Ever since their initial probe of the southern front line and flanks, the northerners hadn't sent any more troops their way. That didn't mean there had been no movement beyond the wall. Divided by the empty field of white, King Pacha's men carried a wooden platform with a fancy throne on top to the front of their formation. With an impassive expression, Tama watched as the bastard king stood up in front of his elevated throne and stepped onto the platform.   

Though they had looked like lousy fighters so far, at least his warriors showed great balance as they managed to hold up their master without much trouble. The wind may have carried away the sound in the distance, Pacha's animated movement alone told her that he was holding what he considered a rousing speech; from the rising tension of his army, it seemed like his men agreed.

“Maybe you should hold your own speech? I am convinced you would do much better than that Uncle Peacock of yours.” As she turned to Corco, Tama's expression softened into a smile.

“And hype up the soldiers like last time?” the king replied with a bitter look. Indeed, when they had fought Rupilo, Corco's burning address had incited a sudden, chaotic charge and almost ruined their entire battle plan from the very start. “Don't forget that we're the defenders either. We need a cool mind and grit, not fire. Plus, that ignited spirit of Pacha's warriors will get doused as soon as they step into firing range. No amount of morale can survive continued cannon and musket fire. Rather than my uncle's little speech, I'm much more worried about whatever Herak is doing.”

Reminded of the scary foreigner's existence, Tama looked beyond Pacha's oration and took a closer look at the soldiers who received it. Instead of putting his best men into formation for a charge - as Tama would have expected - he had lined up all of his commoners to lead the first proper charge. They didn't even carry their usual equipment of bolas and nets. Instead, a few held large shields, while the rest each carried a jute bag in their hands.

“What are they planning?” Tama asked as her stomach contracted in inexplicable worry.

“Looks like we're about to find out.” Just as Corco's words had left his mouth, Pacha had finished his speech and pointed his long axe in their vague direction. In response, all the commoners marched ahead, hidden behind the shields in the front. Though they didn't have the same energy as the charging warriors had prior, their actions still seemed driven and orderly. Maybe it was only because of the archers who were positioned behind them to threaten any deserters, but for now they walked towards their deaths with open eyes.

“What should we do?” Tama asked with increasing worry. She understood Corco. The kind king was always eager to let the commoners off easy. Normally, she was willing to indulge him. This time however, that sort of leniency could be fatal. This was Pacha's plan, she thought. As Corco agonized over whether or not he should spare them, the commoners would get close to their wall, until it was too late to prevent whatever plan they had hidden inside those bags. However, the king surprised her with his callous answer.

“What do you think? Tell the muskets to get ready. Have them fire as soon as they get into range, but favor precision over volume. And hold back the cannons, no reason to waste gunpowder on some skirmishers.”

After both kings had given their orders, the battle went into its next phase. Many of Pacha's commoners died in their approach of the walls. However, they didn't try to storm the front and never tried to get too far up the hill. Instead, just a few steps inside the enemy firing range, they stacked the bags and created their own low walls at the foot of the incline. As Tama observed the new walls with her spyglass, she saw several musket shots enter the bags, yet the commoners behind them were unharmed, if shaken.

“What are these things?” she asked in shock. She had expected the bags to be filled with gunpowder, poison or sawdust for ignition. Yet she had never imagined them to be used in such a fashion.

“They're sandbags.” With fury in his voice, Corco scanned the battlefield, until his eyes focused on a spot in the distance. “Herak! That fucker stole my trick.”

When Tama followed her master's eyes, she saw a large man with the fair skin of the eastern foreigners, his face covered in a scary bronze mask and his back taken up by a giant black bow.

“Shit, they're doing some proto-trench shenanigans. I changed my mind. Tell the front line to hold nothing back and fire at will! Make sure they don't get those walls of sandbags up! Even if they do, we have to slow them down and make their approach as expensive as possible!”

“Understood.” Tama was about to turn and relay the orders when Corco called her back.

“And recall back Tracao and his people from the forests. We'll soon need all the manpower we can get here.”   

“What happens if King Pacha tries to outflank us again?” Despite the urgency in Corco's voice, this time she couldn't just ignore the possible consequences of giving up their flanks.

“My uncle's got no idea just how his first batch of warriors died in those woods, or how many people I have hidden in there. Plus, we're obscured behind a wall and an elevation, so he won't even see the warriors coming back. If Pacha knows what's good for him, he won't send any more men to die on the flanks. And even if he does, your people would be able to scout it and inform us before any accidents happen, right?

“Of course. They will serve you with their dying breath.” As will I, she added in her head.

When Tama left to inform the individual troop commanders and her scouts of their new orders, the worry that had only gripped her stomach tightened around her heart as well. When even the always confident Corco was this flustered, the trouble this time may be more serious than ever before. As she turned to look at the lonely back of her master, she balled her hands into fists. No matter what it took, Tama would stand by his side until the end.

Even from his position by his throne, Pacha could just feel the smugness of Corco's troops all the way across the battlefield. The progress of the commoners was much slower than he liked, and he was sure that somewhere beyond these walls, a self-satisfied Corco enjoyed the view as the northern men struggled and fell one by one. Still, at least they were making some measure of progress. For now, they were still putting up barriers of bags as they encroached ever closer to Corco's snow wall.   

Although the losses of his men were considerable, they were only commoners in the end. Only the screams were a bit disturbing, since they might lower the morale of his warriors if they had to step through all that carnage later. However, he was sure that his men would also understand how different their lives were from those of mere mortals. Soon enough, they would send their proper troops and storm the wall from behind their new covers. Once at melee range, the advantage would be his, and he could grind down Corco's southern soldiers bit by bit.

However, just as Pacha dreamed of his eventual victory, his attendant appeared by his side.

“King Pachacutec, a runner has arrived with an urgent message.”

Even before he broke the seal, the king had a bad feeling. Over these past months, urgent runners had not once brought him good news. And this time as well, his fears were confirmed.

“Bastard! How dare he!” The piece of paper crumpled between his clenched fists and soon landed on the ground. As his attendant carefully retrieved the confidential document and stowed it away, the nearby lords gave the king curious looks. Though of course, only one of them would have the courage to confront an enraged Pacha.

“What are the news?” Herak asked in his chilly tone. As the ice of the heartless lord's tone seeped into his blood, Pacha calmed as well, though his face had become dark as the bottom of a pot.

“We have been betrayed. Makipura and his entire estate have joined the south under Corco. By now, they have taken out our encampment in the Narrows and have teamed up with the southern troops from Qarasi Castle. All of them are on their way here and will arrive soon.”

“What!?”

“How dare that bastard!”

“Does Makipura have no honor!?”

“He deserves the harshest punishment!”

While the wastes beneath Pacha paid lip service and pretended outrage, the king himself became more worried the more he thought about the strategic implications of the news. Since the southerners had broken through the Narrows, they would soon relieve Corco's trapped attendant and lead him south. Then Makipura and the southern lords were free to lead their large army west and reinforce Corco's position. Would they be here sooner than Pacha's uncle Divitius? How many men did they have among their ranks? Pacha didn't know the answers, but even if they were in his favor, he didn't want to see the war escalate even further. Only Amautu would profit from more dead warriors.   

Again he looked at the battlefield in the distance, and again he saw the commoners make only laborious progress under the intense fire of the defenders.

“Why are they so slow!? Tell them to speed up!” he shouted at his attendant.

“Useless worms,” Herak growled next to Pacha. “I wanted to wait a while longer until they set up the bags up to the walls, but it seems like I will have to move out early.”

“Duke Herak, what do you suggest?” Pacha knew that the foreigner wouldn't listen to his command and would do whatever he liked anyways. Still, if he wanted to retain some semblance of face, he had to at least frame the foreigner's willful actions as advice to the king. As usual, Herak humored Pacha and showed some basic courtesy, if nothing else.

“Since we are short on time, I will lead my own men to join the battle. The commoners are this slow because those enemy muskets get to fire at our peons without reply. Once I position some of my own muskets behind those sandbags, we can suppress them with our own fire and construction will speed up again.” As he spoke, Herak pulled his giant bow from his back and began to string it.

“Fine, you may proceed,” Pacha played along with the charade and gave his worthless consent. They weren't his men anyways, so Herak was free to let as many of them die as he wished. Rather than the battle plan, he was more curious about the stranger's own actions. “However, Lord Herak, why do you appear to get ready for a fight? Do you intend to join the battle yourself?”

“Who else would?” the duke glanced at the other lords before he tested the pull of his bow. “After all, this is the reason I have joined this war. Now excuse me, King Pachacutec. I will go hunt a merchant.”

As a Captain, Alcer should be in charge of another nine men. Right now however, he could barely take care of himself. All around him, he could hear shouts of uncountable voices. Some soon turned into screams. He couldn't see the enemy volleys that reached them from down the hill, but every now and then he could hear the bullets whiz past him. Though the sounds were disorienting, the sights were no better.

Before him, he could only see chaos. With or without his command, his troop of nine was embroidered in a desperate struggle, together with their entire line. Their front line of halberds blindly pushed, shoved and poked their weapons over the wall, in a desperate attempt to keep the enemy warriors at bay, or to break their push; Alcer did not know which one.   

Whatever they were doing, their foes wouldn't let off. Again and again, they would charge at them like waves. Like countless times before, the force of an impact traveled through the rows of soldiers and pushed Paec half a step back as he got up. He forced his way back towards the sweat and iron scent of battle and somehow managed to put his gun in between two bodies. Without any vision on a target, he pulled the trigger and his weapon went off; only the smell of powder confirmed his success. He heard another scream, but he had no idea if it had been his doing; there were screams everywhere.   

Shell shocked, he looked around, but saw the same tangled mess of bodies everywhere. Any semblance of order had long disappeared. Another arrow whizzed past just above his head and disappeared somewhere in the crowd behind him. Somehow, Alcer found the space to crouch back behind the wall and his front row allies to reload his flintlock once more. He didn't know how many shots he had fired, he had lost count after around twenty.

How had things gone so wrong so quickly? Only minutes ago, everything had been so easy. At first, they hadn't even faced off against men with weapons. Only some common skirmishers carrying sacks dared brave their gunfire, like fools. However, under threat of the archers and warriors behind them, these living targets had advanced by suffering heavy losses and had soon built their first impromptu wall. Then they had used the cover to leap ahead and create a second, and then a third.

As the enemy got closer, Alcer's accuracy increased as much as the accuracy of all their musketeers, and the progress of the wall builders slowed to a crawl. Yet as soon as they were about to stabilize, the enemy had sent their own muskets to suppress their fire. Hidden behind their new walls of sacks, their enemies could fight back against their own wall of snow. From that point on, Alcer finally understood how all their enemies must have felt in the face of their own firepower.

Musket fire could be heard, but it could not be seen. All of a sudden, there was invisible death all around him. He no longer had the time to watch and admire his accuracy. As soon as he fired his shot, he returned back behind cover, in hopes that the flimsy wood and snow would hold against the enemy volleys. To his shame, he even caught himself hoping that the flesh of his allies would do the trick if the wall failed. Shot by shot, he would conquer his fears every time and rise from his cover to fire, and every time the picture in his front became more desperate.

He rose to his feet, and saw the enemy muskets had hopped ahead to the second wall. He fired and retreated to his cover.  

He rose to his feet, and saw that they had reached within twenty feet, well within firing distance, close enough to aim at individual soldiers. The officers would be a key target, and Alcer was one of them. He still fired his shot and retreated yet again.   

He rose to his feet and saw the mighty cannons behind their walls get stuffed shut by the bags the enemies had prepared. He saw the spikes they had spent great pains to ram into the frozen earth pierced with more bags, to create a cover for the enemy right in front of their defensive line.   

He rose to his feet, and saw a large swath of warriors rush from cover to cover to close in on their position.

He rose to his feet, and saw them organize a charge, the first of many. Down on his knees, Alcer heard the cries of warriors overpower the constant gunfire, and then he heard the clash of metal on metal. Somehow, he fumbled the ramrod back into position and rose to his feet yet again.   

At that point, his allies were in a desperate struggle against the enemy charge. Their formation bent and deformed, and the first northern warriors threatened to surmount the wall of snow. As they pushed on, their force rippled through the defenders until it reached Alcer.

He lost his balance once again, and this time he fell. His hand landed in a puddle. When he raised it to his face, it was colored a dark red. From down here he could see that their pristine, snow-white defensive wall had turned into a puddle of muddy blood. Alcer's fingers cramped around his gun, and he rose once more.

With desperate determination, he found another hole, and fired once more. He had no idea how many he had killed, if any. He had no idea how many were left, no idea if they were winning or losing. This was a real war.

Within minutes, their battle had transformed from a leisurely practice session into true hell.

Another arrow narrowly flew over his head. Once more, Alcer fell to the ground to reload his gun.