"What in hell's name is happening?" bellowed a spearman who had lost his helmet. "Why is the barrier retreating?! The Godmans aren't even attacking it!"

  "Silence, soldier!" Earl Alofenk gripped his sword-hilt firmly, standing resolute before his three hundred and twelve men.

  "My lord!" a footman wielding a flail called out desperately. "You must withdraw into the city!"

  "I have yielded enough ground! This gate marks my final stand." Alofenk, his scalp gleaming where it had been shaved clean, remained immovable. "You should return inside and command what remains of the garrison!"

  "The Godmans press too close. Opening these doors again is impossible. I will remain here—and lead you."

  "Unless we can retreat under the barrier's protection, we're trapped here awaiting death."

  "Hold your tongue," the earl snapped with authority.

  The Godman knights rose and settled in their saddles, advancing at an insolent, leisurely pace. They displayed no fear of retaliation from the walls—no concern for stones or volleys of arrows. For brief moments, they even regarded the magical barrier with something approaching admiration.

  "The barrier continues to withdraw! What sorcery is this?" Unrest rippled through the ranks. "We have nowhere left to retreat!"

  "Stand your ground!" The barrier had now receded to Alofenk's very feet. "We do not fear death!" someone shouted from the ranks. "We chose to fight at the vanguard—dying is commonplace to us. But we will not die as betrayed men! I'll not argue that the gates are shut because we were too slow. But for the very magic itself to forsake us? That, I will not accept!"

  "What would you propose instead?" the earl challenged. "Mutiny, perhaps?"

  "I merely express my opinion."

  "Your opinion was not requested, nor is it required." The sunset glinting off Earl Alofenk's shaven head gave his words the weight of an oracle's pronouncement. The disgruntled soldier fell silent.

  The barrier lingered briefly before the earl before withdrawing further. Alofenk raised his hands toward it, feeling its heat and sting against his skin. A moment later, he stood beyond its protection; with the fall of the last defender outside the barrier, Wafflo's defense rested solely on their shoulders.

  "They're finished!" a Godman knight shouted in the Common Tongue to his companions. "Aye, utterly finished!" the others jeered in cruel chorus. Their commander—his helm adorned with an intricately carved stallion—extracted his bloodied sword from a corpse beneath his horse's hooves. "Your resistance ends here," he informed Earl Alofenk in the Common Tongue.

  The earl lifted his gleaming, bare head but remained silent. He was not calculating his odds of survival, but rather how many of the bastards he could take with him to the grave. The enemy outnumbered them ten to one, at least. Likely more.

  "That one commands their forces." A mounted archer from the Borna Plain, his accent thick and guttural, raised his recurve bow. "I can send an arrow through his skull with ease. Even if you granted him time to don his helmet, the outcome would remain unchanged." The commander raised his hand to restrain the archer.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  "Surrender," he called mockingly in the Common Tongue.

  "Surely you jest, Lord Tester?" The horse-archer lowered his bow in confusion. "You would offer them terms?!"

  "Indeed, I jest," Lord Tester replied with a smirk. He sheathed his longsword and wiped beads of sweat from his face. "Well then? Your surrender is an option."

  "My lord, shall we strike him down first?" Cynthian soldiers murmured urgently to Alofenk. "We charge forward, slay as many as possible—and meet our end. That is the only conclusion we can honorably accept." The others roared their fervent agreement.

  Alofenk swept his arm in a restraining gesture. "Hold fast. Wait."

  "What exactly are you waiting for?" Though Lord Tester couldn't comprehend their Cynthian speech, he continued his taunting regardless. "The barrier has forsaken you. You stand without hope, northerners."

  The barrier resumed its retreat. Before their horrified eyes, it contracted progressively until it matched the dimensions of a gate. "The Magic has withdrawn to the gates themselves," a soldier beside the earl observed, staring transfixed at the Gate of Cynthia. "It... it has shrunk to the gate's exact size—and... appears to have merged with it." He swallowed hard. "We... have been abandoned completely."

  Lord Tester erupted into mocking laughter. "Do you see now, northerners? That magical screen would rather protect a mere gate than preserve hundreds of your lives. Such is your reward for defending Cynthia, my friends. Truly pathetic."

  "First," Alofenk replied in perfect, unaccented Common Tongue, "either your eyes are failing you, or your wits. That is no 'mere gate,' you half-breed dog. It is one hundred and eighty feet tall. And second," his lip curled into a sneer, "I would sooner claim kinship with pigs than call your wretched mob 'friends'."

  "Kill him." Lord Tester's laughter ceased abruptly. The Godman horse-archer nocked an arrow.

  A furious whistling of shafts tore through the air. Before the archer could release his string, dozens of arrows penetrated his body, hurling him violently from his saddle. Atop the wall, Sir Harvey was shouting himself hoarse, commanding his archers to darken the sky with their volleys. The silence and despair that had gripped the men on the wall moments before had now curdled into raw, vengeful hatred. Sir Harvey had gotten the plan from an exhausted Patrick Fort and had prepared accordingly—positioning every available arrow and stone along the parapet. With minimal effort, these projectiles now rained down by the thousands upon the Godman ranks. Agonized screams erupted outside the gate. Enemy infantry hastily raised their shields; their archers redirected their aim toward the wall's crest. The Godman cavalry positioned further back began to withdraw instinctively, even without Lord Tester's explicit command to retreat.

  Earl Alofenk waited patiently. Finally, when the arrow volleys thinned, when the barrage of stones subsided, when the scalding water, boiling oil, and burning pitch poured from barrels no longer flowed, he recognized their moment had arrived. Their final moment.

  "Continue firing! Archers!" He could hear Sir Harvey bellowing from above. "Supply men, get those gods-damned arrows up here! Move, you sons of whores! Faster! Are you pigs? Is that what you are? A pack of lazy swine—"

  Alofenk smiled faintly, recalling his numerous arguments with Sir Harvey. The man invariably resorted to "pig" as his preferred insult—exclusively "pig."

  He drew his sword, the movement clean and precise, and raised it to the darkening sky. He did not begin Cynthia's anthem. Instead, his voice rang out like steel on stone: "Brothers! Why do we fight?"

  "For the honored name of Pafaheim!" came the thunderous response.

  "What virtue sustains our struggle?"

  "For the glory of goodness and justice!"

  "For what purpose do we sacrifice ourselves?"

  "For Cynthia's future and eternal glory!"

  "Then let us fulfill our sacred oath!"

  They charged. Three hundred and twelve men of Cynthia, a final, defiant wave hurled against an army of thousands. Later chronicles would state that on that day, twenty-five thousand Godman soldiers stood before the Gate of Cynthia.