies rose and swallowed the nine whole, soon finding themselves surrounded on every side. Their wish for rest had been snatched for their grasps, and were forced to poise themselves on guard. However, half of their statures were small and did not pose so much as a threat a regular squadron would. Slowly drawing inwards, the enemy thirsting for vengeance pointed their blades at their throats, a steel wall that was impossible to assail. It was the shouts of captains and sergeants who halted them, and in their midst, a hand was lowered from the air. Removing his feet from his stirrups, the general leaned forward and crossed his arm over his steed’s mane. He squinted as he scanned their faces which seemed familiar but the memory of who they were exactly was not so fresh. Only upon seeing the brute stayed by his comrade, his demeanor hostile and hot with fire, did the third general remember. With a second look, the man glanced at each of them until the lancers too remembered who he was, and he did them.
A chuckle broke out with a grin rising on one corner of his mouth. “I must say, I am rather surprised…” Rzhev admitted. “It is no wonder any longer why the general took such interest in you.”
His arm pushed outward and his men withdrew twenty paces, though cautiously as they retrieved their spears and swords, forming a new border of steel around an emerging ovalar field. The squad looked around, puzzled, but some whose knowing was greater than most recognized, out of experience, the general’s intentions.
“However, his reputation was lost, and I am here to reclaim it.” Rzhev spoke, suddenly with a flatter tone unlike his typical cadence.
Sat upright, the general stroked his mustache and held his rapier out before it was loosened out of his hand. The blade dropped and was stabbed into the ground, burrowing deep enough for its body to be anchored straight and still. Then, its apparent facade of lightness was discarded for the heft it must have to have carved a scar in the earth. Rzhev uncrossed his arm and swung his leg over the saddle, and in one motion, he leapt off his noble seat. The parts of his armor rattled and a guard hurried forth from behind, jogging with a hand on his saber’s grip. He gave a quick salute before reeling in his general’s steed and retreated promptly with the jittery creature. Although the scene was set, emptied of most obstacles that would spoil the Rus’s mood, corpses and limbs, parts of weapons and tattered clothes littered the environs of the would-be execution grounds. Rzhev took deliberately leisurely steps towards his rapier, and which despite his apparent calmness, the squad felt their hearts thud louder than they would if he was vexed.
Picking up his rapier that had bore a thin hole in the mud which blood was let in to refill, the third general spun around and pointed it, addressing his adversary, “Tell me, you little horrors,” Rzhev held onto the blade with a hand skin-bare, but it did not cut him. “In what manner do you wish to fulfill death?” It was only his belief that it was considered heroic to be given a choice in their execution.
On the threat of his words, the squad tightened their formation and raised their blades against the general. The air had flipped, from one of fear to potent will. Their instincts of survival had awoken and their minds had sharpened, riding on a wave of adrenaline with intent clear.
Gritting his teeth, a lancer turned his sword beside his face at their supposed executor, coming before his comrades. “Let’s not make a repeat of last time.” Arminius steadied and advised, keeping his heel from the ground.
Without a choice to retreat, they tensened their grip, locking themselves into a fate that they believed, with their numbers, that they could cheat. Even in strength which they lacked, their focus was solely driven to battle the enemy before them. But the Rus smirked and laughed at them, assured by their general’s prowess that the squad found difficult to acknowledge. He had not yet shown the scent of eifer nor the eyes of a killer. No danger colored his face, yet it could be hiding beneath his unimposing silhouette. The student of the colonel general was certainly not the lion and in that brief moment of false belief, the lancers and the corporal were foolish to have thought that his appearance was all there was to the name, Rzhev.
His blade lowered and he clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Very well.” Rzhev abided by their challenge, flicking his cape over a shoulder.
The squad braced in anticipation of an attack. They had judged from their enemy’s rapier that he would act first, but how he would do so took little time for them to discover. Before ever seeing the general’s feet be lifted, a flash and a sound of loose terror shrieked and broke their world of color. The eifer that had been mastered to near-perfection had reduced the dimensions of the universe around them into streaks of shadow and light. It was humanity’s greatest gift that the species should never have accepted. A forbidden fruit that a god gave to see what chaos his creation could wreak. Letalis. None had thought that he had the means, nor did they think that he would have unleashed it in the first second of battle. The attack ripped awide a rift between the lancers and corporal whose intuition saved their lives. Out of coincidence and gamble in their movement, they barely escaped. Gashes and cuts opened on their legs and arms on those who dived and fell, defeated in the overture of the battle. The adept dashed aside, like Arminius whose quick feet stepped away from the trail of blaze before its arrival, the calamity of their own partial making. The bones in his arms rattled as sparks disintegrated the edge of his blade. A splinter scathed his face and when he pivoted on his landing, the sight of devastation distracted him and he twisted his ankle. Dropping to a knee, he held the softened earth to set himself steady. His vision was a blur, smudged by the dust and haze. Ahead, the general stood proudly, his cape fluttering in the gale as he held out his rapier and turned. Twisting his mustache, admiring his work of destruction, he watched as his prey, separated by the bloodstained track that he had painted, fail to rise. Laying, squirming with wounds that they had not suffered before; rising, the able-bodied dragged their comrades away. But one did neither. Motionless, his blue eyes were hidden behind his drawn lids, his blonde hair seeped with mud. Another crawled towards him and kicked his sword to Arminius’s side, dragging him away from the carnage. Though most were able to stand eventually, not many could fight on. The archer aimed his arrow as a giant charged his target like an enraged bull. A brute helped up an easterner before a girl defending them both, a comrade Rus silently dismayed. The sight alone gave birth to a flame in his heart that Arminius had not known in years. Replacing his blunted blade with a sword untainted, the boy’s dual-colored irises shone like amethyst.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMBfR5NbE8p
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