The Last March of Barticus
The air was still on the sticky summer afternoon. Months of planning and preparation had gone into the events that would soon transpire, and the restless general was not about to allow one small mistake spoil his work. The soldier responsible for the uproar had already been imprisoned, and Barticus was confident their position had not been revealed.
Camped on the side of Mount Chase, the armies of Barticus awaited the orders of their well experienced leader. They were restless; the forces they would soon clash with had never before been met in battle. On this day, history would be made.
Five miles across the Plains of Gorman was their goal; a glorious castle of an earlier age, which for centuries had stood unconquered. Having never before been sacked, this seemingly impenetrable behemoth was a pinnacle of defense. Barticus was confident this his well trained men, as well as their meticulous planning, would change the fortress’ reputation.
Barticus checked the sky; the sun was high in the westward direction. Knowing the march ahead of them would take several hours, he ordered his men to begin gathering their supplies. He himself turned and entered the charcoal colored tent which served as his quarters. Ordering one of the guards to fetch his armor, he looked at the furniture in shelter with a feeling of regret. The exquisitely decorated chairs, carved with patterns of grape vines and ivy, as well as his plush furs and fine feather bed would soon be useless. He shook off the sadness and turned to face the returning guard.
The man was a dumb brute with an appearance that suited him. His large nose jutted out at an odd angle that made him difficult to take with any seriousness. However, having seen him in battle, Barticus has no doubts of the man’s military prowess. In his arms he held a marvelous set of armor; shimmering bronze plates overlapped in such a way that they provided both...