Part 1
The orange sky bled into dusk as Bisera stepped out of her command tent to address the scouts. The news had arrived swift and dire: Gillyrian forces were massing near the southern hills, close enough to threaten the plague-stricken Vakerian army. Too many of her soldiers lay quarantined with feverish delirium from tainted water; those still upright were shaken and understrength.
A hush fell over the camp when Bisera emerged. She stood tall, blonde hair braided back to keep off her shoulders, partially healed arrow wounds strapped beneath her worn armor. Pain flared with every movement, yet her men's eyes clung to her unwavering authority.
At the perimeter, Vesmir and Velika—each bearing fresh injuries—awaited her with a small cluster of scouts. Velika leaned on a staff, her left leg splinted from a near-fatal arrow wound. Shadows darkened Vesmir's features, drawn by nights spent fighting both plague and despair.
Vesmir saluted. "General, the scouts confirm Gillyrian banners. Perhaps three thousand men by the foothills. Possibly Nikolaos's army."
The name "Nikolaos" knotted Bisera's stomach with rancid anger. That cunning Gillyrian commander orchestrated infiltration after infiltration: from lethal sabotage at Thessaloria to, probably, the contamination of the wells. If this truly was Nikolaos, the coming battle would be severe.
She steadied her voice. "What do we know?"
A weary scout stepped forward. "Mostly novices, freshly conscripted peasants. Maybe two or three hundred elites at their core. But they're well-led. They set watchers on the ridges. It seems they plan to strike at dawn or soon after."
Bisera gave a curt nod. "We have many too ill to hold a weapon. We can't risk a rout…"
Velika's trembling voice interjected, "We must form a defensive line. We cannot outrun them. Our men are too weak."
Exactly as Bisera feared. "Then we dig in," she said, grim determination in her tone. "Barricade with wagons, archers on the flanks, all healthy men at the fore."
She turned to James, who approached cradling a satchel of conjured medical items. He had forsaken the comforts of his own modern realm to remain at her side, something she both appreciated and dreaded—he might once more face the horror of battle.
Softly, only for her ears, he said, "We'll hold them off. Even if Nikolaos is leading them, we've stopped him before." His eyes showed the toll killing took on him. She recalled him retching after the last major clash.
She laid a gloved hand on his shoulder. "We stand together," she said quietly, affection leavened with duty. "I won't let him harm you."
James swallowed but met her gaze bravely. "Nor I you," he promised.
Part 2
The clarion call from the Gillyrian side pierced the predawn gloom like a sword drawn in silence—sharp, inevitable. Bisera stood atop a wagon's broken tongue, scanning the ashen horizon. To her left and right spread a defensive line of battered wooden wagons interspersed with strange polymer barriers James had conjured the night before. The plastic-and-metal panels gleamed unnaturally in torchlight, but they offered her men vital cover.
Her vantage revealed the Gillyrian host forming up: roughly three thousand men across a gentle slope. Many were novices—awkward, mismatched armor, farm tools turned into crude spears. But at the formation's center, three hundred elites glimmered in the weak morning light, their lamellar meticulously fitted. Hovering behind them, a purple crest fluttered ominously. Bisera's pulse jumped.
"General," Vesmir said, stepping up beside her. Deep lines of exhaustion marred his face. "They're spreading wide to envelop us or find our weakest point."
Bitterness stabbed her. "They know we're ill. They smell blood." She glanced down at her lines: fewer than seven hundred men healthy enough to fight. Some still coughed from lingering fevers. Nikolaos must sense an easy kill.
Nearby, Velika peered over a short wooden barrier, a sword strapped to her waist. She had not yet fully healed from her injured leg, but she refused to remain idle. She barked orders for a makeshift cavalry to hold the flanks—two men per horse if needed. The arrangement looked pitiful, yet the men drew some heart from seeing their captain stand once more.
A shape approached: James, breath steaming in the chill. He wore a borrowed mail shirt beneath a conjured leather vest, carrying pouches at his belt. "Everything is prepared," he murmured. "I have a few batches of small firecrackers if they breach our line. Seraphina charged me a small fortune, but it's worth it, right?"
Bisera managed a wry smile at the notion of paying money to an archangel. "If it spares my soldiers, we'll pay any price," she said. For now, the looming threat overshadowed such concerns.
A horn blared across the plain, echoing through the half-light. The novices advanced in ragged lines, prodded by stern Gillyrian officers. Bisera's heart pounded. She climbed onto her warhorse, ignoring the dull ache in her bandaged shoulder, and brandished her sword overhead. "Archers—on my signal!" she shouted.
A line of pallid bowmen—some trembling from fever—fitted arrows to bowstrings. As the novices drew near, Bisera lowered her sword, releasing a ragged volley. Some arrows fell short, but enough found marks that novices collapsed, crying out in confusion. Nonetheless, they pressed on under harsh officer commands.
Meanwhile, the wedge of Gillyrian elites stood at the center, unmoving. Nikolaos, Bisera guessed, was letting the novices soften them up before delivering a decisive strike. Her mouth felt dry. She prayed the barricades would endure.
Moments later, novices slammed into the wagon line and polymer barriers. Their crude axes and short spears thudded against battered wood and modern plastic, the entire structure groaning under repeated impacts. Some novices scrambled up the wagon wheels, only to be pushed back by pikes or a thrust from a desperate Vakerian sword. Splinters rained down whenever a wagon threatened to collapse, but the men behind them jammed in extra boards and braces.
Amid the chaos, Vesmir bellowed from atop a wagon, spear in hand. "Hold the line! Don't waver!" The novices, startled by the defenders' stamina, soon shifted tactics, splitting into small knots that probed for weaknesses in the barrier. The muddy air quivered with steel clashes and raw screams.
On the left flank, Velika led a brief cavalry sortie. Barely half a dozen horses galloped out, hooves churning mud. Though hampered by disease, the riders drove a group of Gillyrians back. Yet they lacked the strength to press; the novices regrouped swiftly, fear of Nikolaos's elites outweighing their panic.
James hovered near Bisera, sword in one hand, the "firecracker bombs" in a belt pouch. Fear skittered in his eyes, but he refused to cower. If the barricade failed, he would be the last line.
"How do you fare?" he shouted over the din.
Bisera gritted her teeth, deflecting a messy blow from a novice climbing over a wagon corner. "I manage," she barked, her shoulder protesting. The novice toppled with a pained cry, tumbling off the wagon. Bisera pressed a hand briefly against the bandage under her pauldron, pushing past the red-hot pain.
So far, the line held, though with too many defenders half-sick. The real threat loomed: Nikolaos's wedge. Moments later, a crisp bugle cut through the muddy battlefield. The novices parted, making room for the disciplined column of three hundred elites. Their lamellar glinted, spathions in hand, eyes fixed on the center. Following them on a tall black mare was Nikolaos, face stony yet confident.
Bisera's men braced. The novices, busy scuffling across the barrier, had pinned them thinly. Now the elites would deliver the hammer blow. Bisera inhaled, reining her horse near the wagon's center. "James," she said over her shoulder, "be ready."
He gave a slight nod, sweat dripping down his jaw. "I won't let them breach." The mention of his firecrackers reminded him that each one had cost him dearly, but he steeled himself, focusing only on protecting Bisera.
The elites struck near the junction between wooden wagons and polymer panels, hammering spathions and spears at the seams. The modern material groaned under repeated strikes, and soon a segment collapsed with a resounding crash. A gaping breach yawned before them, wide enough for a squad to rush through.
Bisera spurred her horse to that spot, roaring, "Form up! Defend the gap!" A half-dozen men dashed forward, swords raised. Most coughed raggedly, but they locked shields, determined.
The first wave of elites thundered in a coordinated lunge. Rusted swords clashed with polished spathions, men tumbled, and screams tore the air. Bisera dismounted, too pressed for mounted combat in these cramped quarters. Gritting her teeth, she mustered a surge of mana synergy, ignoring the agony in her shoulder. She slammed her blade into a Gillyrian's torso, forcing him back with a strangled cry. Another parried her, a short axe hooking at her side. She twisted away, delivering a downward slash that cut through half his lamellar. The man dropped, gasping.
But more elites pressed forward, forcing the ill defenders to yield ground. James flanked the center, scanning for a massed cluster to target. Seeing a knot of lamellar-wearing elites closing, he lobbed a small gray sphere. It burst with a searing flash and thunderous pop, scattering half-blind Gillyrians. Some reeled back, giving the Vakerians a window to strike. Yet the wave kept coming—fresh elites stepped over their fallen.
Then Nikolaos emerged from behind the novices, riding gracefully, scanning for an opening. His mana-infused arrow took shape. Bisera glimpsed him across the chaos and felt her stomach drop. There he was, the man who had orchestrated her men's suffering. His startlingly handsome face—fine features, golden hair—was at odds with the cruelty in his eyes. He looked more like a lost angel than a warlord, yet his heart reeked of poison.
"Bisera," Nikolaos called mockingly. "We meet again. Shall I end your plague for you? Or end you with it?"
She ground her teeth. "I'll see your treachery ended!" The novices pinned her men, the elites hammered at the breach. The entire defense tottered on a knife's edge. She felt the old arrow wounds crying for rest. If she fell, the line would collapse.
Velika struggled at the far left with novices; Vesmir tried to form a cavalry wedge for a second charge. All of it seemed too little, too late. James darted up with a conjured katana, breath ragged. "I lost my old sword. Seraphina took back the rifle too, half-refunded me," he gasped, forcing a grin. "Now, I just have these bombs and a blade."
Bisera nodded grimly, slicing down another elite who tried to charge them. She turned at a shriek from the left flank:
Velika was down, pinned by two elites who exploited her wounded leg. Blood stained her bandage. She fought valiantly, but they wrenched her sword away. Riding in from behind them—like an actor on a stage—was Nikolaos.
He dismounted with effortless poise. The novices parted in respect or fear. Even battered and muddied, Nikolaos radiated an unearthly beauty—sharp cheekbones, faultless skin—a veneer of purity masking the darkness within. He seized Velika, twisting her arms behind her back, pressing a short spatha to her throat. Her eyes burned with defiance, but she was helpless.
A hush gripped the nearby battlefield. Vakerians froze, horrified. Bisera's heart hammered as she remembered how Garros died thanks to Nikolaos's cunning. She would not lose Velika, too.
"Bisera!" Nikolaos roared. "Drop your sword or she dies. Now." He angled the spatha, drawing a bead of blood from Velika's throat. She winced, refusing to scream.
Dread smothered the Vakerian lines. Men moaned in despair. Bisera's mind raced: her beloved captain's life dangled by a thread. If she surrendered, the entire army might crumble. Velika, tears of pain leaking at her eyes, rasped, "Don't yield… I'm only one soldier," but Nikolaos jerked her, exacerbating her wound. She choked on a cry.
Bisera's sword wavered, a lump rising in her throat. Could she let Velika die? Or should she risk all?
Nikolaos sneered, features too perfect for such cruelty. "Kneel, or watch her bleed." Five elites ringed him, novices forming a second layer. At the barricade's edge, James hovered with a lit firecracker but no clear shot.
Velika gritted her teeth, deciding it was better to die on her own terms. She tried impaling herself on the spatha's tip, but Nikolaos yanked her back, cursing. Another cut opened at her collarbone. "Damn you, woman," he growled.
Unable to watch more, Bisera started lowering her sword. Time seemed to slow. Then an arrow whistled from behind a toppled wagon panel, aiming near Nikolaos's wrist. He recoiled, loosening his grip. Velika lunged away, half stumbling. She'd escaped death by a hair.
Thunder of hooves: Vesmir rode in on a half-lame horse, hooking Velika's waist. The horse whinnied but carried them clear. Nikolaos slashed in frustration and missed by inches.
With savage relief, Bisera let out a roar. Mana flared in her battered body. She dashed forward, colliding with Nikolaos before he could recover. He tried conjuring mana in an arrow, but her sword hilt slammed into his forearm. He staggered, that angelic face twisting with fury.
James raced to assist, intercepting one of Nikolaos's guards who lunged to protect their commander. A quick sword clash left James staggering, but he rallied with a desperate slash from his katana, a gout of blood marking the guard's defeat. Another guard advanced on James's blind side—James flung a firecracker under the man's feet. It exploded with a fierce burst, forcing him to reel away. James slashed him down.
Nikolaos, battered by Bisera's relentless attack, tried to retreat. Each swing he made was agile and polished, revealing his prowess. At times, he nearly struck her wounded shoulder, but her synergy and unyielding fury kept her a step ahead. Then, with a final savage pommel strike to his temple, she dropped him to his knees. His dagger clattered away, his eyes rolled back. He fell unconscious in the mud.
James stumbled to her, soaked in gore, his eyes wide with conflicting relief and horror. "You… got him," he croaked. "Spirit be praised."
Bisera held her cheek where a shallow cut bled, blinking tears of relief. Nikolaos's novices saw their commander fall and broke, dropping weapons to flee. The few loyal elites tried to form a rear guard but found themselves overrun by vengeful Vakerians outraged at the plague and infiltration. The battle's final moments were savage and short.
Vesmir circled back, carefully lowering Velika onto a patch of ground where a medic took over. She managed a shaky grin through tears and pain. "We got that snake," she wheezed.
Bisera gazed at Nikolaos's supine body as two soldiers pinned his arms, binding him in ropes. He still looked deceptively angelic, but she knew better. Poison lurked beneath those refined features. Part of her almost pitied him—if only he'd used his gifts for nobler causes. Instead, he had stained his hands with treachery.
James collapsed against a smashed wagon wheel, shaking violently. Blood spattered him from head to waist. Each pant seemed to tear at his insides as memory replayed the men he killed. Bisera joined him, dropping to a knee despite her throbbing shoulder. She pressed a shaking hand to his cheek.
"Breathe, James," she whispered. "We survived."
He fought a gag, swallowing hard. "I… had to do it. But it's so…" The moral weight crushed him. She leaned her brow against his, offering silent comfort. Soldiers around them bowed or saluted, gratitude and awe mixing with their own exhaustion. They recognized how the conjured barricades, the bizarre "firecrackers," and Bisera's leadership had saved their depleted force.
Some Vakerian captains gathered around Nikolaos's unconscious form. Vesmir stalked over, scowl etched into his features. Farther back, novices dropped their arms or ran. The plague-sick men coughed in ragged unison, but elation flickered in the survivors' eyes: they had endured.
As Bisera helped James stand, they overheard tense voices from the captains:
"Kill him," one snarled. "He poisoned our wells, cost us hundreds of men."
Another spat, "Keeping him alive risks infiltration. We owe him no mercy."
A third offered a calmer approach, "He's high-born—could be ransomed or used for a truce."
Bisera approached, armor battered, sword still dripping. Nikolaos lay bound, that handsome face smeared with mud and blood, no longer the serene archangel with a black heart. The captains parted as she surveyed him. Justice demanded retribution for his atrocities, yet the empire might glean advantage if he lived. Emperor Alexander would not ignore Nikolaos's capture.
Tension thickened. Some men murmured for immediate vengeance. Others waited for her final word. Then James, pale but determined, stepped forward. He stared at Nikolaos's battered features—a face that could have belonged to a heroic statue, undone by cruelty—and swallowed revulsion.
In a trembling voice, he said, "Don't… hurt him."
A hush fell, broken only by moans from the wounded.