Running out of the thin frosty mist, they must have thought it was a deer or the enemy. However, the figure was familiar. From the forest grounds and down the soft ridge, a boy raced, his hair brushed back by the wind and his arrows rattling in his quiver. However cheery he was, he had unkindly forgotten about the girl who gave chase behind him, and even with her agility, she could not keep up with the spirited pup. Avoiding the squads of soldiers camped about, the archer carelessly dodged the fires and waggons, clumsily tripping over himself. Upon reaching his band, he kicked his heel, and at speed, he toppled off balance and crashed into the snow. Out of instinct, his helpless comrades stood up and moved away as he slid across the white earth. Only when Arminius managed to grab onto his collar in time did Károly abruptly stop, averting his swift demise.
Unlike the archer, Alexandria safely reached her destination, having followed the archer’s path of destruction. When Julien came beside him, worriedly, Károly opened his eyes, finding himself suddenly being attacked by the heat of the nearby flames.
Arminius released him from his grasp, and Károly’s face was planted in the snow. “That would’ve been an embarrassing ending.” Breathing again from the brief scare, the lieutenant said, messing with the archer’s hair. “Anyways, what’s the hurry?” Crouching down beside him, he asked in anticipation of good news.
Károly lifted himself up from the snow with dirt rubbed into his face. “We bumped into a friendly scout on the way.” He could not contain himself with excitement. His breaths were solid white. “They’re a few hours out.” The archer reported.
The squad’s faces lit up in hope. They rejoiced, and by Gin’s loud, uncensorable mouth, his words were spread throughout the camp until each and every one of the thousand had heard it. Renewed with belief in divine intervention, they thanked their gods and they let out cries and cheers. Suddenly, the taste of water had the sweetness of wine, and their rations felt like warm, freshly baked bread. Their imaginations ran wild speaking of what they were going to do once they had reached the safe banks of the Renen.
Unlike his openly jovial companions, Arminius cracked a simple smile, realising that everything they had done up until then was worth the struggle they had endured for the sake of all their fallen comrades. There was no doubt that in his heart, he was glad, perhaps gladder than most.
“We’re saved!” Siegfried, his arm, injured from a stray bullet, in a sling, jumped onto Arnau’s back.
Holding his blade out before him, the blue-eyed lancer blew on its edges and dusted its surface. “Not yet.” Arnau set his whetstone down and sheathed his sword as he gave him a realistic response. “Not until we’ve reached the Renen…”
Siegfried learnt that it was best to maintain the decency of understanding an unwanted possibility and stood up, but it did not discourage him from hoping for the best before he noticed Arminius’s face change. The lieutenant lifted his head when he spotted something in the distance. However, it was nothing he wished to see. There was dread, fear, and emotions that none of his comrades had seen except Siegfried, who followed his gaze. When he landed his sight on the culprit of his commander’s terror, he wished he had not seen it before anyone else.
Standing up beside Károly, Arminius moved his hand from the pommel to the hilt of his sword. “Were you followed?” Arminius did not sway his eyes from his focus when he asked his comrade.
Confused, the archer stammered, “Wha—No, Alexa made sure we weren’t.” Károly looked over his shoulder and fell silent as he slowly rose from the ground.
“Then, they must’ve known…” Arminius knew he could not blame him for what and who had appeared, for that was beyond their control.
One by one, the soldiers of the thousand turned around as those who already did gestured for their comrades to do so. Before long, they fell silent. Judgement day had come early. Knowing not how to react, cold sweat formed on their scalp, yet despite their fears having been realised, they needed no command when arranging themselves into battle formation. Corporals and sergeants, and whatever officers were left, scattered, wading through the snow to rejoin the ranks of their troops. Orders were called out, overlapping the different voices who shouted the same words. The air became stagnant with evil, doing away with the short-lived joy they had experienced. Lines formed behind their walls of logs, erected in a crescent formation that wrapped around the bridgehead, defending their sacred bridge. Wielding their sparse collection of rifles and bows, those without either weapon knelt with bladed and blunt weapons readily in their hands, which were shaking uncontrollably. It was the wounded whose minds did not waver, and it was they who stirred their comrades’ spirits. Eventually, their fervour reignited. However scant the possibility of survival may have seemed.
Remaining by Arminius’s side, Arnau took shelter having sent Siegfried to the rear, but the lieutenant did not retreat, wanting to recklessly face his enemies in the open.
Overlooking his prey that he had caught, a third general smiled fiendishly. Wanting to witness the upcoming battle from the ground, he brought his feet out of his stirrups and dismounted with the swing of his leg over the spine of his black war steed. Its fur was like a midnight sky. The boyish general strolled closer to the treeline and emerged out of the bushes and naked foliage. A servant reached out to him, bearing his weapon, which the general snatched out of his hands and placed its shoe in the snow. The three-bladed spear had a royal blue shaft, ornamented with carvings of gold swirls that rode the canvas of an open sea. Regularly, he commanded much more than how many there were then. However, his force still easily outnumbered his foe.
Ten thousand infantrymen, standardly armed and uniformed, with a rifle and a sabre each, headed the proud, flying banners of a vanguard army. Unafraid to challenge any adversary, no matter how many they have hunted and killed, their bloodlust was not yet satisfied. Camped before them was a regiment a tenth of their size who stared at the steadily growing numbers that crawled out of the woods. The Confederates appeared like a blanket of steel over the fresh, single-coloured snow, and they had the League surrounded, but for the third general, his encounter with the enemy had not been exactly planned.
Pulling a face of surprise, he scanned their defences, which had been hastily put up. “They beat me to it.” Slightly bewildered by their agility, the young soldier seemed impressed.
It did not dissuade him, however, from the wager he had with his friend and comrade. Aurelius Radilov may have been perceived as the very devil who haunted both allies and enemies with his mere existence. However, beyond being a fiend, he was also an elite soldier, and a professional. He knew what was needed for victory and what amounted to defeat. When he lifted his spear, his men organised themselves, loaded their rifles, and waited for the command to open fire.
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