Reports rippled as messengers advanced and retreated from army command, delivering their entries and disappearing with another order in hand, returning to the clash of swords and the crackle of gunfire that toiled on in the background. The charge of the cavalry thundered across the battlefield together with their footmen. For a moment, the sun appeared brighter and warmer than usual. Its light was hot on skin that steamed, clad in an oven of armour, but unlike his soldiers and subordinates, the Summer Lion enjoyed this weather reminding him of his natural habitat. Reclining in his wooden chair with his legs propped up on a short stool, he gazed at the sky and observed the craters of the faded moon. Even as his troops delivered their reports, not one voice went into his ears, blocked out by the sound of battle that stirred his lust for action, not that it would satisfy him considering all that his enemy would do was take flight. The sunlight broke again, and the star hid behind the skirts of clouds. The air suddenly cooled, and a chill ran down his spine. Sensing the return of a cloud’s shadow, his five senses returned to the voices of his subordinates.
“It appears the battle is done.” Speaking flamboyantly, a legate stood on the saddle of his warhorse and peered into his binoculars.
A lieutenant colonel stood beside him, crossed his arms and remained doubtful, however. “That can never be said for certain unless we have their heads displayed on pikes.”
The hooves of a white steed, twice as large as the regular horse, galloped down a corridor between the treeline and a row of artillery batteries, their gun barrels cold and their troops sitting around waiting at the ready in boredom. The rider on the magnificent creature pulled on his reins, and it skidded along the ground to a halt. Leaping off elegantly, without a miss in his step, a colonel marched towards his comrades and commander, who paid no heed to his arrival. Most people could not turn their eyes away from the colonel, who was clad in shining silver armour with a scarlet red tint.
Removing his helmet, letting his silver hair run, he humbly declared his arrival with the gravity of his aura. “Come now, Rzhev, Serov. Let us not mock our adversaries.” He took a swig of water from his flask made of an exotic hide and suggested.
The horseman patted the shoulder of the lieutenant colonel, who tipped his head in respect, and as he lowered his helmet onto a crate, he leaned against the body of a howitzer. Behind them, the general blinked, woken by his aide-de-camp’s distinct voices, and looked away from the greying sky. The creaking of his chair righted the posture of his three subordinates, who turned around as the lion lowered his feet from his stool. Sitting up, holding his hands in fists, the general stared at the colours of the frail League atop the hill across the battlefield.
“Let them choose their fate.” Vasilevsky stood up and stretched his arms, burdened by his own armour. “If they so wish to think themselves potent, let them think it.” The lion arrogantly joined in the mocking.
The minor reports from the corporals slowed as fewer and fewer events were deemed significant enough for the commander to hear as the battle moved away from the core of the Confederate army, with no end in sight except for absolute victory. The frontlines had shifted quickly, leaving the Rus officers with little reason to be concerned, but when a messenger approached the colonel directly, many felt that there was finally something worth paying attention to after hours of waiting. A sergeant spoke quietly, away from everyone’s ears. His lengthy report took just under a minute to deliver, but whatever it was, it had no effect on the colonel’s demeanour.
The colonel dismissed him and marched up to the general to deliver the full message. However, when he stood beside his commander, he hesitated, convinced that the report could not have been true. “There have been reports of an incursion by the enemy; rather, they appear to have forgone the general direction of their army’s retreat.” Nevertheless, the colonel was obliged to repeat what he had heard, but he still did not seem to have the general’s full attention.
“Their objective?” Vasilevsky asked for further details, but the answer he received made him frown.
“Unknown.” The colonel swiftly replied, still dubious about the sergeant’s account.
Rzhev, the legate, leapt off his steed’s saddle and brushed his moustache as he approached them to listen, while Lieutenant Colonel Serov kept an aloof expression, his curiosity, however, breaking his stoicism.
Upon hearing of the anomalous report, the colonel general sighed as he fitted his helmet and straightened his sore, hunched back, fixing his sword to his waist, intending to set off to meet this cancerous adversary, but before he took another step, there was another thing that he needed to clarify. “Their numbers?” Vasilevsky asked as his eyes were pinned on the frontlines, itching for action.
The colonel squinted under the brightness of the sun, which returned from its hiding behind the clouds. “Seven.” He bluntly said.
“Seven centuries? Seven regiments? Seven what?” The lion growled, having grown impatient as he demanded a straightforward answer.
Rzhev and Serov drew closer, eager to learn what had irritated the general so much, but no one would have believed the contents of the message even if there was evidence in front of their eyes that not even the colonel, whose faith in his troops was unwavering, could comprehend. They were confident that their predictable foe could not have planned such an unusual attack.
The colonel stayed staring at Vasilevsky, annoyed but unsurprised that he would not believe him before he reiterated what he had said. “Just seven.”
Vasilevsky looked over his shoulder as his demeanour changed from agitation to confusion. But when he read the colonel’s eyes, he found nothing that implied he was telling a lie.
Nearer the frontlines…
A giant’s fists ruptured guts and snapped blades, tossing and swinging prey around like pillows and batons. When an enemy thrust his sword, he was soundly defeated by the demon’s bloodied knuckles, and he stumbled around with his jaw dangling from his skull when he felt two hands grab hold of his head. The giant’s thumbs dug into his eye sockets, and the man screamed, his face ripped apart from within. The sight chilled the Confederates’ blood and they slowly backed away from the monster, allowing their javelineers to emerge. They pointed their blades at Miklós and launched their missiles at will, but the giant simply stepped aside and avoided the volley. Behind him, Colt and Lev snatched the javelins out of the air and turned them against their opponents. However, the river of troops would not stop. Hoping to break free from their encirclement by any means necessary, the brute charged at an enemy and threw themselves into the mud, wrestling, but the Rus, who had not expected the fight to devolve into such barbarism, lost traction and was trapped beneath the brute, who had clasped him still by his legs. Gin’s eyes were fierce and merciless, glaring at his opponent with animalistic intent as he attempted to break free, before smashing the pommel of his sabre into the man’s face until his brain leaked out his nostrils. Gin calmed down, panting heavily, when a comrade of the dead charged at him, but she failed to notice the sword thrown at Gin, who grabbed it and pointed it at the girl, who ran into the blade that pierced her stomach. Kneeling in the watery earth, exhausted and disarmed, Arber looked at Gin, who nodded in gratitude before freeing his sword and allowing her blood to cascade down his arm, but when he stood up, he felt his legs barely holding on and his hands trembling from ache.
Having killed his hundredth enemy, Gin cried towards the heavens. “Fuck, it’s endless!” The enraged brute forced his enemies into withdrawal with the wrath in his voice.
“What’s this glorious plan you have now, Sekiya?” Colt yelled, growing more agitated by the minute, but his sword did not slow.
The squad shrunk their perimeter, but the instigator of this disaster, Arminius, paid no heed to his comrades. His eyes flicked back and forth between the enemy before him and the enemy awaiting him in the distancing headquarters, but he knew he had to forfeit the prospect of advancing. The Confederates regained their lost ground, and even the most reserved soldier of the squad was forced to kill. A challenger approached him and plunged his sword against Julien, who was unable to withstand the strike. His feet slowly slipped when the ring of a blade and the shine of steel sliced through the neck of his enemy, whose throat was split open before his head was toppled from its shoulders, hitting Julien’s face as it rolled onto the smothered grass. The body slumped over, and the blood bathed the blonde-haired lancer when a friendly hand took him by his arm and stood him up in the centre of their formation, protecting him. They pointed their blades against the thickening wall of troops. Perhaps, those born with the blessing of the gods had to unleash their Eifers if they wished to save their lives, but it would cost them their comrades’.
“Halt, men!” A voice boomed out of the sea of Rus, and for a moment, the seven were relieved, but they realised that they would have to face another problem. “Make way for the colonel general!” The sergeant hurriedly repeated.
The squad cautiously watched the Confederates retreat and form a corridor, clearing way for the colonel general and his subordinates. Their troops were exhausted, but all they had gained were fallen comrades and unnecessary wounds. Standing tall even when their bodies refused, they lowered their heads in shame before the gold lamellar armour reflecting in the sun’s might. Their general marched down a lane of saluting soldiers with an imposing demeanour and three trusted aides flanking him from behind. He approached the location of his strange report, and in its centre stood seven young soldiers, surprising even the general’s subordinates. However, that was the least of their concerns, as how they survived the entire ordeal was a mystery in and of itself.
Rzhev raised his eyebrows, and his shoulders slumped upon seeing the squad that had caused him so much exaggerated trouble. “Seven, that cannot be…” He muttered to himself.
Finding the heaps of corpses at their feet that were probably a regiment’s worth of losses, the lieutenant colonel tightly held onto the hilt of his sword with caution. “Yet, it is.” Serov added.
Vasilevsky ordered his men as he daringly approached the squad, but he was not the only one who recognised the value of their catch. The colonel on the general’s staff noticed an oddly familiar Eifer coming from one of the seven lancers. Although he looked nothing like him, the scent he carried was nearly identical, almost provoking, and his hand had subconsciously moved to the knife on his belt. The colonel general marched nearer, and the squad turned their blades towards him, keeping light on their feet and heavy on their guard. Although their joints stiffened and were sore from battle, they knew they needed to regroup before attempting an attack, so they stayed put.
Judging by the uniforms of the squad, Vasilevsky presumed that they were foreigners of their army. “You bear the colours of the Alber, but you are slaves of the Bohemer.” The lion stepped forward and lugged his shadow with him, searching for the commander among the seven. His glare froze all before he noticed that there was one lancer who was no doubt their leader. “I take it you are the captain of this merry little warband, boy.” He fixed his rigid sights on him, singling him out from his squad.
With all eyes pinned on him, Arminius boldly showed himself and marched forth into the presence of the man who was ten times greater than any general he had seen among his Bohemer allies before halting before him and giving a light-hearted salute with his sword in his non-dominant hand and its blade turned away. “Arminius Reichner, Lancer of the One Hundred and Thirty-Sixth Austschralesachsonger Century.” Lowering his hand, he stood his ground, unwaveringly.
“Leonid Vasilevsky, Colonel General of the Fourth Army.” The Summer Lion returned the gesture and rested his hand on the hilt of his shashka. “You know your etiquette.” He was impressed with his courteous behaviour, as he noted.
Arminius remained still and calmly peered up at the colonel general. “Everyone should.” The lancer replied.
“Then you would be no one.” Vasilevsky rebuked while wearing a slightly amused grin.
The general moved his hand, and the squad, alerted by his slightest movement, braced themselves, but all he ever did was tighten the straps around the shield on his arm. “A shame. Victory was in their grasp, yet you seven were the only souls to brave this chance.” Vasilevsky lowered his hand and spoke, realising that he had inadvertently made the lancer’s comrades uneasy. “Alas, that is a virtue of the Rus, not you Westerners.” Although the squad was unsure whether Vasilevsky’s statement was a compliment of respect or mockery, he expressed disappointment in his enemy for being so mentally frail, unlike the squad, which dared to advance despite their disadvantage.
Staring at the lion, Arminius maintained a neutral demeanour that refused to change, as his squad flinched and the tips of their blades wavered. Their hearts raced without reason, but it was not out of fear but the shock of how he knew about their plan without him ever asking.
“What is he getting at?” Serov frowned, unsure of why his commander was speaking to their enemies in this manner. He had never seen his commander behave like this before.
However, the colonel among the general’s staff was growing ever more concerned, as if he knew what Vasilevsky desired out of the seven, albeit he did not ask them directly. His fists were clenched, and he felt his body grow rigid, listening and praying in his good conscience that it would not be what he feared most, which the squad’s leader seemed to have grasped already.
Vasilevsky turned his eyes towards the Bohemer headquarters as he told the brave seven with a sigh. “All you have earned now is a friendly blade on your neck.” Seeming sure of it, it was of no surprise that any army would take poorly to insubordination.
“Are you asking for us to defect?” Arminius asked the general what he could infer from the tone of his voice.
“Never.” The lion responded decisively, but it was clear that was a lie.
Gunfire rang out in the distance as the frontlines moved further away, the battle becoming an afterthought that did not concern the seven while they enjoyed an audience with a general, perhaps in no manner they had initially thought. The sun emerged out of its cowardice, illuminating the golden armour of the colonel general, which nearly blinded all who stared directly at him. The wind failed to fan out the stench of rot as the dead were being hauled away.
Vasilevsky sighed and placed his hands on his helmet to remove it. He did not fear his enemies’ conspiracy, trusting that the squad would no longer pursue his head, as they were sensible enough to engage in talks. “Without the Aelon, I guarantee that many of you would become generals before your coming-of-age.” Unconstrained by the discomfort of his helm, he relaxed his tone as if all the stress that had been building in his head had been released before handing his helmet to his legate.
Suddenly, finding a need to speak up, the other half-blood lancer stepped out of safety with his sabre on his shoulder. “Then, you’re bribing us?” Lev added to Arminius’s question, hoping that the general would admit it.
Shaking his head, the general did not understand why the squad would not understand the depth of his words, but he forgave them nonetheless given their age. “A choice is not an incentive nor an ask.” He placed his hand on his heart and warned them earnestly of what was to come if they returned to the League. “Or would you prefer to be beheaded the moment you set foot on your ally’s hill again?”
The brute spat on the ground and stamped forth, drawing the general’s attention as his comrades struggled to calm him, but it was clear he had had enough of Vasilevsky’s blabbering and lacked the patience to have someone explain it to him later. Moreover, he was confronted with words he could not comprehend, and his lack of brightness had always bothered him. “I’ve ‘eard ‘nough o’ his shit.” Gin snarled, baring his canines and looking for a fight.
Realising what he intended to do, Lev reached out for him, but he could not hold onto him in time. “Gin!” He called out to his deafened ears.
Gin’s blade rang as he charged at Vasilevsky, rushing by Arminius, whose startled expression became ghastly concern. The brute let out a cry as he aimed his sabre at the general’s head, leaping towards him and swinging at the neck that the general had intentionally exposed. The path of the blade curved, and Gin’s attack suddenly quickened as he reached for his trophy, while the Confederate soldiers froze in awe at the danger their general had put himself in. But mid-air, without ever seeing what had struck him, a pain of a thousand blades impaling him was thrust into his stomach from a punch which he felt pierce him. Within a second of declaring his attack, his grip weakened and his sword loosened from his fingers. The general’s gold shield held him up, draining his blood and vision before he slumped over, unconscious. Vasilevsky jolted his arm forward, ripping Gin off of his shield and launching him at his comrades. As his squad rushed to him, calling his name to keep him awake, blood dripped from the metallic flares of the Summer Lion’s sun-shaped shield, thick with an amber hue lining each droplet.
The colonel sighed in gladness that the squad was again brave enough to defy dishonour. “Except for him—” Vasilevsky pointed at Gin with his shield and excluded him from his offer.
A shadow appeared over his head, looming with bloodlust, and despite his fearlessness, the general was startled. Lightning bolted for Vasilevsky, who turned to face his new foe, his expression unchanging. When a sabre with the pungence of Eifer collided with the shield that deflected it, the clouds brightened and thunder crashed. Sparks and embers burnt as the blade screeched against the shield, the half-blood lancer’s arms numb. He lacked the strength to break through the general’s defence, and knowing that the lancer could only maintain a stalemate, the lion tightened his fists and prepared to deliver a blow to his body, but when he pounced on his prey, there was nothing but air. Arminius had vanished into the winds, and as the general searched his surroundings, there was still no signs of his foe. His army continued to shuffle and mumble, distracting the general, who kept a close eye on his flank. Suddenly, a blade emerged from the dust, extending towards Vasilevsky’s neck, but his shield was too far away to defend himself, yet Arminius was so overcome by adrenaline that he failed to notice his mistake until it was too late. Vasilevsky pivoted slightly as he drew his shashka, the curve of the scabbard propelling the blade into the boy’s flank. His sabre was only an inch away from the general’s neck, but the lancer’s arms were too short, his fingers flinching and weakening from the sword in his body as he was thrown into his squad. Arminius collapsed into the arms of his comrades who caught him, blood pouring out of him. The colour of his face slowly faded as he shuddered, as if his breath had been stolen from him by a monster that not even a demon could handle. Paralysed, the squad lay helplessly, watching two of their own wither beneath Vasilevsky’s towering shadow. The general, dissatisfied with the outcome he wished to avoid, shook his head and lowered his sword and shield. He was not so fiendish as to deny them all of their chances, but the lion retracted his claws, thinking it might be impossible to convince them already.
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