The young boy hugged his knees against his chest, and buried his face into them as he sobbed into them. He wanted to hide his face, to hide his cowardice from the many ghosts and specters that he knew surrounded him. Their freshly spilled blood ran thick on the plains of battle, and he could feel it. That thick crimson had soaked into his tattered trousers and shirt, and filled the mud that caked his limbs.

       It left the stench of death thick in the air.

       He was only a boy of nine. In other circumstances, he might have been handsome. His hair was blond, but it had become a ragged mess. The long, hard day that had brought him here left him with wild, unkempt red hair that at once clung damply to his forehead and was in utter disarray. He looked pale, and thought he might be sick. The child shivered, his skin a pale white that looked only a shade more lifelike than the field of death he sat amidst. However, his body still drew breath, even if it was labored by sobs.

       Though his body lived, his eyes were dead. Their soft shade of crystal blue was dulled, and slightly puffy. Though his chest and breath heaved with each sob, only a few tears rolled down his dirt-stained cheeks. His eyes looked onto the scene with sadness, but there was no longer the utter shock that came with the betrayal of one's innocence at such a young age. Instead, his eyes were filled with an acceptance of the fact that only hinted at the horror he had felt for hours before and the rage that was hidden beneath them.

       His eyes were widened, looking around in the night sky as the crescent moon cast down an unforgiving light on the plain of the passed battle. It only illuminated the forms of the bodies on the battlefield. Uniforms of dark grey mixed together, forming a mass that extended around the boy. Limbs jutted upward from that mass, pale arms and legs curled upward unnaturally and entirely still. The limbs were drenched with blood; crimson rivers that cut pristine white flesh apart.

       It was easier to process and accept for the boy to look at the mass of dead men as one, instead of seeing them individually. He cast his glance away from faces, trying to banish from his mind the cold, dead eyes that would look at him from something that was far more personal than a few shattered limbs sticking upward. It was hard to not look away, however. He could place the faces, and what they had once been.

       He saw one, and knew he was a father of two. He had been a merchant until he joined the military, and laid his life down to keep his homeland free. His wife had made candies, and had sent them to the man. He had given the boy a handful.

       Another was a man he had only seen walking by a few times. He whistled when he did, though it was almost always the same song. The boy would never again hear the man whistle, or see him simply strolling by with his rifle slung over his shoulder.

       His eyes fell upon a third face, and the boy immediately tried to look there. He knew what man that face had once belonged to, and he knew all too well where that man had fallen. Why, oh why, had he looked there? No good could come of looking in that spot, but yet his eyes would not remove them from the face. The mouth was slightly agape, and dried blood was caked on the teeth and tongue inside, and ran down as a thin rivulet along his cheek. His hair was a red color, though a cut on the side of his head had left it drenched in thick, now caked blood.

       The dead, cold eyes that stared back at the boy were blue. They were the boy's eyes, looking back at him and as dead as his. The spark of life was gone from both pair of eyes, young and old. The boy looked at the dead eyes, and he knew it. He knew his soul was as dead as the body of the man he looked at.

       And despite being dead, despite having no reason to care, he stumbled forward towards the body and put his small hand to the corpse's cheek. The flesh was cold and damp. It was a sickening feeling, akin to that of a drenched rug. He shivered, but kept his hand against the man's cheek. He would not be deterred.

       "Father," he choked out, "Father, I'm sorry."

       The dead eyes offered the son no forgiveness. He looked away from his father's face, down his chin and his neck, and looked at the fallen man's chest. He wore a great coat proudly, fashioned of the same grey wool that all of the men wore. However, he had a shirt of white silk underneath. It was stained red, and sticking out of it was a long, wicked blade. It had a single edge, and its silver shine was illuminated in full by the light of the moon.

       The boy looked at the katana that protruded from his father's chest for a moment before he tried to stand up. His legs failed him as he did, and the boy fell back down to the blood-soaked earth in a heap. He growled, his high voice murmuring in sheer annoyance, and he cursed to himself.

       "Stand up, stand up!" he cried out to himself. "Stand, and you be a man!"

       He forced himself up again, his legs still wobbly as he did, and looked at the wicked edge that still lay buried in his father's chest. The boy walked towards it, and wrapped his tiny fingers around the hilt of the katana. It was wrapped in leather, finally done and hard to the touch. The rainfall that had come earlier in the day had seen to that. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt.

       This blade had belonged to a Doman. When the Tasnicans had came, and slain so many of his countrymen on this field of war, the Figarans and the Domans had joined them in the bloodshed. He shivered as he felt the leather of the hilt, so hardened and starting to rot as it dried. This blade was the blade of a traitor, a man who had forsaken his own world for the outlander devil.

       They called themselves envoys of democracy and freedom. When the boy smelled the death around him, he knew there was no freedom here. He grabbed the hilt tightly, and yanked upward. The katana pulled itself out of his father's chest. He opened his eyes and looked at the blade, still caked in the blood that had made him. The boy tried to wipe it away in the grass, but only picked up more blood of his dead countrymen. He resumed the motion, vainly trying to free the edge of the fluid. Instead, he only picked up more, until a crimson sheen was cast upon the blade.

       Upon it was the blood of his homeland.

       The boy put the sword over his shoulder, laying the flat of the katana on the tattered cotton shirt he wore. The blood on it stained the shirt, slowly soaking in and spreading slight warmth through his shoulder. He paid a glance down at his father's face, pale and serene in its death, and then looked away. He would not forget Tasnica, and what they had wrought here today. None of the nations that bled at their hands and suffered for their ideals would forget Tasnica. These nations, cast as villains by this republic claiming to fight for moral justice, would be unified in their wrath against it.

       It would be a wrath that was most dark.

        General Alexander Colby rested one of his hands on the wooden railing that ran along the watchtower he stood atop. The rolling hills of Tzen lay on all sides of him, spreading out before the small city. On the northern horizon, those hills gradually became the small chain of mountains that formed the Tzenian Range. He looked out to the northeast, where he could see the Serpent Trench. It cut through the seas, splitting it into two separate oceans.

       Colby narrowed his eyes. On the southernmost bend of the Trench, he could see a mass of lights. It was still early morning, and only the first golden red rays of sunlight had crept up over the horizon. They lit up the western seas, but it was still night on the Serpent Trench. The lights were as so many fireflies, and he could barely perceive their movement southward. He could guess at their nationality: Figaran and Doman, the two kingdoms of Esper that were more than city-states.

       "Can you make out anything?" Colby asked the other soldier that stood atop the tower. The soldier raised a small handheld telescope up and looked in the direction of those lights, closing his other eye as he did so. He took the device away from his eye after a moment and shook his head.

       "I hope to the gods that they are friendly, then," the man answered. He looked to the south, and saw another array of lights on the horizon. They also advanced towards Tzen, moving at a slow pace from Albrook. The forces coming from the south were not friendly, Colby knew. He had faced them before.

       "Aye, sir," the soldier said. "Shall I keep up the lookout?"

       Alex nodded his head. "Carry on."

       The soldier brought his hand to his forehead in a crisp salute, which the General returned. Colby slightly smiled, and then walked to the edge of the watchtower. He grabbed onto the wooden tower, and began to climb his way down the ladder that would lead back to the fort his forces had taken up. Despite the smile on his face, General Colby was a nervous man.

       Tasnica had come to the Esper Dimension in 4 WR, when the free city of Albrook joined the Tasnican Republic. With Tasnica came their imperialism Ð their desire to expand and incorporate more of Esper's free cities into the Republic, and to dominate the seas of Esper with their powerful navies. Perhaps they intended benevolence, but the free cities of Esper had little desire to be incorporated into some foreign republic. The two cities that had the most to lose from Tasnican dominance were Nikeah and Mobliz.

       Nikeah, one of Esper's greatest trading cities, faced the grim prospect of becoming overshadowed by the might of the Tasnican Republic, while the city of Mobliz had traditionally used its strong agricultural backbone to feed Albrook and the surrounding cities. It was situated on a fertile piece of land, and had an abundant harvest every year. When Tasnica came, it brought its grain to Albrook and threatened to invade the market that had always belonged to Mobliz.

       Perhaps the enmity that developed was rooted in economic factors, but it would be military men like Colby that would solve the enmity. The ruling councils of both cities, made of wealthy oligarchs, had combined their resources to form the sword that would drive the Tasnicans out of Esper. That sword was the Nikeahan and Moblizan Army Corps, or NAMAC.

       What was to have been a quick war that would push the Tasnicans out of Esper had stretched on for ten long years.

       That decade had taken its toll on Colby. When he first received his assignment as General of the I Corps of NAMAC, he had been a youthful man of twenty-seven. Now, his face that had once been clear had a few wrinkles around the eyes and lips, and his skin was sun-bleached from years of campaigning. His red hair had began to grey slightly prematurely, and while he still walked with the same strong and proud stride that he had in his youth, anyone could see that the man was simply tired.

       His men were as loyal as ever, even in the face of such weakness. For that, he was grateful, because he would need their loyalty. The war had lasted ten years, but Colby doubted that it would last longer. NAMAC had been pushed out of the cities that had founded it and into Tzen, thanks to the landings of Tasnican and Albrooker-Tasnican forces. Despite his best efforts to seize Albrook, and a tentative alliance with that far off empire known as Ticondera, NAMAC had slowly been eaten away.

       The army that was coming from the south was Tasnican, and it was coming to make one final feast and finish what it had begun a decade before.

       He looked up to see one of his soldiers walking towards him. The soldier wore the same heavy grey great coat as he did, the standard uniform of NAMAC. However, he had a darker tan to his skin, and was built far more powerfully. He also stood taller than Colby's comparatively modest height of six feet and one inches. The bear of a man was some six feet and eight inches in height. He carried a long, powerful rifle that was held to his body by a strap on it that held it slung over his shoulder. It would have ordinarily towered over any other man, but it stood just a little under his height.

       Colonel Gregor Halsey came from Mobliz, and had been a rancher before he joined the Army Corps. He was a superb shot, and one of the strongest men that Colby had ever known. He led the 3rd Cavalry Regiment in NAMAC, and was one of the finest cavalrymen that Esper had produced. He was some forty-three years old, and was a product of the wars that Esper had fought prior to the coming of Tasnica. Those wars had left a scar that ran down his face, a jagged line that cut across his left cheek and went to the right half of his chin. It split across his lips, and the scar twisted and stretched out uncomfortably as Halsey gave a toothy grin to him.

       "General," he said, "good to see you."

       "You as well, Gregor," Colby answered. He took a step towards the man, and extended his hand. The cavalryman took the General's hand in his own and shook it roughly, still grinning widely.

       "Any news, sir?" Halsey asked as Colby pulled his hand away and began to walk along the side of the cavalryman.

       "The Tasnicans will be here some time this afternoon," Colby answered him. He shook his head. "I could only estimate the size of their forces. It looks to be about eight regiments, give or take. I could be wrong."

       The man's scarred face twisted into a cruel scowl. "Damnation."

       "I know," Colby answered. "Five regiments are all that we have."

       "Is there any hope of reinforcements from Ticondera?" Halsey inquired.

       "Maybe." The General crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm placing more hope in the army coming in from the north, however."

       "Where do they hail from?" the taller soldier asked in response. A glance at his face told him that the cavalryman was doubtful.

       "I think they're a Figaran and Doman army, which probably means they're under Claudius," Alex answered him. "I can only hope that my old friend won't turn his back on me now."

       "You're placing a lot of faith in Doman honor," the soldier answered. He stopped walking and shook his head. The muscled man frowned as he looked at the smaller form of the General. "You know that Sir Reynolde has always been a man of dubious honor, and that for all that Doma says about their honor and loyalty to us, they've never helped us in this war yet."

       "Maybe they finally realize the danger in not standing against Tasnica," Colby countered. "If they do not stand against foreign domination, then they too will fall."

       "You're being too idealistic, Alex." Halsey sighed, and leaned against the wooden wall of one of the fort's barracks. "If they stand with Tasnica, they could get our land."

       The officer narrowed his eyes and gave his friend a slight glare. "I'd like to think I have some faith in my land. Esper will rise up, and it will unite against this foreign oppression, Gregor. Ours is a great people."

       "I wish I shared your faith, my friend," Halsey answered, "but this war has taught me a different lesson."

       Colby paused for a moment, and looked at the tall cavalryman for a moment. He remained silent as he leaned against the wooden wall. After a moment, Alex sighed and shook his head. He turned slightly away from his friend and glanced at the city of Tzen in the distance. One of the nearby mansions was housing the families of the command staff. The General broke the pause and started to walk towards the opened gateway that led out of the fort.

       "The battle will be upon us in several hours," he explained as he walked away. "I'm going to see my son before it comes."

Ê Ê Ê Ê General Rolf Julian put down the small photograph he held between his fingers. It was rather blurred, as all photography was, and the edges were already frayed after a long trip overseas and through a gate to Tasnica. The photograph was a black-and-white shot a woman with her arm around a boy of perhaps fifteen years of age. It brought a smile to the old soldier's face. Burzmale Julian was the spitting image of his father. Julian scratched his bearded chin, and slid the photograph back into the pocket of his uniform's coat. There was a strong wind whipping across the Albrooker Plain, and the man grabbed tightly at the reins of the chocobo he was riding on.

Ê Ê Ê ÊThe bird turned one of its large blue eyes and looked up at the Tasnican with it. He slightly shivered as he looked back at that eye, which was all too humanlike. The golden-feathered birds were the choice mode of transportation in Esper, instead of horses. Julian knew well enough how to ride a horse, but had found chocobos to be quite different. There was an entirely different set of rules a man had to learn to ride the beasts, and Julian barely knew them.

Ê Ê Ê ÊThat was not what bothered him so. It was that the damnable bird seemed to be glaring at him, and somehow entirely aware of the fact that he was untrained in handling its kind that disturbed him. Julian ordinarily had an iron will, and had seen several victories before on islands around Nikeah and Mobliz that he had battled with NAMAC upon Ð and won. He was a tall, muscled man in his late thirties, with a head and beard of black hair. He looked young, and had in him the vitality of youth. Julian was one of Tasnica's favorite military men, and he found it insulting that a mere bird was giving him such disrespect.

Ê Ê Ê Ê"Stubborn beast," he muttered at it. "What do you want from me?"

Ê Ê Ê ÊThe man jumped in his saddle as it squawked loudly at him. He looked back down at the creature, but it had moved its head around on its neck, and the General could swear to the gods that the chocobo had actually managed to narrow its eyelid in annoyance as it stared Julian down. He growled at it.

Ê Ê Ê Ê"General, you will do no good to treat your mount as such," a man with the rolling accent from the eastern part of Esper said. Julian looked over his shoulder to see one of the local Esperians riding towards him. He wore the traditional hat of an Esperian cavalryman, a wide-brimmed, leather piece of headgear that had the brim clasped against the left side with a golden buckle.

Ê Ê Ê Ê"This damnable thing can read my mind, I swear!" Rolf hollered.

Ê Ê Ê Ê"Which is why it wants to throw you off and peck out your eyes, sir," the young Esperian officer said in as calm a voice as he can. The man rode up on his own chocobo, but the beast seemed to heed the man much more respectfully than Julian's. The officer was a shorter man, also in his early thirties. He was a stout man, and while he was a bit on the chubby side, his body was muscled and powerful. His brown hair only slightly protruded from his hat, and even in the wind, his moustache was well combed.

Ê Ê Ê Ê"Your point is taken," the Tasnican General answered. "What's your name, soldier?"

Ê Ê Ê Ê"Colonel Theodore Orville Halberg," the cavalryman replied. "I'm with the 5th Cavalry Regiment, sir."

Ê Ê Ê Ê"Out of Maranda, eh?" Julian asked.

Ê Ê Ê Ê"That's right, sir," Halberg answered. He rode his chocobo up until it rode alongside the General's. The General's beast seemed to calm down once again, and began to trot along willingly. Julian paid a nervous glance at the bird, and then looked back up at the shorter man that rode so skillfully at his side. "However, sir," the soldier continued, "I was with the Imperial Army before the Fall."

Ê Ê Ê ÊJulian knew the lexicon well enough. The Fall, as the Esperians called it, referred to the madness wrought upon their world by the madman known as Kefka. It had been fourteen years since that ultimate destruction, but the peoples of Esper still remembered it as though it were yesterday. The Vectoral Empire had preceded that fall, and it was little surprise to Julian that Halberg had been with them before their empire had been dashed to pieces by the end of the world, at least as they knew it.

Ê Ê Ê Ê"Glad to have you with us, Colonel," the man answered. "Are you familiar with this territory?"

Ê Ê Ê ÊHalberg glanced around him for a moment, and then shook his head. "No, sir. I must say, though, it's a beautiful land."

Ê Ê Ê Ê"It reminds me of the plains of the Centwerp Basin, in my own homeland," the General answered. "It's much like this. Plains as far as the eye can see, a few trees dotting the landscape, and mountains up against the horizon. Except that the Potos Alps are much taller than your Tzenian Range."

Ê Ê Ê Ê"I'd like to see it, someday, sir," Halberg replied. "I heard Tasnica's a beautiful land, from the soldiers I've talked to."

Ê Ê Ê Ê"It is, Colonel, it is." Julian sighed heavily. "I hope to see it again, soon, myself. Unfortunately, there are rumors that we may be going to Ticondera after dispatching of NAMAC. Perhaps after that."

Ê Ê Ê Ê"Perhaps, sir." Halberg looked towards the Tzenian Range, the peaks now fully visible against the northern horizon. Julian followed his line of sight. He could still not make out any sign of the Nikeahan and Moblizan Army Corps, or the city of Tzen. "It seems that General Colby will soon fail to be a thorn in the Republic's side, however. Maybe then we can direct our full attention to Ticondera, and end this war before the year is out, sir."

Ê Ê Ê Ê"Maybe, Colonel, maybe." Julian looked down at the golden feathers of his chocobo. "I know Colby well enough, from having fought him all these years, however. The man will not go down without a fight, and if we attack directly, then we will have a long, hard fought battle." The Tasnican frowned as he thought of it. "Colonel, it's a battle that we can not afford to fight."

Ê Ê Ê Ê"What will you do, sir?" Halberg asked him.

Ê Ê Ê Ê"Colby has placed a great deal of faith in the idea of unity on Esper, or some such rubbish," Julian said. He glanced to his side, and saw an array of artillery pieces being moved on a wheeled vehicle. A smoke stack on the vehicle that carried the cannons pumped out thick plumes of black smog into the pristine air as it rolled along. "He's appealed to Figaro and Doma to offer him help."

Ê Ê Ê ÊA frown crossed the cavalryman's face. "With Figaran and Doman aid, he could smash us-"

Ê Ê Ê ÊJulian quickly interrupted. "He won't get it. Our Figaran and Doman ambassadors have told us that Cyan and Edgar have no intention of involving themselves in this war, at least on Colby's side." He slightly smiled. "However, if Senator Palmerston has been successful, then they will be involved in this war. On our side."

Ê Ê Ê ÊHalberg grinned at him. "Bully."

       Corporal Ian Coventry could see a throng of grey uniformed men developing around the entrance to the NAMAC fort at Tzen. The soldier then winced as a brilliant light flashed at his eyes, and brought a hand up to shield from the bright shine. The sunlight had caught a well-polished helmet, and the young man realized that a few figures riding chocobos had entered the camp. Coventry walked towards the throng, and heard the soldiers around him murmuring.

       The young man was a Narshman, and his seven months of experience in the Army Corps had shown him much more than he had ever seen in his frigid hometown. He was barely a man yet, only at seventeen, and still rather modest in height and build. His pale complexion and light blond hair divided him from the more common Nikeahans and Moblizans, with their more tanned complexions and darker hair. Still, what he saw between the grey-clad soldiers of NAMAC was neither Nikeahan nor Moblizan. It was something else entirely.

       There were five men riding into the camp on horseback, and to the eyes of the young Narshman, they were something out of a storybook. The men had lightly tanned skin and raven black hair, though he could only see a few strands of it that had escaped their helmets. Each man carried himself proudly; his carriage held high and rigid as he looked down at the mass of soldiers in their light grey uniforms. The men wore not uniforms, but body armor wrought of the finest steel. It was well polished, and reflected the sunlight and surroundings.

       Over this armor, bands of colorful cloth had been wrapped as a decoration. Brilliant blues, whites, and violet shades twisted about as sashes and cloaks that hung from the shoulders of the armored men. Their helmets ended in tall plumes of purple and crimson feathers. Secured upon the belt of each man was a single, long sword with a narrow hilt. Ian knew that inside the wooden sheath was a long, wicked katana blade.

       Even in their obsolescence in the age of rifles and cannons, the knights of Doma were a magnificent sight.

       "What are Doman knights doing here?" Ian asked one of the other soldiers.

       "I'm not sure," he answered. "I think they're here to see General Colby."

       One of the knights stopped his chocobo by pulling on the reins fastened beneath the beak of the large mount. It gave off a slight squawk in protest, but did little else as its master gently stroked the top of its head with a gauntleted hand. He looked down at Coventry with a smile. The knight was in his thirties, and had a wide, toothy grin on his face as he looked down directly upon Ian. He pulled away his helmet, and black hair that had been braided fell down his armor-clad back.

       "And you are?" the mounted man asked.

       Ian gulped. "Corporal Ian Coventry, sir."

       "I see." The knight scratched his chin with a single gauntleted finger whilst looking down on the corporal. "And this fort is under the command of General Alexander Colby, is it not, Corporal?"

       "Yes, sir, it is," the young soldier answered.

        "I'm Claudius Reynolde, knight of Doma," the armored man said, his grin widening even more. He extended a gauntleted hand down to the young man. The Narshman stared at the hand for a moment, fully aware of the common custom of shaking hands, but in awe of the fact that he stood before such a man. He finally extended his own pale hand and clasped the armored hand. He shook it, but stared in awe at the handshake as it occurred, somehow detached from it.

       Claudius laughed. "You're a funny one, kid."

       "Thank you, sir," Ian stammered.

       The knight slapped his hand onto his thigh, and the clash of metal on metal rang out in accompaniment with his boisterous laughter. "Hell, son, you're a riot!"

       By this point, the soldier's cheeks had flushed a bright red. "Thank you, sir," he repeated. "Do you know General Colby, sir?"

       "I bet you're glad you asked, aren't you?" Claudius chuckled and nodded his head. "Me and Alex fought together, against the Imperials. I was with the Doman Foreign Legion, and he was with the 2nd Returner Regulars. I bet you never knew that, did you? Old General Colby, fought with the Domans?" He grinned proudly. "Did you? Eh?"

       Ian shook his head nervously. "No, sir. I didn't."

       The knight slapped the soldier on the back. "I like you, kid."

       Coventry slightly winced at slap. The metal gauntlet hurt more than he would have liked to admit, but he tried to keep up appearances by shrugging it off as best he could. He nodded to the knight. "I'm glad, sir."

       "So, which way to General Colby's quarters?" the knight asked him.

       The soldier pointed towards the outskirts of Tzen, and one of the spacious mansions in the distance. The Doman knight followed his finger, and looked at the wealthy district with an appreciative nod. He was not impressed, however. Coventry could hardly imagine the man being impressed by the large houses, which were immense by the standards of a Narshman. For a man from a nation such as a Doma, a state that was a living feudal anachronism, he imagined that the mansion was nothing.

       "Thank you," he said with a nod of his head, and then looked over his shoulder at the other four knights. They had brought their mounts to rest and waited obediently for their leader. He nodded his head, and pointed in the direction of the mansion. "Well, you heard him. Let's go."

       Reynolde let out a whoop and urged his chocobo on. The other knights followed his lead, and the five chocobos began a fast trot through the fort and towards the mansion just beyond it. Coventry watched the five leave, along with the rest of the NAMAC soldiers that had gathered for their arrival. One of his comrades looked at the Narshman and shook his head.

       "You think they're here to be allies with us?" the soldier asked.

       Ian nodded. "I hope so. They always said the Domans valued their honor."

       Alex took a bite of steak off his fork, chewing into the meat as he looked down the length of the mahogany table at his son. The boy sat quietly in the middle of the table, eating his steak as well. He looked quite a bit like his father, with the same red hair and blue eyes. Joshua Colby, however, had always been a very quiet and private boy. He had done well in school, but the officer was all too aware of the fact that his son had few friends and did not always get along well with the other children.

       His son was an enigma to him. The child was simply brilliant. He had read a few of his essays and short stories, and he wrote on a level matched by pupils five or six years older than him. He was learned in the classical literature of Esper: Titian's The Offering, Milan's Saga of the West, and Hastings' Childe Bartholomew. He had even delved into foreign literature, such as Karekano's Seven Hundred Princes from Eblan and the infamous Epic of Belgememnon from Tasnica.

          The boy could understand fairly advanced algebra despite being only nine years in age, and he had requested his father to provide him with newspapers for a year and a half now. He had even dabbled in painting, and while his brushstrokes had a far more airy quality than the works by masters such as Arrowny, even Colby's untrained eye could see that his son was definitely talented. He had once heard him give a soliloquy from a play by Chancily, and Joshua had delivered it expertly.

       His son had been taught, as was still common at boarding schools in Esper at the time, the classical methods of war. Riding chocobos, fencing, and shooting pistols and rifles had been taught to the child. He had never quite been as adapt in such physical pursuits, but his teachings in history and military strategy and tactics had proven most fruitful, and the boy displayed the same prowess as his father. To hear that had always brought a smile to Alex's face, even as he privately bemoaned the idea of his son becoming a soldier such as him.

       However, the boy's capacities in communication were lacking. He spoke to few beyond what was necessary. Requests for food, knowledge, and other needs were practically the extent of it. The deficiency went beyond silence, however. There was little expression or life to Joshua. He rarely smiled, even for his father. When his late mother passed, the boy did not shed a tear, while Alex had publicly broken down into tears and had to be escorted away by his men.

       He smiled at his son, who simply glanced at him and nodded before turning his attention back to his food. It was that cool gaze, devoid of any apparent emotion, that bothered him so. The officer wanted to know a simple fact: that his son loved him.

       "Sir," he heard a voice say from behind him. He turned to see a uniformed man standing in an open doorway that led into the dining room. He had his hand to his forehead in a salute. Colby returned the gesture, and the soldier continued speaking. "A messenger has arrived from Doma to see you."

       "Really?" Colby pulled the napkin he had tucked into the collar of his uniform away, and wiped his hands of the grease from the steak. "Send him in."

       "Yes, sir," the soldier answered. He stepped away, and the armored but familiar form of Sir Claudius Reynolde of the Royal Order of Knights walked into the room. The man had his large, hearty grin on his face, though beads of sweat were covering it and running down his face in rivulets. It was soon apparent to the commanding officer of NAMAC that the man had seen a hard ride.

       "Ah, Claudius, my friend!" Alex said, pushing his chair back to stand up. He walked to the armored man and slapped him on the right arm. "It's a pleasure to see you. How goes it, comrade?"

       "It goes well, Alex!" The knight smiled at his friend. "I'm sorry to hear of the loss of your wife, though. I wish I could have attended the funeral, but I was serving abroad at the time, my good friend."

       "Of course." The General's face darkened as he thought of the deceased woman, still so dear to him, and he shook his head. "I know you were there in spirit, if not physically. She was always fond of you, Claudius."

       "She will be missed, my friend," Reynolde said.

       "Thank you." Alex looked down for a moment before he looked back up and blinked a few times in surprise at himself. "Oh, my apologies. Please, take a seat across from Joshua there. Josh, do say hello to Sir Reynolde."

       "Hello, Sir Reynolde," the boy murmured. He did not move from where he sat, not even so much as turning his head over his shoulder to look at the man. It failed to bother the knight, who laughed and walked across the room. He laid a hand down on the boy's shoulder and looked over it.

       "Josh, my dear boy!" the knight exclaimed. "What are you eating there?"

       Alex watched as the child sunk slightly into his chair, shrinking away from the boisterous knight. A shiver ran down his spine as he turned away from one of his father's best friends, trying to avoid him as well he could. The young boy's answer was choked out after a moderate pause and most uncomfortably. "It's steak, sir."

       "It looks quite good," the knight answered. "Neither I nor my men have had any food for the duration of our ride."

       The General walked to his seat and sat back down at the head of the table. Reynolde began to walk around the length of the table, opposite the officer, until he sat down at his side and across from his son. "Would you like any?" Colby asked the man. "I'm certain that we have some left."

       "But of course!" The knight chuckled. "I have to return to my army soon, but you know me. I never turn down a free meal."

       "Don't I know that," Alex answered with a bemused grin. He looked out the door that Claudius had entered from and shouted out. "Maria, bring Sir Claudius some food, and make sure the staff sees to his men!"

       "Aye, sir!" the woman cried back. He heard a few exasperate mumbles and a few quietly sworn curses against him, but the officer simply shrugged it off with a smile and turned around to face the Doman knight.

       "So, what brings you here, Claudius?" he asked. He took the glass of red wine that sat on his table, and drank from it.

       "If it were only just a trip for pleasure." Reynolde took a bottle of the same wine the General was drinking, and poured it into an empty glass. The man drank it down a little more quickly than etiquette allowed, but Colby ignored it. "No, old friend, I'm also here on business, I'm sad to say. This war of yours has gone on long enough without Doma finding herself involved, and it seems we're now in a situation where we are forced to make a stand."

       "And what stand will that be?" Alex asked as he placed his wine glass back onto the pristine white tablecloth.

       "Doma stands with NAMAC." Reynolde smiled. "As does Figaro. The army to the north is moving in to support you against the outlanders. Furthermore, the Figaran fleet is moving in its ships to reinforce yours in Tzen Bay."

       General Colby smiled, and crossed his uniformed arms over his chest. It was the best news he had heard in months. He had always known that he could rely upon Claudius Reynolde. There were those who said that in a modern era, the honor of knights was a false honor Ð a simple lie, kept up only to maintain appearances. He had always hoped that it was false, and today, he saw that it was. His old comrade would stand by him on this fateful day.

       "That is good to hear," Alex confessed, and then raised his glass into the air. "Then, a toast. To the people of Esper."

       "To the people of Esper," the knight repeated. He grinned, and took a drink from the crystalline glass. The General closed his eyes and did the same, feeling the slightly bitter taste of the red wine against his tongue. As he opened his eyes, he saw his son. The boy ate his steak quietly, refusing to glance at either of the men.

       The sun had reached its zenith in the sky, and its bright disc cast down a sharp glare over the Albrooker Plain. A group of men was moving along the plain in the sunlight, most of them wearing the blue uniform of the Tasnican Republican Expeditionary Force. One among them stood out. He was a short man, stout in build and with a rather grizzled and chiseled build. He had not shaved in a few days, leaving a thick stubble was on his chin. His dress was not the uniform of the others, but a wide-brimmed leather hat and a trenchcoat over corduroy jeans and a button up shirt. His clothing had all seen a fair amount of wear, and smelled thick of cigarette smoke. A lone, crumpled cigarette was wedged unceremoniously between the man's lips.

       He grimaced around the cigarette as the piercing rays of light struck his eyes and made a sharp glare that left fuzzy afterimages on his sight. That could prove to be a fatal distraction if an enemy was nearby. The man reached a hand up, and lowered the brimmed leather hat he wore until the sunlight was kept from touching his eyes so harshly.

       He grasped the rifle in his hands tightly. He was only a couple of hours from Tzen, now, if the local guides were right. More hills had began to appear on the terrain as he and the Republican Expeditionary Force moved northward, and while it was flat at a cursory glance, the well-trained eyes of the men could easily see that the land he walked on was deceitful. He stood amidst rolling hills, which would allow the enemy to keep themselves out of sight.

       He turned around and looked at one of the Tasnicans that came with them. The man was a Lieutenant, and slightly sneered at the strangely dressed man as he opened his mouth to speak. "I think we might want to move over that way," the man said, his accent far more of a thick drawl than the Tasnicans' or Esperians'. "Those NAMACs are good shots, and we need to get behind some cover, I think."

       "What's that?" the Lieutenant asked. He scoffed at the thought and shook his head. "I think you forget, gunslinger. We know this land better than you."

       "And I know guns better than you," the man said, "and I'm tellin' you, they won't be overlookin' such a perfect chance for a shot."

       The Tasnican scowled as he regarded the shorter man. He stopped walking, and rested a hand on his hip. The gunslinger noted that the man's hand rested protectively close to the pistol buckled to his side, and let himself grin at that. If the officer had any designs on shooting him, the man would shoot the Tasnican dead before he even laid hands on the ivory hilt of his revolver.

       "Tell me," the Lieutenant said, "what's your name, cowboy?"

       It was the gunslinger's turn to scoff disrespectfully. "Bronx Ruger."

       "Ruger, then." The Tasnican chuckled at the name, as though it was some sort of base insult on his person. The cowboy found it insulting, but took heart in the fact that this fool was wrong where he was right. "I'm not sure where you're from, but you're now serving in the Republican Expeditionary Force. And when you serve in the REF, the word of the commanding officer is the law."

       "I'm from out west," Ruger answered. He opened his trenchcoat, and revealed the long, dull grey barrel of the shotgun that he held inside it. "And out west, there is one law: the law of the stock, lock, and smokin' barrel."

       The Tasnican Lieutenant paused for a moment, and ran a hand over his clean-shaven chin. The stubble-covered face of Ruger twisted into a grin as he looked at the young man that glared down at him. He knew that the Lieutenant was not old enough to shave, and that the young man was unsure how to a respond. He took a few moments to compose his answer, puffing out his chest and straightening his posture to deliver, in the most threatening tone he could muster, three simple words: "Is that so?"

       "That's so."

       The Lieutenant glared and turned around to face the rest of the men, who simply looked on the scene and observed as the cowboy verbally dueled with their commanding officer. "Well, I've taken Sergeant Ruger's advice under consideration, and decided against it. Anyone else care to offer some Ôadvice' to me?"

       The squad remained silent.

       "Good," the officer said. "Forward!"

       The man took two steps before his head exploded into a fine red mist that contained larger masses, which had once made up his skull and brains. He fell to the ground even as his navy blue uniform was stained with blood. Another shot rang out, and one of the soldiers standing next to Bronx caught his stomach and let out a scream. Blood seeped from between his clenched fingers, and into the uniform he wore.

       "Down!" Bronx shouted, even as his hand instinctively moved inside his trenchcoat. The gunslinger pulled free his shotgun, with its long, single barrel, and looked in the direction that the gunshot had come from. The Tasnican soldiers dove towards the ground, and Bronx quickly followed them. He could see the slight rise in the distance that the gunmen were behind, but they had already ducked behind the ridge.

       He looked at the men ducking down beside him. One was shaking as he looked at the low ridge. Ruger ran his hand over the ground and reached for the cigarette he had spat out earlier, but found that it had fallen into dew-covered grass. The gunslinger frowned. A smoke would make what he would have to do much easier.

       "All right, all of you move to the east," he commanded. "I'm gonna head in their direction, and take them out."

       "Them?" one of the soldiers asked.

       "I'm pretty sure it's at least two," Ruger responded. "That second gunshot came too quick. Their rifles ain't able to be reloaded that quickly by most people. If they can be reloaded that quick, then I hope one of you kids is a chaplain, because all of us need to start sayin' our prayers."

       "What about him?" another asked. He motioned to his fallen comrade, whose face had gone paler than a sheet. He had his hands clutching at his gut, trying to keep his body from spilling out its contents.

       "Grab him, drag him, and run," he ordered. "I'll give you coverin' fire."

       The soldiers nodded, and two ran forth to grab their comrade. Three men came over the ridge as the two Tasnicans moved towards their fallen friend, and aimed their rifles down at the men. Ruger quickly threw himself upward and aimed the sleek barrel of his shotgun at the ridge that the gunmen were behind. He pulled the trigger, and felt the powerful recoil of the shotgun as though it was the most natural thing in the world. The slug slammed into the ridge and coughed up a cloud of dirt, but he could immediately tell that he had failed to hit them. The three forms sank back below the ridge, and the men dragged their wounded comrade back with the others.

       Bronx looked at them and nodded, and watched as the blue-clad men began moving towards the east. It led them down below a hill, and provided them some cover from the powerful rifles of the NAMACs. Part of him wanted to go with them, but the man knew that was not an option. He glanced back at the treacherous ridge, and knew where he had to go.

       The gunslinger dug into a pouch, and pulled out a heavy slug that he slung into the firing chamber of his shotgun. He just wished he had a cigarette for this. The man quickly stood and began to make a slow run, careful to keep himself low and keep his eyes on the ridge. He saw one of the men rise up, aiming his rifle towards him. Bronx quickly pointed the barrel of the shotgun in his direction. His hand was guided by mettle, instinct, and experience as it lined up the sight on the end with the silhouette against the horizon. He pulled the trigger.

       The silhouette crumpled and broke unnaturally, and then fell against the ridge.

       He dove to the ground as a gunshot rang out, and a shell smashed a few inches away from him. He felt a shower of soil rain down on him, but took solace in the fact that it had not pierced through his body. He waited for a few moments, and watched as the man he had shot through the chest was dragged down below their ridge. The gunslinger immediately sprung up, and dove down the gentle relief of the hill.

       He found it was not so gentle, and stumbled on the deceptive slope. It wound up saving him, as a rifle shot hit behind him. The man quickly fell into a roll, and went down the side of the hill and closer to the ridge. More shots rang out in succession, as each of the two gunmen reloaded and tried to get a shot at him. He stopped himself at the trough of the trench between the ridge and the hill he had been behind before his hurried dash towards their ridge. He rose up and began to run directly towards their ridge.

       Ruger threw his body against it, and looked up to see one of the long rifle barrels sticking down towards him. A grey-coated NAMAC held the long firearm, and his dark eyes scowled as he looked at the gunslinger. The man grabbed a hold of the barrel of the rifle and pulled down on it. The rifleman was caught off guard and slung over the side of the ridge. He tumbled downward, falling over the ridge.

       His comrade quickly came over it and aimed his own rifle at Ruger. Before he ever fired, a tomahawk buried itself into the man's face with a simple flick of the gunslinger's wrist. He tried to scream, but instead fell over on himself with the stone hatchet's blade buried deep into the man's head.

       The gunslinger turned back around, and fired his shotgun at the rifleman he had pulled over the ridge. The heavy slug caught the man and tore his chest open, sending him reeling back to the ground below. Ruger let out a heavy breath, and glanced in the direction of the Tasnican soldiers he had been with. They were safe now, though they had yet to reappear on the scene. It was smart of them.

       He realized how smart it was when he felt the barrel of a rifle press into his back, and a labored breath behind him. He mentally cursed himself. The soldier he had first shot had to still be alive.

       "You Tasnican son of a bitch," the man cursed at him, his voice low and heavy as he struggled to speak.

       "I ain't no Tasnican," Bronx replied. He closed his eyes, and waited for the soldier to pull the trigger. He found little to attempt to recall in the moments right before his death, merely a few regrets of not seeing his sons again and the regret that he had not finished the job. However, the ending bullet never came. Instead, there was a sickening sound of the man gargling desperately, and the rifle barrel sank away from the cowboy's back, and hit the ground.

       He turned around to see the full length of a spear shoved clean through the body of the rifleman. His grey uniform had been transformed almost entirely into a macabre red mess, and the soldier hung lifelessly off the spear. The spear was held by a man wearing an odd mix of a modern uniform with pieces of armor strapped to him, mostly on his shoulders and thighs. The man was tall, but rather lean, and held his long spear cruelly in both hands. He twisted it, causing the body to lurch, and then tore it free from the corpse with barely any change in his expression.

       "Barton Stone," the man said. He extended a hand towards Ruger.

       Bronx took it, and helped himself stand up. "Bronx Ruger. You REF?"

       "You might say that," the stone-faced man said. He brushed his dark red hair away from his face, and let go of his hand to take a step forward. He pointed with his spear towards the Tasnican soldiers, who now stood in plain sight on a hilltop. They were waving their arms and cheering. "Are those your men?"

       "Yeah." Bronx regarded the spear, and the man who wielded it. His dark red hair had gone slightly silver at his temples, and the powerful man looked to be in his mid-thirties. The way he held his spear, and the fact he had come that close to the gunslinger without him being any the wiser, however, did little to comfort him. He decided he distinctly disliked the spear being pointed at his comrades. "How the hell did you get up on us that quick?"

       "I'm from Crystal," he explained. "They call us dragoons."

       Bronx nodded. "Jumpers."

       "Dragoons," Stone corrected. "I didn't say they call us jumpers."

       "I said they call you jumpers," the gunslinger said with a roll of his eyes. "So what do you want, jumper?"

       The dragoon gave him an annoyed glare, and lowered his spear. The sharpened tip of the weapon came against the ground, and rested into the dirt and grass of the Albrooker Plain. It wiped away some of the blood on the weapon, but still left a healthy amount on it. "I'm looking for General Julian," Stone stated. "I've got a piece of information for him."

       "Mighty generous of you," Bronx remarked.

       Stone smirked. "It's for a price."

       The gunslinger shrugged his shoulders. "Mighty greedy of you, then."

       Rolf Julian had stopped the main body of his forces near the outermost parts of Tzen, to order and organize the attack. He was supervising the lone artillery regiment that was a part of his force. The cannons were being unloaded from their transports and moved forward on their wheeled pieces by work crews and the engineers that operated the large pieces. The cannons were some of the latest guns that had come from the technology from Albrook, as opposed to the old gunpowder cannons of the past.

       Julian knew he had an advantage with such weapons. The Nikeahan and Moblizan Army Corps had lost the majority of their artillery pieces at the Battle of Hobby Peak, not far from the city of Kohinglen. It meant that Julian would be able to wear down some of their potent rifle corps before sending in his own forces. His men were woefully lacking both experience and technology when compared to the experienced riflemen of NAMAC.

       He had received the reports from the patrols he had sent ahead of the main force for reconnaissance, and now knew that his forces had engaged the enemy for the first time. There was only a limited amount of time that he could wait. He had fought Colby before, and he knew that the man would sooner attack him first. He would try to find his way around the numeric and strategic superiority that Julian held.

       It also occurred to the Tasnican that his old nemesis would be at his most dangerous when forced into a corner, but there was little he could do to avoid that now.

       Colby, despite being an ever-present thorn in the side of the Republic, if not an outright threat to the supremacy it desired over Esper, had earned Rolf Julian's respect. The man had somehow fought a war that seemed unlikely since the beginning, and had brought some unity to the free cities of Esper. It was a most tenuous arrangement, and the only steadfast members of the alliance had been Nikeah and Mobliz. Both had since been occupied, and replaced with governments sympathetic to the cause of Tasnica and her allies. Even beyond such a diplomatic feat, he had bested armies larger than him and somehow maintained his image Ð to the Tasnicans' and the still young Web of Worlds, he was an enigma that fought only for his homeland, even with allies such as the Ticonderans. Julian thought it was a pity that he stood with such monsters instead of at Tasnica's side, but fate had cast its hand. Alexander Colby and his army stood against him, and that meant Julian would have to cast him down.

       He looked at the commanding officer of the artillery regiment. Colonel Isaac Bernhaudt was a man in his fifties, a cultured gentleman from Egmont. He had a well-combed moustache and silver hair. It was strange to see him out of his dress uniform and on the battlefield instead of a ballroom, but the man somehow did not look out of place in his blue wool uniform.

       Julian walked towards him. "Colonel, when will your men be prepared?"

       Bernhaudt looked away from the cannon he was supervising, and left the crew of the artillery piece to their own designs as they went over the weapon. The man nodded his head and smoothed out his greyed mustache between his fingers. "Soon, General," the Colonel answered him. "We almost have all of the pieces prepared, and the crews are double checking them to be sure."

       "That's good to hear, Colonel." Julian crossed his arms over his chest. "Your men will initiate the main battle. You're to use the maps I gave you to begin the initial bombardment of the NAMAC forces."

       "I understand, sir." The old officer nodded, and looked at the horizon. A few of the newer buildings were visible in the distance; smoke stacks and large towers of concrete that just slightly rose over the horizon and against the background of the Tzenian Range. "I only have one problem with the targets you assigned my men, sir."

       The General blinked. "You can hit them, can't you?"

       "Of course," Bernhaudt quickly answered. He had built a reputation for commanding accurate artillery bombardments. "However, it appears that a number of the targets you assigned are in the city of Tzen itself. I assume this is merely a mistake, of course, as we don't bombard cities."

       Julian paused for a moment, and glanced at a large shell that was loaded into the firing chamber of a nearby artillery piece. He finally shook his head. "No, Colonel," he countered. "It is no mistake. We're now fighting a new kind of war, and a number of their command facilities are located in Tzen itself."

       The Colonel seemed taken aback. Rolf felt some pity for the man. Men like him, members of the aristocracy and old guard of the Tasnican military, were rapidly finding themselves outdated by the way wars were being fought. Armies were no longer the gentleman's clubs of the past, but were rapidly becoming a massive national affair for the citizen-soldiers of the modern day. It thus became inevitable, as the citizenry became involved in war, that the citizenry would become a target.

       "I understand, sir," he finally stammered out.

       Rolf nodded coolly. "Good."

       A soldier walked up towards the two officers and brought his hand to his head in a salute. The man had a bandage tied around his face, and had taken his hat off, and some amount of blood had ran down his face and dried out on it. Julian blinked at the wound, and then returned the salute. "What happened to you, soldier?"

       "Lieutenant Macon Phelps, sir," the soldier greeted. "I was wounded on the reconnaissance mission."

       "I'm sorry to hear that, Lieutenant." Julian leaned forward, and looked at the white cotton bandages wrapped around the man's face. "I'll order my surgeon to take a look at that, and see what he can do about it."

       "Thank you, sir," Phelps answered. "Sir, I have a visitor here to see you."

       "Really?" the General asked. He rubbed his bearded chin. "Who is it?"

       "A war opportunist, by the name of Barton Stone, sir," the wounded officer answered. The man seemed to frown at the thought of the Tasnicans working with war opportunists. Julian could remember when he had thought as the young soldier did, but he imagined that a decade or two of service would change the man's mind. Julian had come to think that in war, a man had to learn how to put his morals aside for the end goal at certain times. Idealism could be as deadly as bullet through the heart.

       "Stone, eh?" the General asked in reply. "I've been expecting him. Call him over, Lieutenant."

       "Yes, sir." Macon nodded and walked away to a distance. Julian recognized the tall form of Barton Stone, standing in the distance. Next to him was one of the foreigners that had joined the Republican Expeditionary Force. The General could not remember the man's name, but he was a short fellow that was always found wearing a wide brimmed hat and a trenchcoat. He had never said where he came from short of it being somewhere "out west."

       Stone nodded as Phelps approached, and walked towards the General. The man nodded his head and waved his hand at the man as he walked towards him. The dragoon stopped in front of the General and offered him a fairly warm greeting. Julian knew it was only because he paid him well. "A pleasure to see you again, General Julian."

       "You as well, Barton." It was a lie, but Julian felt little need to give the mercenary a shred of honesty. "Any news from the NAMAC camp?"

       "I managed to get into it, of course," the dragoon answered. "I came on the premise of selling them some Figaran medicine. While I was there, I saw that the Domans had come into the camp."

       "As expected," Julian said. "Did you get them my message?"

       "I did." Stone crossed his lean arms over his chest. "I got it to Sir Reynolde himself, as he was on his way from General Colby's mansion. He said he agrees with our plan." The man smiled at him. "You did well in paying me, General. The Figarans and Domans will stand with Tasnica."

       "That's good to hear." The General smiled in spite of himself. He knew it would mean the death of many of NAMAC's men, and it was a little more treacherous than usually met his tastes. However, it was a sure fire way to prevent the war from dragging itself out. Colby would place supreme faith in his supposed allies, and they would crush him from behind. "You've earned your pay, Stone."

        Stone gave one of his few genuine smiles. "Thank you, General."

       Julian turned back to Colonel Bernhaudt. "Colonel, the time has come for us to push on with this assault. You are to begin to move your men forward into a bombardment position, and commence the shelling when you are in range." He looked away from the old man's face, which was still drawn into a frown of disapproval at the idea of an attack upon a civilian target. "We end this war now, Colonel. We enter the breach, and we will leave NAMAC buried in it."

       Colonel Gregor Halsey ran down the streets of Tzen as the shells thundered. He had gone into the city for a meal when the shelling began. The restaurant he had been inside was half-collapsed, after a Tasnican shell had landed across the street and leveled it when shards of hot steel shrapnel had cut through the wooden building and brought its frame down around the patrons. He had escaped from the restaurant mostly unharmed, and was racing towards the fort on his long legs.

       The strange whistling of a shell went through the air and filled his ears, a sharp buzz that cut into his very soul. Halsey screamed as he lunged forward. The soil and air behind him turned into flame as the heavy missile slammed down into the middle of the street and exploded apart. A wave of heat washed over the man as he threw himself against the cobblestone street and felt it tear at his skin.

       He forced himself to stand up as the shards of metal that had been inside the shell rained down on the buildings around him, and continued to run. Parts of the city were on fire now, and he could see flames raging over the wooden palisade surrounding the fort that NAMAC had taken as their own. He never had much love for the Tasnicans, but he had never expected them to stoop to such a level. It was almost unheard of, save for the most barbaric peoples of the Web of the Worlds. What sorts of monsters laid waste to a city so? What sort of bastard would rain steel and flame down on the heads of women and children?

       Rolf Julian was the bastard that would do something like this. The Colonel glared and doubled his pace, darting through the burning gate that led to the fort. The grounds inside its walls were practically emptied. That brought a smile to Halsey's face, despite the insanity that surrounded him. The bombardment had spurred Colby into action. He knew that the General had marshaled NAMAC and gotten the majority of the forces out on the front lines.

       He looked up to see a wooden watchtower get torn apart by another artillery shell, which ripped open the wooden structure and sent into the ground as flaming bits and pieces. The man that had been inside was among those fire-covered remnants, and he screamed wildly, flailing his broken limbs about as the fire licked away the flesh from his body. Halsey's stomach twisted at the sight, and he reached down to the revolver at his side. He pulled the gun free, and pointed the barrel at the man.

       The bullet silenced him immediately.

       He looked around him, at the city and fort that burnt down around his head. He knew that his men needed him, but there was one thing that had to be done before he went out to command them in this final venture. It was something that only he or Alex could order, and he knew the man valued his honor far too much to ever order such a thing. Halsey turned his head towards the train station in the fort, and saw a company of combat engineers hastily loading artillery onto a railroad cart.

       The tall man darted towards them, crying out. "Get away from there! That's sure to be a target!"

        They looked up at him and blinked. The men turned and began to run from the station, towards him. He heard the familiar whistle of a shell once more, and let out a wordless scream as he realized that shell would be hitting close. The man threw himself backward as the shell landed in front of him. It tore through the roof of the station and exploded into a blossom of fire that caught some of the fleeing engineers. Pieces of shrapnel smashed into the railroad car and toppled it over onto its side.

       The metal shards rained down upon the fort, and Halsey felt white-hot pain shoot through his shoulder as a piece of shrapnel buried itself into his muscle. He let out another scream and looked at the unnatural, jagged piece of steel that had embedded itself into his flesh. Blood was spreading out over his grey uniform and staining it. He looked away from it to see a pair of widened eyes looking at the fresh wound.

       Several of the engineers had gathered around him, and stood up as the rain of shrapnel ended.

       "Sir, you're wounded!" the engineer that he had first seen him said in a frantic, frightened tone of voice.

       "Never you mind that," Gregor answered. He gingerly grabbed the piece of shrapnel in his hand, trying to take care to not further cut himself. It failed, and sliced into his hand. He felt warm blood spread out over his fingers, and clenched his teeth as he tore the piece of shrapnel out of his shoulder. He let out a primal scream as he dislodged it, and his back curved backward violently in protest to the sudden and horrible sensation. He threw the shrapnel aside, and then fell back against the ground. The engineers stared at him in a mix of horror, awe, and respect as he fell back against the ground and breathed heavily.

       He began to talk once more after taking a moment to catch his breath, though his words were still most laborious and heavily spoken. "Do you remember what that mercenary brought us?" he asked them. "Stone, the man from Crystal."

       "Yes, sir," one of the engineers stammered.

       "It's a poison gas, from Figaro, not medicine," Halsey stated. "Take it out to our eastern flank, and set it up there. Let those bastards have it. For Tzen."

       The engineers paused as they looked down at the wounded man, still lying down on the ground. One of them spoke quietly after a moment. "Sir, are you certain?"

       "I've never been any more certain in my life, Sergeant," he retorted. He looked back up at the man with a glare. "I said this is for Tzen. They've chosen to attack our people like this, so let's make them pay for this. Get a railroad car and load those canisters up, and give them what they deserve."

       "Yes, sir," the engineer answered. "Yes, sir! For Tzen!"

       "For Tzen!" the engineers cried. Halsey turned his head on its side, his cheek resting against the bare ground of the fort to look at the men. The combat engineers turned around and began to walk back towards the shattered railroad station. The canisters would be somewhere beyond it. He turned his head back at the sky. It was still clear, and the afternoon sun still shone down upon the city and him.

       He slowly rose to his feet, and began to lurch forward. He was not done with the Tasnicans yet.

       Alex watched the unfolding battle from a hilltop, surrounded by a small guard of riflemen. He held a telescope up to his eye and looked out at it on the battle that was being fought below, but he did not need it to see the sheer scale. It was a time before the day of modern tactics, and to any modern general, it would have seemed to be sheer madness. Alex found something noble in it. Units of grey-coated men were marching rank and file towards the north, their rifles clutched in their hands. He trembled slightly as he watched them, and looked at them with his telescope.

       The men were clutching their rifles, holding them with both hands as they walked towards the Tasnicans. There was an orderly procession as they walked onward, though artillery bombardment was still raining out from the Republican Expeditionary Force cannons. Here and there, a shell would hit a column of men, and that illusion of order would shatter apart as their bodies did under the wave of flame, ash, and shrapnel. Yet, even when shells missed and sent a rain of dirt down upon the heads of marching columns, they did not falter. They continued their pace towards the Tasnican army.

       The Tasnicans did the same, though they were not quite as orderly. They lacked the military tradition of NAMAC, and while they had learned quickly, there was little experience in their armies with commanding rifle corps. He could see it as he scanned the faces of the Tasnicans. These were nervous, frightened men. He knew his own men were frightened, but they did not let it control them. The REF seemed as though it could break at any moment as the columns of blue marched forth to meet the columns of grey. They jumped when the shells from NAMAC artillery exploded in their midst, and a few seemed to want to turn tail and run. They were all soldiers on the edge.

       Alex knew, however, that there was one thing that unified them all. They were all men on a field of battle, and they all feared for their lives. Every soldier thought not of victory at this moment, but whether they would live or die, and what would happen to those they would leave behind. To face death, to be able to see him around you, and know that the reaper walked with you on that battle plain eager for rivers of blood to run over it was an experience most sobering.

       It was the job of the General to turn away from that fear, and bring the minds of men to the concern of taking victory for their own. He put down his telescope, and looked out at the men. He shouted his orders out. "Fix bayonets!"

       "Fix bayonets!" repeated out the company commanders and squadron leaders. There was a rustling of metal clanging against metal as the men drew out the knife blade bayonets from their belts, and pushed them down on their rifles.

       "Regiments, halt!" Alex shouted.

       "Company, halt!" came the shouts of the various officers of NAMAC. The behemoth of the advancing force came to a stop, forming a long line that cut across the Albrooker Plain. Winds whipped down the front of that line, stirring blades of grass as it went down the front of it.

       The General continued shouting out his orders. "Ready!"

       "Ready!" repeated the company commanders. The riflemen on the front kneeled down and took their rifles to their shoulders, while the men behind them aimed their weapons over the front line's heads. The men of the line behind the first two put their rifles between the other men in the formation. The array of rifles created a wall of knives that faced the

       "Aim!"

       "Aim!" the men repeated. A distinct wave of nervousness ran across the battle as the men adjusted their positions, taking their sights on the line of blue that was still marching towards them. Alex looked at them, his eyebrow twitching as he studied the mass of Tasnican soldiers. He could only imagine what thoughts had to be running through their minds as they walked towards the wall of blades, and what could only be certain death.

       He took in a heavy breath, and waited. The men of NAMAC had their fingers tensed around their triggers, ready for his order. With one word, he could commence the chaos of this battle. He watched as the black boots of the Republican Expeditionary Force's infantry stepped forward, and into the range of the NAMAC rifles.

       With one word.

       "Fire!"

       Smoke poured from the rifle barrels as they fired, and the bullets shot out of the rifle barrels. They smashed into the line of Tasnicans ahead of them, and Alexander Colby watched as those lines crumpled under the gunfire. Thick smoke covered the NAMAC line, but death covered the REF line. Men fell down on the ground and on top of one another, breaking the somber silence and initiating the battle with the siren's song of their death cries.

       With one word, Alex had damned himself to hell once again. There would be no redemption for him this time, and there had not been the other times he had given the order that sent men to their maker. There was nothing left for him except to continue what he had began, and to see it through. He crossed his arms and watched as the line of REF soldiers filled in to replace the gaps left by the dead and wounded, and then stopped. The ones on the front kneeled down, and they all aimed their rifles forward.

       "Ready!" the General ordered.

       "Ready!" the officers repeated, their voices more frantic and shouting more this time. The NAMAC lines had already began to recycle, with men moving backward to reload as others moved forward and kneeled down, readying another wall of blades on which the men of Tasnica could throw themselves. This time, it faced a wall of blades opposite them. The swords of Esper and Tasnica were drawn, bloodied, and pointed at one another's throats.

       "Aim!" Alex shouted once more.

       "Aim!" his officers repeated, and the rifles pointed at the enemy line once more.

       Colby took in a heavy breath. "Fire!"

       The madness began anew, and Death was satiated.

       Theodore Halberg spurred his chocobo in front of his men, and looked at them as he rode in front of the column of cavalry. The men and their mounts stood in rank and file before him. His soldiers wore the same light brown uniform he did, as opposed to the standard blue of the Republican Expeditionary Force's infantry. The regiment out of Maranda had a tan and brown uniform, and wore their trademark wide-brimmed hats with one half of the brim fastened to the side.

       Halberg grabbed onto the reins tightly as he could. "We've been ordered into the fray, my comrades," the man said in his strong voice. "The eastern flank has taken some hard hits, and we're to go attack the enemy from the side. The NAMACs have fought with all of their courage and the valor, and they demand no less than that from us. They are of Esper, and they are our brothers."

       His mount darted back and forth across the column of mounted men. He looked at the blue eyes of the chocobos as they followed him, and the grim faces of his men. The 5th Cavalry had fought in a number of battles together, but most of them had been against the heavy cavalry of the Ticonderans instead of the cavalry of the Nikeahan and Moblizan Army Corps. There was some fear at fighting them, a force that would arguably be equal to their own in terms of prowess and technology.

       "They say it is one of the greatest sins, to wage war against your own brother," Halberg went on, "but it is this sin that we are asked to commit on this day. I ask only this of you: that you commit this sin with honor, and give our brothers the respect they deserve. We stand on opposite sides, but allow us to come together in this glorious fight, even as death tries to take us! Ours is a bully cause, and let us fight it the bully way!"

       He drew his saber into the air, and his men cheered. The cavalry drew out their own sabers, the sun catching the silver blades and shining brightly upon them. T.O. turned his bird forward and let out a whoop. It began running forward, and the cavalry regiment followed him over the windswept plains. The chocobos left a trail of dust behind them as they charged southward.

       Halberg grinned as he felt the wind against his face, and the sheer rush of the cavalry charge. The distant shots of rifles and cannons rang in his ears as he moved forward, and they grew louder as they came closer to him. He grinned all the same. This was how war was meant to be fought, with the leaders charging headlong into the battle with their men. It was the classic way of waging war, the honorable and noble way of entering a battle. It was how men were meant to fight, and meant to die. He would never have it any other way.

       His grin faded as the infantry regiment he had come to save came into view. There was no order to the men, and the NAMACs they had faced had long since dispersed. Instead, they ambled about the battlefield and clutched at their throats and eyes. Their bodies convulsed and twitched most inhumanly, and the men were surrounded by a thick, soupy fog of foul yellow-green.

       "What in the name of the gods?" he cried out, bringing his horse to a stop. His men did the same behind him. "What madness is this?"

       "Gas, sir," one of his lieutenants said in a somber tone. "The Figarans made it, during the Imperial War."

       "Gas!" T.O. shouted angrily. "They're using gas! Have they no honor?"

       A bugle cry pierced the air from the west, and Halberg turned his head. In the distance, he could see the NAMAC cavalry charging into the western flank of the REF. The man narrowed his eyes, and watched as the line of infantry slightly buckled under the charge. He turned his mount to face the west, and adjusted the brim of his hat to block out the sun. "That way!" he shouted. "Follow me!"

       Halberg spurred his chocobo forward once more. The bird squawked in protest, but began to gallop towards the west. His men followed after him. This time, there was no grin on his face or any thoughts of glory on his mind Ð there was merely anger, and the desire to right what had occurred by punishing the guilty. He would never allow such a thing to overtake him or his men.

       The NAMAC cavalry, wearing their grey uniforms and polished helmets, looked up in surprise as his men charged towards them. At their head was a well-tanned, tall man that had blood running down his grey uniform from a cut into his shoulder. The man looked at Halberg with an angry glare, and reached down to his side. He grabbed the hilt of his blade, and pulled out the saber that hung from his side and held it into the air.

       A vicious grin went across Halberg's face. "Charge!"

       His chocobo galloped forward, and his men followed him. Sabers clashed as the two cavalry regiments charged. Halberg ducked under a slash from one of the NAMAC cavalrymen, and kept his focus on the tall, tanned man. He looked at Halberg with an angry glare, and raised his saber up. Their chocobos charged towards one another, and Halberg could see the fear in the mount of the tall man as they rode toward one another.

       Their sabers clashed as they came at each other, and sparks sprayed into the air as the blades dragged along one another's lengths and then pulled free. Halberg circled his mount back around quickly, watching as his men cut into and were cut apart by the cavalry of NAMAC on all sides. He ran his mount back around, trying to keep himself away from their personal battles, and began to charge at the tall man once again. His eyes narrowed, and he again rose up his saber.

       "Tasnican son of a bitch!" he shouted at Halberg as he charged.

       "I'm a man of Esper, just as you are!" the Marandan shouted. He slung his saber out again, and but this time missed. The other man's sword struck true, however, and sliced into his side. The man's eyes widened and he lurched forward as the saber tip cut into his side and rendered flesh at its touch. He grabbed desperately at his side, and looked around to see the man charging again at him. His saber was red with Halberg's own blood.

       "No man of Esper would ride with Tasnica!" the tall soldier shouted back. "Not with outlanders such as them!"

       Halberg parried the sword strike with his blade, this time, and the sabers met with another brilliant flash of sparks. The two swords were repelled from one another, and their sabers were torn from their hands and thrown up into the air in a single violent motion. The blades spun as they lift the two men's grip, and landed in the ground. The blades embedded themselves into the ground.

       "A man of Esper," Halberg chided, "is a man of honor!"

       "A man of honor is a dead man, and that does Esper no good!" the other rider shouted. Halberg began to charge forward, and reached a hand out for the hilt of his saber as he did so. The tall man reached his hand down to his belt and pulled out his revolver, pointing it at the Marandan Colonel. The pistol fired, and T.O. fell forward in his saddle as the bullet smashed into his stomach.

       His fingers grabbed the hilt nonetheless, and he righted himself as he continued to charge. The pain in his stomach protested the motion considerably, but he refused to be halted by considerations such as pain. There was far too much at stake. The man drew his sword from the soil of Esper and brought it forward. He sliced it forward as he rode by his opponent, and the edge of the saber cut clean into flesh and bone. The tall man doubled back and fell away from his chocobo, ripping the stirrups off his boots and falling to the ground in a heap.

       He had been split open by the blow, and lay dying as he looked up into the sun. Halberg circled once around his foe, looking down at him, and then raised his bloodied saber in the air to honor him.

       Bronx Ruger was hurriedly slamming another round into the chamber of the standard issue rifle for Republican infantry when he heard the order that he knew could only be a considerable mistake by the Captain commanding the company he was now serving as a part of.

       "Charge!"

       The blue uniformed soldiers around him finished slinging their rounds into the chamber, and against all of the common sense that Ruger had, began rushing forward. They extended their bayonets, and readied the weapons as they approached the wall of rifles that made up the grey-coated NAMAC lines. Ruger had little choice to run with them, unless he was to be trampled, so the gunslinger began to move forward and stared at the wall of blades from between the forms of his charging comrades.

       That wall of blades erupted into a cloud of smoke, and the rounds flew free from the barrels of their rifles. Bronx watched them fly past him and heard screams from behind him, or saw the men in front of him fall forward as the rounds embedded themselves inside them and brought them to the ground. He jumped over his fallen comrades, holding his rifle in his hands as that wall of knives approached him.

       The smoke from the rifles had cast a great haze over the battlefield, and it grew thicker as he neared the rifles. It was still easy to see the bayonets, however, as they shone brightly as the sun caught them and cast its vicious light upon them. Their presence was made much more clearer as he saw the first of those blades begin to push themselves inside the flesh and clothes of Tasnican men, and their screams came. As it came Ruger's turn to rush at the wall, he raised his bayonet, and stabbed it forward.

       The knife blade buried itself into the forehead of one of the NAMACs, and the man slid forward with wide eyes as the bayonet killed him instantly. He pulled the blade out of the man's head and kicked it aside, and saw the REF retaliating. Bayonets stabbed brutally into men, and Bronx brought his down once more, catching a young man in the back and sinking the blade to its hilt into his flesh. He curled his back and screamed as the blade sank into his flesh.

       He pulled it away, and drew his shotgun from his trenchcoat. It was ideal for close combat such as this, and he aimed it at a greycoat that raised his rifle up and was attempting to take a shot at one of his comrades. Bronx pulled the trigger, and the round ripped the man asunder and threw his shattered body onto the bloodstained ground.

       Ruger looked around him, breathing heavily and looking for a next target. In the fraction of a moment before he fired his next shotgun blast and ripped the head off another young man, he realized that the madness around him had swept him up and was not letting him free.

       A bayonet blade sunk into his thigh, and the stout man screamed and nearly buckled over. Instead, he whipped his torso around and slammed the butt of his rifle into the offending man's face. The man fell backward, and the rifle fell away from his leg, the bayonet sliding out of the wound it had left. Ruger clutched his leg and grimaced, instinctively dropping both of his weapons to the ground. The man reached to his belt, and started to grab his pistol.

       Before he could finish, Barton Stone leapt down from the sky and embedded his spear into the chest of the man. His eyes went wide, and then Stone pulled the polearm out of the man with little more thought or consideration.

       Bronx reached down, and picked up his shotgun. "Stone."

       "Ruger," the dragoon repeated. He glanced at the shotgun with a suspicious glance, and spun his spear in one arm. "Something the matter?"

       "That Figaran gas they used," the gunslinger said. He leaned on his good leg, favoring his bad. He had always been a bit reckless, but many years of being reckless had made him develop a sense for when he was doing as much. "That was that Ômedicine' that you brought the NAMACs, wasn't it?"

       "My, you're an astute one." Barton Stone smirked. "I'd taken you for a complete imbecile. Seems I might have been wrong."

       "That ain't no medicine, Stone," Bronx growled.

       The dragoon shrugged his armored shoulders. "Semantics."

       The gunslinger narrowed his eyes and raised his shotgun. The moment he pulled the trigger, Stone leapt up into the air. The slug smashed into a NAMAC soldier that had stood behind the tall man. Bronx looked up and saw, to his awe, that his opponent had leapt up some thirty feet into the air and was bringing his spear downward. He quickly began to raise his shotgun and aimed it upward, but the dragoon was already upon him. Stone slammed his spear toward the gunslinger.

       The spear that twice saved him smashed into his shoulder and made him cringe, his body convulsing in a violent fit as the blade on the end tore threw his sinew and bone. The gunslinger dropped his shotgun to the ground in a fit of pain, and his hands spasmed uncontrollably. Barton's cold eyes were narrowed into slits of rage as he glared at the man he had impaled upon him.

       "Treacherous fool," he snarled. He twisted the spear, turning the spear inside the man's shoulder and sending a wave of pain. Bronx screamed out again, his knees buckling in protest.

       "Hypocrite," Ruger spat.

       Stone chuckled. "Dead man."

       "Takes one to know one."

       Ruger reached his good hand down to his belt, and pulled free the sandalwood revolvers that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The weapon was the most natural one he knew, and its trigger slid in the moment his finger grabbed it. It slung a round into Stone's body, and he stumbled backward, letting go of his spear. The gunslinger grabbed the polearm, squeezing it between his revolver and hand, and tore it out of his body. He threw the spear to the ground.

       "You bastard," Stone growled. He ducked to the ground, avoiding a second round from the pistol. The man rolled down on the ground and grabbed his spear. He had the reverse end of it pointed at Bronx. The gunslinger barely realized what was happening when the dragoon smashed his finger down onto a button built into the oaken shaft of the polearm. The blunt end of the spear exploded, and a rifle round slammed into Ruger's stomach. The force of the blow flattened him.

       "Tricky son of a bitch," Bronx swore. He reached his hand to his chest, and felt where the round had entered. He breathed a sigh of relief. He knew well enough that the shot was not fatal, at least for the moment. The round had lodged itself between his ribs and not sliced into any of his organs. That did not change the underlying fact of any gunshot, however: it hurt like all hell.

       He slowly rose up, but only in time to meet Barton's boot. The man kicked him in the face and threw him onto his back. He felt blood rush into his mouth, and knew that his lip had been split open by the sharp blow. Stone walked over him, and put the tip of his spear to the gunslinger's throat.

       "You've made a mistake, today, my friend," the dragoon answered. Ruger noticed that he approached slowly, thanks to the gunshot wound in his stomach. His grip on his spear was weaker, and he seemed fatigued. "Do you know what that mistake was?"

       Bronx glared at him, and spat up some blood that ran into his mouth. "Shooting you, maybe?"

       "Good guess." Stone sneered, and pressed the tip of the blade into the gunslinger's neck until he felt a thin stream of blood start down his neck. "But it's wrong. It's that you called me a jumper."

       "Yeah?" Bronx asked. "Guess what?"

       "What?" the dragoon answered.

       "You are what you are," the cowboy answered. He grabbed a hold of his tomahawk with his good hand, and slung it at his side. The stone blade of the weapon slammed deep into the calf of the dragoon. He screamed in pain and dropped his spear to the ground, and followed it himself. He fell down in a heap, clutching his grievously wounded leg with both of his hands. Bronx snorted and started to force himself up to his feet, and grabbed his pistol.

       "I recommend you get on out of here, Stone," he said. He pointed his pistol at the wounded mercenary's head.

       The dragoon grabbed his spear and used it to force himself to his feet, but leaned heavily on the long weapon. He glared at the man, but Ruger kept his revolver aimed at the soldier all the same. Stone started to walk backward, using his spear like a cane to keep himself from falling. He lifted his wounded leg entirely off the ground, and slowly stumbled away from the gunslinger.

       "I won't forget this, gunslinger," Stone growled.

       Ruger began to back away as well. "I ain't gonna be forgettin' this, either."

       The dragoon limped away, towards the distant, thundering cannons of the Republican Expeditionary Force's artillery regiment. The battle had left them and was beginning to move on. He glared once at the man, before he turned around and continued to limp away from him. Ruger considered shooting him the moment his back was turned, but decided against it. He put his pistol back in the holster, and began to follow him at some distance.

       He doubted an opportunist like Stone could ever amount to much, and his entire body was one mass of pain.

       Alexander Colby had fallen back. It was something that the General despised doing, but he knew that there was little choice in the situation. The superior numbers of the Republican Expeditionary Force had been brought to bear, and some cavalry officer from Maranda had foiled the flanking attack that had been led by Halsey and his unit. The tall man was dead, but the officer had found little time to mourn his loss. His forces had been pushed towards the outskirts of Tzen, near the ancient city wall that surrounded it. In front of him was the full strength of the Republican Expeditionary Force.

       He now stood amidst his men, instead of observing from afar. The front line of men was only a few hundred paces in front of him, and he could see the vast cloud of smoke rising into the air as the rifles fired again. The men on point for the formation of the REF infantry fell, but were almost instantly replaced by men that ran up and took their position. They continued to advance, their bayonets raised.

       He had managed to pull his men back and set up another perimeter after that first charge, but he knew that there would be nowhere to fall back to. He would not fight a battle in the streets of Tzen. Alex reached down and grabbed a rifle from the ground, one of the ones that had been left behind by a wounded soldier. The wounded from earlier in the battle were now around him, and readying themselves for battle. It was only the most gravely wounded men that had been taken into the city. All of them would fight, now.

       The General opened the chamber, and looked inside. There was a round inside, and he had gathered a few more bullets earlier on. He nodded to himself, and looked at a man across from him. He had no rifle, but held a pistol with one hand. His other arm hung limp at his side, and it was easy to see that the limb was broken. Bandaged and bleeding men were making up the rear echelon of his forces.

       He looked back at the charging REF line. They were near, now, and a final burst of smoke came from the barrels of the NAMAC rifles. He saw more of the blue-uniformed men crumple down, but then they threw themselves into the wall of bayonets. Once again, blades met and blood spilled before the officer's eyes. It was so close to him that he could smell it. He was almost in the vicious struggle that was being fought out before his very eyes.

       "Sir!" the man with the broken arm said, looking at him. "Look behind you, sir!"

       He turned around, and looked into the city of Tzen. Even hours after the bombardment of the city had ended, the town was engulfed in raging fires. And yet, through its main boulevard, he saw something that made him smile. A column of knights was charging down the great avenue, even though its stones had been shattered and the buildings to its sides had been laid to waste. The knights seemed gallant even amidst the flames, their sashes trailing behind them and armor gleaming in the sunlight. They had their katana drawn; single-edged blades held aloft as they rode forth on their mounts.

       At their head was Sir Claudius Reynolde, who had his own blade drawn out. A greycoat had seen them as they charged, and he turned and began to run in front of the knights. Alex could tell that Reynolde would pass him, but the sight of his men running along side the Domans' was a sight that made him smile. The day he had hoped would come for a decade had arrived. The might of Figaro and Doma had come to help him push back the Tasnicans.

       Reynolde lifted his katana, and sliced it downward at the soldier of NAMAC. The edge of the blade caught the man in the back of his neck and severed his head instantly. The head flew forward as the body fell down to the shattered stone under its feet, and then the man's head slammed down onto the remnants of the avenue a few feet later. The knights continued galloping down the avenue, directly towards the exposed back of Colby's unit.

       His eyebrow twitched, and he looked at the charging knight. Finally, he screamed out at him. "Claudius! What the hell is this?"

       Reynolde ignored him.

       "Sir!"

       He turned to his side, and looked at the man with the broken arm. "Sir," he said again, "what do we do now?"

       "We die here," Alex said. He looked at the knights as they charged towards him, wearing their armor and wielding their swords like anachronisms riding out of the past. He knew that they were lying to themselves, and their way was just as dead as his way was. The way of war had evolved and left them behind. It was a world that Alex could scarcely understand. Treachery, bombarding cities until they were nothing but rubble, and poison gas attacks were beyond what the man could fathom.

       He would never partake of such things, and could only pray that this war would maintain some sanity before it ended. "We'll die here," the man repeated, "but we'll die like Esperians, not like cowards. We charge now into the Domans, and into the madness of the Web entire. We'll give them all something to remember, and something good in a world gone mad. From this day, to the ending of this world, but we in it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers! For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother!"

       The wounded men turned around, letting out a cheer, and raised up their rifles towards the charging column of Doman knights. Alex raised his rifle up as well, and aimed it with his men. He put the sight at the end of his barrel onto the form of Claudius Reynolde, and narrowed his eye to bring the man into focus.

       "Fire!" the General shouted. The knights were close to them, now.

       Smoke poured out of the rifle's barrel as he pulled the trigger, and from the rifles of the others that stood around him. The round hit the cranium of the knight's chocobo, and sent it down to the ground. It threw Reynolde off and sent him rolling forward in a heap. The other rounds shot through knights and mounts alike, and cut down a swath of the Doman charge.

       Reynolde stood, and picked his fallen blade up off the ground. He began charging forward, and the knights that had survived the rounds did so. Alex narrowed his eyes, and yelled out his command.

       "Fix bayonets!"

       He had no bayonet, so he threw his rifle to the ground and reached to his side. He grabbed the saber that was buckled to his side, and drew out the sword from its sheath. The blade came free, and looked ahead of him as the armored men ran towards them. The man with the broken arm fired his pistol into the midst of the knights, bringing down one of their number with a well-placed shot. A moment later, and a sword cut through the man's collarbone and into his chest.

       The knights were upon them. Alex growled and lunged forward, slashing his saber at Claudius Reynolde. The man turned and parried it on his katana. The usually friendly look in the man's eyes was gone, and replaced by a vicious glare. He raised his foot and kicked the General backward. Colby stumbled as he fell backward, but righted himself and lunged forward. This time, his slash caught the armored man in his unarmored side.

       Reynolde grabbed his wounded side with one hand. "What's wrong, General?"

       "Claudius," Alex seethed. He spun his sword in his hand, and circled around the knight. The other man turned and followed him, and took his katana with both hands once again. "It was all a lie, wasn't it?"

       "The times change, Alex," the knight answered. "And they have left you behind."

       "That they have," the General retorted. "But I'll drag you into hell with me."

       "Really?" The knight laughed, but it was devoid of the usual boisterous humor the man had. He continued to turn around on his feet, holding his sword in his hands as the General circled around him. "That makes me laugh, old friend. You think you can beat me with a sword? You've never beaten me before. What in the name of the gods makes you think you can now?"

        "I've never really tried it before," Alex answered, and then added on with a touch of venom, "friend."

       Claudius smirked. "Then let's see what you have."

       The General dove forward and launched into a heavy slash with his saber, bringing the sharp edge of the curved blade at the knight. The man brought up his katana in a single fluid motion, and caught the sword on his own. Claudius turned backward, and then ducked down low. His armor seemed to barely hamper his movement as he slashed out quickly with the katana, but the General leapt upward. The wicked edge cut only the air under his feet as he slashed at the man's face.

       The knight rolled backward, but it was not quick enough to avoid the tip of the saber. The blade dug into the man's cheek and cut a line across it. Blood began to drip from the wound even as he rolled backward and then came back to his feet. Alex took a heavy breath, and pointed his saber outward at the knight. The Doman smirked at him, and lunged forward, lashing out the katana blade.

       Alex caught it on his sword and held it at bay, but the knight pushed in closer than he had expected. The man pushed his face up to Alex and snarled. The knight was stronger, and the officer could feel his grip on his sword slowly slipping as the blade was pried out of his hand. Finally, with a loud shout, he launched himself forward and threw his fist into Claudius' face.

       The knight stumbled backward, and nearly fell over from the force of the blow. He righted his posture, however, and regained control of his balance, and lunged at the man. Alex attempted to sidestep a slice that Claudius brought down from over his head, but the blade sliced into his greatcoat and flesh, and drew blood. It caught his collarbone, however, and the General quickly pulled back and tore the sword free of the sword. He answered by charging forward, and slashing at him with his sword. The saber edge caught the armor of the man, and cut a groove into it.

       Claudius kicked at the General and caught him in the chest. It forced the man backward, and he fell down onto his back. Alex grunted as he hit the ground and the air was knocked out of his lungs. The Doman knight rushed forward and slashed his sword down, nearly catching the officer with the blade. Instead, the General rolled out of the way and lashed out with his saber as he came up. It caught an unprotected part of Claudius' hip, and cut into the man's thigh. He stumbled backward, and spun around.

       Alex rose up to his feet, and slashed his sword out as the man turned around. The saber caught into the neck of the knight, and struck true. The blade tore clean through his neck and sent the man's head off to the side. Even as he was decapitated, Claudius made a haphazard stab that twitched uncontrollably as the life was suddenly sucked from his body. The katana sunk deep into the General's chest, and Alex's eyes shot wide. His saber fell to the floor, and he stumbled backward as the katana protruded from his back.

       He fell down to his knees, his hands trying to clutch at the katana shoved through his chest. He vaguely realized that a horde of blue-uniformed soldiers was charging beyond him now, but what caught his eyes the most was the crimson sun as it set over the western horizon. Alex fell the rest of the way down to the ground, his eyes never leaving that setting sun.

       Rolf Julian stepped lightly over one of the bodies of a NAMAC soldier. The night had set in, and cast a dim shade over the killing fields. The Republican Expeditionary Force had already removed most of their dead, but the dead of the Nikeahan and Moblizan Army Corps had not yet been buried. The bodies had begun to emit a great stench, and Julian had to set up the Tasnican camp a sufficient distance from Tzen to afford the stench.

       Colonel Bernhaudt and Halberg walked at his side. The old soldier had a disapproving gaze as he looked at the carnage. He had been upset by the turn the battle had taken, and while he had a strong distaste for what he had been ordered to do, the old man seemed somehow deeply disturbed by what occurred. Julian saw it as the future of warfare, while Bernhaudt saw it as the deconstruction of everything he had learned in his many years of service. It was a new kind of war.

       The Marandan was very quiet. He too had not spoken a word since he had walked on the fields, but occasionally glanced down at his blood-soaked boots with a disapproving glance. It was hard to read what was going through the man's mind, but he seemed greatly disturbed and disapproving of what went on. The man was too much of the age before him, Julian thought, and not enough of a man of the age he was in.

       "Gods, General," the older Colonel said. "Look at this killing field."

       When he looked at it, a shiver ran down his spine. Even with what he now thought of the course of war, it disturbed him that such violence had occurred in a place. Rolf knew that he had to put this feeling of disturbance past him, and pushed it away. That was what was now called upon for him. The man shook his head and glanced at the elder officer from the corners of his eyes. "What's done is done. We have achieved victory."

       "Is victory without honor really victory?" Halberg asked.

       "It is, as of this day," Julian answered.

       "I can never agree with that, sir," the man said. Halberg shook his head, and kneeled down by the body that Julian had stepped over. He reached his hands over the face of the deceased man, and closed his eyes gently. The Colonel then reached his hand into the man's shirt and pulled on a chain. He tore free the dog tags and looked at them, standing back up. "Do you know who this man is, General? This man you just callously stepped over? His name was Ian Coventry. He died for a cause you are ignorant of, and you mock him by disregarding him and his country."

       "Colonel, hold your tongue," General Julian snapped back.

       "I will not, sir." Halberg walked towards him, and shoved the dog tags into his face. Julian moved backward as he had the pieces of bloodstained metal shoved up near his eyes, and then cast a glare down at the lower-ranking officer. Colonel Bernhaudt remained silent. "You tell me that unity between my people is Ôrubbish.' It will be a reality, General, and that is because of men like you. You tell me that war is something that is now monstrous, devoid of humanity and emotion?"

       Julian remained silent, and the only response he gave to the diatribe was a glare.

       "I will never accept that, sir." Halberg shook his head. "The only way to make war bearable is to humanize it, and bring to it honor. Otherwise, we are no better than the beasts, General. I am a man, and not a beast. I am only a man because I have honor, and I will not fight under a man without honor such as you, sir."

       "So what will you do?" the Tasnican asked of him. "Leave the Republican Expeditionary Force?"

       "I have my honor. I request a transfer for myself and the 5th Cavalry, General," Halberg answered.

       "Fine," Julian replied. "You're a romantic, Halberg, but you're the last of your kind, you know."

       "I'd rather be the last of my kind, than be your kind. A romantic is a good thing to be. Good day, sir," Halberg answered. He brought his hand to the brim of his hat in a salute, and turned and walked away from the field. Julian growled as the man walked away, and then looked back at Colonel Bernhaudt. The old man's face was long, and looked heavy with the events, but he remained silent. Julian wordlessly began to trudge forward once again. After a moment, he heard the softer footsteps of Bernhaudt behind him. The man was loyal, if nothing else.

       It was after a moment that he heard a quiet sobbing. In the distance, he saw a young boy kneeled over a form. There was clearly a sword blade shoved through the chest of the form. He heard the child's voice croak out between sobs, "Father, father, I'm sorry."

       "Sir," Colonel Bernhaudt whispered, "isn't that General Colby's boy?"

       Julian nodded. "So Colby is dead, then."

       "It looks like it," Julian agreed.

       The two men watched the boy for a moment, who remained kneeled over his father and staring at the dead body. His small body trembled with sadness and rage, but he did not turn around. He seemed to be entirely unaware of the presence of the two men, and refused to move from the body of his late father. Julian's eyebrow twitched, but he turned away from the child, and began to walk back towards camp.

       Bernhaudt turned around and looked at the raven-haired officer as he walked away from the boy. "Should we take him with us?"

       "No," Rolf answered. He turned his head over his shoulder. "The boy is as good as dead, anyways, in a world like this. Leave him. Dead children can never pose a real threat to us."

       Bernhaudt walked towards him, and walked with the higher-ranking officer as they returned towards the camp. He remained silent as he walked, and Julian glanced at him. The events of the day still weighed heavily on his mind, but there was a new feeling that was apparent to Julian. He was enraged. He finally broke the silence with his quiet voice. "Sir, you are a bastard."

       Rolf Julian shrugged. "I am what I am."