Chapter Six

…

"Hold fast men! I said hold the line damnit!"

"There's too many of them!"

"I wanna go home!"

"Mama! Mama!"

The sounds of the barking of orders, the crying, the dying and the moaning of the names of their dead relatives have always been a fact that is present on every battle. Coupled with it are the harsh grunts of flesh meeting flesh, the sound of shredded metal and the squelching sound as lifeblood spilled all over the ground by living beings.

For Artorius who have never been in a battle before, it is a surreal experience. With his enhanced senses, he could literally hear and notice every single thing that is going on the battlefield. The struggling mass of flesh of brown and green intermingling, each trying to gain an advantage over another. Although that sickens him a lot, he has no choice but to press on, the world turning into a blurry repeatiting of hack, stab and repeat at anything that resembling even the color of green.

While the human army of the Empire gained the advantage thanks to his suicide charge, that advantage for long did not last as the Orks who apparently supposed to slowly lose morale thanks to the danger that their position being overrun held, instead reacted as if Orkish New Year came early and faced head on the human charge with great vigor and glee. The human army unexpecting of the sudden maneuver of the green tide were stalled on their advance and were unable to organize their lines to counter the sudden movement of the Ork threat. What was supposed to be a close call victory turned to an all out rout as the human positions even become more precarious as out of nowhere from the back of the gorge they were situated, another Ork army arrived under cover of the morning mists catching the human army between a hammer and an anvil turning this way and that, royal troops and conscripts all falling the butchering axes of the Orks. Even the old baron fell alongside his loyal knights unwilling to leave the body of their liege to be defiled. This caused the army to be leaderless and whatever moral that it held for the past few hours immediately went up into smoke as the realization sets in that it was every man for himself.

However if there is one thing that can describe Bretonians, it is the fact that they are very stubborn, and brave when the occasion demands it from them. While the main army composed of conscripts from different farms and cowardly soldiers try to make a run for it. A few officers of the army loyal to the baron and belonging to the virtues of old Bretonia gathered whatever noble souls they could that would heed their cry and made a wall of shields at the edge of the grove serving as a rear guard to prevent the total route of the army to a full-fledged massacre. Led by Bann Teagan, the brother of the deceased baron, the five hundred men rear guard held the line against the endless tide of Greenskins who are now slowly finishing the last of the stragglers that didn't make it behind the safety of the Rear Guard wall of shields.

It's into this small band of volunteers that Artorius and Sigmar found themselves in. With the amount of prowess and skill that the two friends showed during their impromptu charge, it is only logical that they would be mandatorily chosen to be part of this suicide squad. After all, the longer they hold, the more chance for the soldiers to extend their distance from the coming chase that the Orks would surely make against the fleeing army of Western Bretonia.

"So I guess this is it huh?" Sigmar muttered at his side, the tall lanky warrior looking the worse for wear with his patched armor nearly torn, the chest plate on his breast cracked by a long gash. At his side strapped by a couple of belts nicked from dead soldiers are a bloody rag to staunch the bleeding that an Ork tusk made.

"I guess it is," Artorius simply replied as he stared at the charging Greenskins that is about to overrun their line. "At least we shall die side by side as brothers, all of us,"

Unlike the rest of the men who are slowly being overcome by nervousness and fear at the sureness of death that is approaching them. Artorius simply feels weary acceptance. It is true that even he with his strength and speed he can still be brought down, and no amount of skill in his part can make him win one against ten thousand. All that matters to him is the fact that he finished his duty to his family. Little Eltariel would be safe, the priestess living near their farm would have surely heard the news of the rout of the army. The entire western region of the kingdom would be evacuated in fear of being overrun except for the barons and their castles whom they would fortify by whatever men they could muster. She would take Eltariel with her alongside the other orphans and make for the nearest stronghold. His duty would however be making sure that they have time to run away and create as much distance as he could between them and the Orks, that means making sure that he survives as long as possible and keep the Orks focused on their small group instead of the civilians farther inland.

"You know we never talked about our hopes and dreams Artorius,"

"What?" Artorius simply stared at his soot covered friend who is testing a notched blade that he is swinging on his hand.

"Our dreams and hopes, what we want most for the future," answered the older teen now sheathing the blade and staring at his best friend with grey pierced eyes "I believe that it is high time that we tell each other what we really want in this world. At least we will have a chance to talk about it at least before we die,"

"I never knew you could be all sentimental my friend," commented Artorius earning him a bark of laughter from his best friend.

"I have my moments. Now who should start, you or me?" he asked.

"Of course it'd be you, but you better hurry it up. The Orks are coming this way in a few minutes,"

"Alright. I guess for me, it would be the fact that I hid my true personality to you," said the older teen making Artorius blink at his words as he smiled ruefully at the bigger boy. "I was born with the name, Cailan Callenhad, my father was Orelan the Fifth and of course, I am the currently disposed prince of Bretonia. I am named Sigmar by my nanny since she feared that I would be hunted down by the dogs of our beloved King Orelan if he ever got wind of where I am. So I guess that's it," he finished with a nervous smile on his face not noticing the fact that nearly every soldier in the vicinity have frozen as still as statues as the realization sets in that the young man is the lost prince of Bretonia.

As for Artorius, his face remained impassive as ice thanks to the superb genetic engineering his creator drafted into him. However inside he is reeling. Being raised as a farmer all his life, it is ingrained in his being to be subservient to royalty. To know that he has been brushing shoulders with the lost prince of the kingdom and rightful king, it is good enough to say that It is quite hard to swallow.

"Judging by the rock hard look in your face, you must be trying to process everything I've just said and connecting all the dots. But please my friend, don't start calling me your majesty anytime soon. I may be born royalty but I am not any kind of noble right now. I am still your best friend, the one who got a face full of mud and shit from your accurate throws,"

Trying hard not to gulp as every eye turned to him for apparently "throwing shit" at the prince royal, Artorius simply laughed nervously and is about to make a joke about it when a pained wail made all of them turn as they saw a man fall down, an axe having managed to cleave his skull into two. The Orks are finally here.

"Hold fast man! Hold! For Bretonia! For the Lady! We hold this line!" Bann Teagan roared, his bloody cavalry sword being brandished in the air as the soldiers stood side by side, shields interlocked. Now they would face the afterlife together as brothers.

"It's been an honor fighting and knowing you Artorius," chuckled Sigmar or Cailan, as he stared nervously at the approaching horde, his hand fingering the hilt of his weapon. "You know you never told me what it is you wish the most in this world,"

Artorius simply hefted the blacksmith hammer he has been wielding ever since the start of the battle staring at the green wave about to engulf them whole. Memories of him eating with his father and adopted sister near the fire, tilling the ground, planting the plants and sowing the seeds, memories of the laughter, the joy, that emptiness he saw in his adopted father's eyes as they visit the small plot of land where blue long-blossoms grow that is the grave of his adopted mother which he barely had any memory, memories of his adopted sister looking at other girls being walked hand in hand by the one that bore them, memories of his father trying to be the man and woman of the house at the same time.

"What I want is simply my friend," Artorius sighed as he took a deep breathe, his hand swishing like a lightning cracking open the skull of the first charging Ork within reach of their lines.

"What I want most is a mother!" he finished as the green line finally reached the wall of shields and spears.

None of them noticed the white figure atop them hidden in the sky and managing to hear every word that is shared below.

"Interesting," muttered Michael, his white wings gleaming in the sun. This would make his job even more easier than he thought.

…

While the armies of Bretonia try its best to stave off the main army of Orks, it isn't an unusual occurrence to see some roaming bands to slip past the net and challenge of the main army and raid the small farmlands that littered the West of Bretonia. For the people that settle on this part of the nation, it is a normal thing. After all, the army can't handle every single army that tries to challenge it. For the nobles and barons that rule over the lands, it is an acceptable risk. After all the bands doesn't contain numbers that could usually challenge the defense of the larger cities and castles that housed the nobles. For the peasants and common folk however, it is another story since they are the one after all being targeted by such marauders.

However with the Western army routed, the raiding bands that usually is the source of trouble for this people, are three times larger. It is not in the first time in the history of Bretonia that the Western forces have been routed. In fact the Orks in many generations managed to rout out the army several times prompting the men of the West to be more of a hardy folk compared to the rest of the kingdom. The sad fact however remains that in times of this Ork incursions, it is the peasants who gets the sharp end of the axe every single time.

It's into this nightmare that Eltariel found herself in. Western Bretonia is usually composed of wide sweeping hills and mountain ranges with wetlands between them that served as great fertile ground for farming. Fogs also are common on the area, especially in the morning giving it nearly zero visibility. With settlements and house steads separated from each other, it is very easy to receive an attack without warning.

Eltariel ran as fast as she can, her little legs trying to keep up with the long strides of Mother Giselle and five of the orphans that managed to survive the raid on the local church and orphanage. It had been a regular morning for her, wake up, feed the animals and till the fields that the six year old can manage. Her older brother after all was drafted to war and her older brother made sure that she had the assignment to take care of at least quarter of the field so that they will have something to use as income for the rest of the harvest season.

Alone, she has done her part. After all Eltariel despite reasons that she can't seem to fathom, she has an inclination when it comes to plants. Crops personally tended by her seemed healthier, grow faster and cut the harvest time by at least half. Despite the nervousness and loneliness on being alone for the first time, she did her duty. She does not want her brother returning and seeing the place a pigsty. They may be poor, but that doesn't mean that they are untidy.

So when Mother Giselle this morning barged out of nowhere and grabbed her hand, hauling her out of her home with barely an explanation, she was caught by surprise. The only reason she didn't plant her feet on the ground to stop the panicking nun was the dried blood that stained the red and white robes of the nun. They are colored green. It does not take an intelligent person to know that said blood belongs to Orks.

So here she is, running as if her very life depend on it, which it probably does.

"Hurry little ones! Whatever happens, don't look back," huffed and puffed the sweating nun. With her long robes and slightly chubby face, it is plain obvious that the nun seemed to have somewhere between zero and none in doing the physical side of things.

Eltariel is about to reply to the noble priestess that didn't abandon her that they are fine when a large "Whoomp! Whoomp!" sound filled the area. Seven pairs of eyes instinctively turned back at the source of the sound, just in time for an axe to appear out of the gloom and landed straight at the chest of the nun, making the chubby woman fly a few feet in the air before crashing on the muddy ground, her blood mixing with the dirt and grime, the once vibrant eyes now lifeless.

Before anyone of the children could scream in fear at the sudden violent death of their guardian, another four spears followed the flying axe skewering four of the children. They are dead before they even hit the ground.

As for Eltariel she can do nothing as she stood there rooted on the spot, small streams of tears falling down her childish angled face as she stared at twenty or at least Orks laughing and jeering emerging from the gloom. Fear she has never felt befoe devoured her entire being as her eyes glued at the massive Greenskins.

Despite their unintelligible language, it is quite obvious that they are arguing about their kills. Without warning, one of the big ones slap one of his "friends" before taking a massive hand-made crossbow, aiming and shooting at a heartbeat at them making Eltariel's eyes widen even more as the last orphan is literally split into different parts by the power of the crossbow.

Falling to her knees, all she can do is stare at the Orks now leering at her small frame. Gulping sounds of fear escape from her throat as her eyes met theirs. She knows there and then that she would die. This is her end. Where's her brother? He wanted her brother here? Where is he? Where is Artorius to save her like he always do? Didn't he promised that he'll be there for her always?

The scream in her throat remained stuck as the Ork pulled one of the spears from the dead body of a child, meat and blood still coating the pointy end of the spear. Raising it above her head, she can only stare at the Ork about to skewer her in silence. She can do nothing, she is nothing. She is about to die.

The Ork simply laughed at her terror as it then brought down the large spear that would cut her off from the land of the living. Her small angled eyes closed in instinct, unwilling to meet death face to face.

"SQUELCH!"

The ugly sound of tearing flesh made the small child scream as she then felt something wet and sticky cover her. Her childish eyes opened in instinct, opening wide in no small amount of fear and alarm as her brain registered what her eyes are seeing. In front of her where the massive six feet Ork stood before was the remaining half of the brute, with his upper body somehow absent showing the entrance of its lower innards. The rest its comrades also stand there frozen and it takes her a couple of seconds to realize that they are not staring at her, but rather behind her.

Almost dreading what she is about to see, her small head turned, and a garbled scream almost left her lips if not for the iron finger that silenced her lips making her shiver in instinct at the coldness that it radiated as it made contact with her flesh. In front of her is a cloaked figure black as midnight with intricate silver alignments at the edge of its cloak barely seen. Ghostly wings looking as if they're made of smoke adorned its back. At its free hand are two scythes colored in the blackest night, wispy smokes erasing the green blood stain that belonged to the Ork it just decapitated. The Orks hunting her may look terrifying but this being that radiated fear made them look like play-yard bullies playing as men.

"Silence child," it cooed in a rasping voice making the very ends of her hair stand in fear and alarm as she realized its addressing her. "Do not fear any longer, the….Mother sent me to protect you. Now stay here," it rasped before straightening up almost eight feet tall as it glided past her towards the remaining Orks who took hold of their crude weapons as if their very lives depend on it. In this circumstance, it may as well does.

"So," if faceless dark faces can smile, this one just did as it hefted the two massive scythes. "Who would like to meet death face to face?" and the usual brave Orks who take great relish in combat ran as fast as their legs can carry them.

…

Two figures moved like wraiths over the great eaves of the woods of the West. With the usual fogs that bathed the region their passing is not noticed by anyone. Not that there is anyone to notice it anyway. Already the signs of raiding parties successfully ravaging the land are everywhere. Ruined, homesteads, abandoned farms, rotting headless corpses of men and women be they warrior or simple farmer littered the ground, their blood being drank by the earth. While the land of the western Bretonia referred to all of this as a part of their lives, no song, no written literature or word of mouth can compare it to the reality. The blood, the death. Even Artorius with his bioengineered emotions cannot fully tune out the sorrow that the gift of war leaves behind.

They barely managed to get out of that last stand that the rear guard put up against the Orkish horde. He is proud to call those men brothers. Six hours they held against the entire might of the Orks as they defended the pass with blood, bone, meat and steel. He lost count of how many he killed, the massive claymore he had been wielding ever since the battle started already notched, its weight and size being the only thing that made it a weapon any longer. His friend Sigmar or Cailan was badly wounded though he made his ancestors and bloodline truly proud with his abilities. It was only during the last hour did his best friend finally got thrown down to the ground as an Ork projectile lodged its on his side. Bann Teagan bade them retreat, the two of them, telling them to go and save their families if they still live knowing that the west region would soon embroil itself on an all-out war. Artorius promptly obade the young Ban knowing that they would never see each other again. As he carried a wounded Sigmar out of the last few twenty or so of the rear guard that held their line, the last thing he saw was Bann Teagan wielding a massive war-axe two handed as he felled his twentieth Ork. Those men were heroes and Artorius made a mental note never to forget them.

As it is, he has done his best to patch his best friend up before they finally made this long trek on the hills and dells of the western lands trying to get back to their small farms. He is not surprised to see the usual towns and villages abandoned. The residents must have heard the news from the fleeing army and probably made a run for it towards the nearest strongholds and baronies in the hopes that the high walls and towers could stave off the invading Ork armies till the rest of the relief force from the kingdom finally arrive. He just hopes that his sister is alright and made it away to safer waters. He does not know what he will do if he ever lost her.

"We're here," the voice of his friend said without warning nearly causing Artorius to trample the lesser man if not for his godly reflexes, too engrossed in his thoughts as he is.

Shaking himself off, he instead focused on the view in front of her that is the small town parish that belonged to Mother Giselle and her three guards that kept the peace in this small part of the region. One look however is all it takes to make his heart nearly jump out of his mouth.

The usually clean and inspiring building looked nothing alike to the parish that they remembered when they left. The pristine double doors that is the entrance of the church lay in ruins, same with the glasses, beautiful mosaics donated by the clergy now shattered, its pieces lying everywhere. Bodies are also here and there scattered all around, rotting; some are even missing heads and body parts, their forms desecrated by the Ork raiders that obviously passed through here. He recognized the two usual guards that served Mother Giselle impaled on the rising sun atop the church that symbolized the lady of Bretonia's faith. Their blood now stained the white and yellow design giving the holy symbol a malevolent look.

He may not be as designed as other humans, he is built stronger, better, the epitome of perfection as his father intended it to be. However despite all that he is still human. And what do humans fear most? It is the fact that they will lose the very thing that they hold dear. And for Artorius who has no property, no name and no power, the only thing that matters to him is family. With his surrogate father dead, and surrogate mother the same, the only person that is his family is his sister. And to see the people that is supposed to take her away to safety now lying in different forms of being dead, he can't help the black-hole that suddenly erupted in his heart threatening to pull down his very sanity as fear, rage, pity and hopelessness filled him. His sister can't be dead, she can't be dead! He knows that she is resourceful and she may have tried to escape. The more realistic part of him however recognizes the fact that what he's thinking about is a six year old whose concept of running away is hiding under the bed. If the raiders ever found her…

His friend must have noticed his anger slowly going to the danger zone for Sigmar placed a familiar hand of comfort that Artorius wanted nothing more than to brush away. He's going to return back to his home. He's going to check if his sister is there, and if she is dead, he would kill every single Ork that ever walked this land, even if it kills him doing so.

Standing up and ignoring the calls of: "Where are you going?" from the now revealed heir to the throne. He faced the direction of the road that leads to his home. He dare not hope, but he must that his sister might be alive. Already the large weightless claymore at his back seemed to bog him more and more down as the path of the warrior and that of vengeance reared its head like an ugly snake egging him more and more to chase down those that have taken his only family away.

Taking a deep breathe as he stride forward towards the direction of his home to confirm whether his worst fears are indeed true when a powerful flash of black made the two friends literally stop on their tracks at the sudden occurrence. Acting in instinct, Artorius' arms made a wide side slash of the heavyset claymore to whoever this intruder is only for a large scythe colored in night blocked it making the young man's arm numb to the bone thanks to the impact. The large claymore also looked damaged, the large flat of the blade almost cracking in half.

Glaring at the "intruder" who seemed to be some kind of ghost of the dead with its black cloak and hood with none of its face showing and the smoky wings, Artorius is just ready to call out to his friend to be prepared to fight for their lives against this shade of death (barring the fact that he's not feeling any fear), when his eyes bulged out of his eye-socket as a small blur emerged from the shelter of the specter's robes

A figure with a face that he's very familiar with.

"Brother!" the childish voice of Eltariel called out to him as the small tyke buried herself at his legs, her small arms hugging his hamstrings thanks to his height.

As his heart's burden lightened, Artorius can only glance at his sister and the dark specter looking at their reunion with a faceless smile. Only one word emitted from his mouth.

"How?"

…

The human capital of Bretonia had always been a place of beauty and magnificence. It had been the home of the kings and queens of Bretonia ever since its founding. Never did in its long years did an enemy of Bretonia reach its walls. With Bretonia's large armies fielded on its north, west, east and south territories, large armies of Orks, abominations and other such creatures never reached the capital. In fact not even the hundreds of revolts on its streets had been able to conquer the royal palace. The only way to enter such a mighty fortress is to attack it…

…from the inside.

Red wings of light flapped on the empty walls, the sound of the air that keeps the beating afloat the only thing that gives overview that something is alive inside. Eyes of energy beneath the hood looked left and right to the corpses that littered its way. Never did it expected that a palace built with noble intentions to be a bastion and representation of this kingdom against the threats that assailed it would fall like this.

Music is the water for the soul. It can give immense pleasure, inspire people, put hearts to rest and manipulate even the hardest of hearts. For Raphael it is a weapon of choice, the gift bestowed to him by the lady of creation to manipulate. Michael may be the Celestial of death, and Gabriel, the warrior of the lady, but he, he is the guardian, the guardian of justice in all hearts.

Suffice it to say, the reason why he is here is cleaning house. The lady of Creation have big plans for this world and its citizens. However her plan cannot start without him cleaning house first. Thus he is here. One melody, one song of justice and awakening of hearts brought all this.

He had expected that only a few would die thanks to the nobleness and the belief of the justice system that the people in this land hold so dear. What he did not expect was for almost all but a handful of them to start killing themselves as the very music that he echoed on the halls made them realize their personal mistakes, mistakes that encouraged them enough to commit suicide. He's a being of energy and an entity of eternity bound with the will of the goddess of creation. Suffice it to say, it takes a lot for him to be truly surprised.

As he stared at the empty thrones that belonged to the king and queen of Bretonia, non-existent shoulders shrugged. At least this way, the goddess can proceed without further problems on her plan.

…

At Terra, eyes that belonged to a being of Order looked up to the sky where the empty stars await. He has always paid extra attention to the weaves of fate. It is his duty to be attentive in case the Chaos gods turn their eyes to Terra before he can make it ready to face its horrors. For so long he has simply watched humanity from the sidelines….no longer. He must lead it to face against the darkness. Already in the weaves of fate, he can see a darkness coming that only his light can pierce. Yet surprisingly in a flaw of fate that even he cannot recognize, he saw another light, but this one does not belong to him.

"Interesting," the soon to be Emperor of Mankind muttered as he turned his gaze away from the stars to the next fortress of the warlord he would conquer. Apparently, someone like him is not alone.

...