This was it. They had been surrounded once more. Pyrrhos Petros had already foresaw this end for him and the Hellenos's Bronze Shields ever since they had first clashed with The Butcher in the Barrows. Through discipline and grit they fought their way out and forced the Valeans to retreat lest they tasted their spears. Now, through deceit of the Daimyos or through the innate cowardice of the Heartlanders they were once again left to their own devices as the pride of Mistral fled the field in terror.

In front of them stood the Valeans. Hardy men of the mountain and more of a match for us Iperokiti, their arms and armour far superior to anything the men of the south can bring to bear. The same southern men whose armies are numberlessand innumerable, yet their quantity was trounced by nothing more than Iperokiti grit and ingenuity. Pyrrhos had never trusted that any of them had spines, but he hoped that a few of his brethren could inspire them by just a touch. Enough to strengthen their resolve and stand their ground, but it never happened. Their impetuous charge loud and terrifying was nothing more than a frightened dog's bark, frightening for the first few moments, but you realise that the cowed animal will never bite. And so here upon an unnamed hill they stand, the Bronze Shields, Alexandros's heirs, Sons of Helios, men sentenced to die by The Butcher of the Barrows.

Lorgar Arc walked to the head of his men's lines great axe in hand. He glanced to the left and right of him as if he was an officer preparing his hetaitoi before he finally planted his axe on the ground. A few moments passed before he shouted at them "Ya fooght bravely! Went abune an' beyond whit yer emperur has ask a' ye. Ah noo a' ask ye to lay doon yer arms an' surrender! Thar is no need fur morr men to die today"

The ox of a man spoke in his native Valean. Many iperokiti knew of this language through their connections in Blueshore or through blood, for the men of Vale was more palatable than the barbarian Heartlanders to their south. His thick mountaineer accent was harder to parse through, but eventually Pyrrhos had understood what had been said. He marched to the front of his men's formation and raised his spear up high. Once most of the eyes were on him and his spear he replied.

"Here are my arms! Come and take them!"

With that boast the bronze shields banged and clattered their spears upon their shields and cheered. The deafening noise had no rhyme or reason, just the sound of men trying to ward off death's whispers upon their ears.

The message was received by Lord Lorgar Arc. He looked at Pyrrhos and gave him a somber salute as Pyrrhos retreated back towards the rear of his line. Lorgar once more disappeared in the mass of his men and finally the sound of grass and leaves crunching was heard. Then the sight of five men hauling a gonne towards them greeted them, Lord Arc the one at the front heaving the beast of bronze with all his might.

A fitting end to the Bronze Shields, to be cut down by The Butcher's Bronze Beast.

"Take heart, men! Lord Arc is an honorable man, he will give us an honourable death so that we may meet our ancestors proudly!" Pyrrhos shouted in an attempt to rally his men.

Many agonisingly long moments had passed as finally Lord Arc had positioned the gonne to the base of the hill; its gaping maw opened menacingly to the remaining Bronze Shields. Guarded by many hundreds of men with pikes, handgonnes, and their own great axes, charging this sole gonne infront of them would be suicide. Yet when the men at the front saw the shot being loaded they had hoped the Pyrrhos would command them to charge. They saw a long and thin canister wrapped in canvas being loaded to the gonne. A handgonne's shot to the lungs was more palatable than what's to come.

'Steel yourselves men! We have the gods on our side! They won't dare shoot." Pyrrhos's voice got softer at the end as if he was no longer believing the words coming out of his mouth. As if he was attempting to convince himself.

The gonners were still adjusting their aim, levelling their guns near perpendicular to the ground. They aimed straight at the heart of the Bronze Shields and at this distance, barring a miracle, they will never miss. The nerve wracked gonners either respecting the awesome power of their weapon or the discipline and tenacity of the bronze shields anxiously waited for their commander's orders.

A beat passed.

And another.

Then the match was struck and a blazing star was born upon the mouth of the beast, it then flew back a few paces from where it once stood. Then there was a brassy thuuum as the bronze gonne spewed forth dozens if not hundreds of whizzing projectiles towards the men at the top of the hill. To them at the top it was as if the flames of hell blazed through them whilst death dragged his way through like a taxman demanding.

The Bronze Shield's formation was scythed open. Prince, priest, pauper, to the bronze gonne all of them were equal. Dazed men looked to the left and right of them, their brothers in arms had fallen in a heap beside them groaning in agony as the pieces of lead and iron chewed through them. Their officers tried their very best to rally them on and through hard discipline born through years and years of training, these men sentenced to death mechanically reformed their wall of flesh and bronze like golems under the thrall of their master.

The bronze gonne was once more levelled and loaded. Lord Arc looked sadly at the Bronze Shields as if he was pleading them to surrender. The match is no longer at the hands of the battery commander, but upon his. These mountaineers had a peculiar custom "He who had sentenced shall be the one who does the deed." As a sign of respect and honour to them, he was now the man who shall command the Bronze Beast.

The Ipekoroti did not beg for mercy, nor did any of them tried to run. Be it due to them being rooted by fear or through the discipline instilled upon them. But one thing was certain, they all were facing Lord Arc with the deadened resolve only a veteran of a hundred battles would know. Time had since slowed for them, and seconds had extended to minutes as they awaited their fate. The divine lottery dealt by the bronze gonne will make them all equal.

The beast roared once more and a wall of iron and lead rushed towards the Ipekoroti. Once more the power of a thousand blizzards and hailstorms had hit them, many men were dead as they stood, some were maimed, and others stood their ground merely waiting their turn. The proud sons of Alexandros were slowly being brought low by the scraps of the weapons of the southern men they so hated. A twisted irony as they were being cut down by the scrapped spears of the heartlanders.

This was a horrible death, this was an ignoble death, this was the death of a soldier. The men buckled as bits of iron and lead slammed into their bodies and then they collapsed. These aren't the dramatic over the top deaths of heroes from the plays that the katoikoi of their people so loved. Nor were they the peaceable fall into the arms of my brothers' kind of deaths that veteran soldiers so desired. This was palpable, real, and most of all terrifying to behold. There was nothing but stunned terror in the eyes of the men that were left; it was only by some miracle that they were not cut down where many of their compatriots had been scythed down like wheat.

And before another canister was loaded Pyrrhos Petros, who had miraculously lived where many infront of him had not, looked directly to the eyes of Lorgar Arc. The sightlines of the two were cleared by the shot that rang moments before. Pyrrhos, knowing what's to come, made his decision. He dropped his spear and knelt on one knee, his two hands gripping the base of the shield as his knuckles had whitened from the force of his grip. This was the sign of subservience of their people, a sign that he pledges his life and limb to the person in front of them, and at this moment it was the sign of their surrender.