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SUMMARY: An old soldier and a High Priest witness the last stand of their empire.

The knees were the first to go. A soldier spent his career strapping plate and chain and leather onto his chest and back and head, but the knees were the first to go. Captain Grip grimaced and spat in disgust at his own womanish philosophizing.

He'd finally gone soft.

Despite the ringing in his ears, he clearly heard the labored breaths of his men. They lined the trench, their sprawled forms reminded Grip of a mass grave.

"Scout!" he whipped his head around as far as the trench would allow. Scanning his remaining men took far less time than he had hoped. They all were covered in mud from head to toe, and streaked with blood. No more than a score looked useful. "You!" he shouted at the lone surviving scout. He thought there were four earlier. The man didn't respond.

"Soldier, look alive." he tried again.

"Me, captain?" the scout almost whispered.

"Yes you, you quivering little girl," Grip growled. "What did you say earlier about their mages?"

"We couldn't see as they had any sir, but now I ain't sure" he squeaked without making eye-contact

"That's what I thought you'd said" said Grip.

"Corporal Red!" Grip shouted. "You still alive?"

"I can see him down the line a bit. His head don't look right, and he looks even bloodier than the rest of us. Don't think he's gonna answer you..., sir" murmured the scout.

"Was I asking you?" said Grip bitterly "Don't answer that. What's your name, scout?"

"Name's Trent, Captain"

"Well, Trent, you just made Corporal. Seeing as you're the only one can hear me who aint dead, you'll make a fine officer." Humor usually put a man at ease when he was about to die. Look at me, like a damn wet-nurse in my old age. "Tell anyone down there that can walk. We move the moment I give the signal."

"Move where, sir?" asked Trent

"Up and out of this trench, and then two hundred paces north as fast we can. Then we turn and give hell to whatever we see. With any luck, they think we're dead already, and are moving on south to begin the siege in earnest. Maybe we can do some damage to their backside—slow them some to give the boys inside the city a chance to close the gates and dig in".

"Is there any chance we'll... you know, survive?"

"Survive? Of course not, but I'd rather die out there swinging a sword, than in this pit like a rat. Now, cinch up your skirt and get ready, there's killing to be done" Grip hoped that sounded properly inspirational, nothing worse than a man dying in despair. False hope of glory was always better. After all, maybe dyin aint so bad, at least my knees will stop achin.

Grip and twenty-three bedraggled soldiers scrambled out of their trench and quickly formed an uneven line that swung north. They ran eagerly towards their deaths.

- -

From a battlement atop the ancient Citadel of the Rock, a man stood alone and watched the death of an empire. Hundreds of heavy infantry rumbled unopposed along the Way of Roses towards the Citadel. They followed the parade route. Ironic. Thought High Priest Ilijah. That path was usually reserved for the return of the city's conquering heroes.