In the following story, I have taken some creative liberties, especially since I have not been to Rome in person :(

This short one-shot stars Chase, Marshall, Rocky, Everest, and Ryder from Paw Patrol in an alternate universe. I am a huge history nerd, so when I discovered the Swedish rock-band Sabaton, I was hooked. Thus, after listening to The Last Stand, inspiration struck.

Disclaimer: I do not own Paw Patrol, I am not Catholic, and I just enjoy war history.

In the year 1527, on May 6, during a period known as the Italian Wars and the War of the League of Cognac, 20,000 mutinous troops of Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, assaulted the walls of Rome, breaching the Catholic capital quickly. The battle turned murderous as the defenders and civilians of Rome were massacred by the rampaging and overwhelming Imperial troops, consisting of Italian, Spanish, and German mercenaries along with Holy Roman troops. In this dark hour, as the sack and looting began, Pope Clement VII was at risk, retreating to the Castel Sant'Angelo and safety. The only thing that stood between the pillaging army and total, utter defeat and ruin was 189 Papal Swiss Guards, sworn to defend the Lord's mouthpiece and people at all costs...

Even death.

Staring out from the high crest of a belltower, cold and clammy hands gripping the stone railing, Chase Wolff stood motionless, clad in his stiff leathers and shining chain shirt covered by the device of the Cross upon a white tabard and several red, yellow, and blue raiment. A sword hung from his belt in sheath and scabbard while a quiver and bow were strapped to his back, designating him as a fighter of the Guard. Spread out in his entire field of view was Rome, capital of the Old World and the heart of Christianity, burning in horrible ruin. Orange tongues licked up at the skies from many rooftops as thousands of roaring soldiers of Charles the Fifth and Spain poured through the huge gaps in the city's wall where the gates had once stood, wrecked open by siege equipment. Screams of fear from the citizens, shouts of triumph from the invaders, cries of pain from the wounded, whistles of arrows streaking through the air, and the clashing of weapons in combat echoed throughout the dark night, which was overcast by a dark cloud of smoke that choked out any light from the heavens. It was at that moment that the young man found himself almost longing back for his quiet homeland in the Alps, where he had lived herding animals with his father, helping provide for his mother and sisters, and enjoying the pleasant smells of the mountain springs, blue brooks, and vibrant flowerbeds. Now, the only thing he smelled was the iron-tinged scent of blood and the repulsive stink of burning flesh.

Chase bit his lip, watching the enemy soldiers advancing closer through the streets, waving banners decorated with the Imperial black eagle on a golden field, device of the Holy Roman Empire, and carrying wickedly gleaming halberds that glinted in the firelight. Drawing his sword, he dashed for the stairs, taking two steps at a time as he followed the spiral down to the base floor. He burst out of the main doors, instantly drawing the attention of another young man with very light blonde, almost white hair and clad in very similar armour and gear to himself, sitting upon a chestnut stallion and holding the reins of another as he glanced at the entrance to the small cul-de-sac in apprehension.

"Hurry!" Marshall Müller, Chase's longtime friend, urged in a low, urgent voice, releasing the spare horse's lead and securing a shield to the saddle of his own.

Instead of answering, Chase set a foot into the left stirrup of his mount and swung his leg overtop, coming to sit into the snug leather padding. "The heathens art nigh of our positions."

"We must get back," Marshall agreed, steering the horse down the street. He squeezed its sides with his calves. "Hyah!"

The two soldiers galloped their horse out into the main streets, hooves of their mounts clacked against the well-worn cobbled stone of the roadways, turning towards the familiar, looming outline of the Basilica of St Peter, standing tall in the face of the looming threat. Chase found himself glancing backwards, praying to the gracious Lord that there were no musketeers or archers waiting in a dark alley, ready to end their lives with a speedy burst of death. No attacks came though as they sped down the way, coming in short time out into a large, open area lined and rowed with headstones that expanded across a wide field, adjacent to the magnificent Basilica and circumjacent by a low stone wall. Rows of trimmed, flowering bushes and large, elaborately carved tombstones were placed carefully, creating a quite beautiful and reverent landscape. This was the Teutonic Cemetery, resting place of many saints and faithful followers of Christ who had fallen at the hands of wicked men long ago. Several vias and streets adjoined the sacred resting place, masked in shadow and echoing with dreadful sounds of suffering from the distance.

After crossing into the grounds, Chase and Marshall reigned in their horses, dismounting and heading deeper inside. Everywhere within the cemetery, men restlessly waited, weapons and bucklers in hand. Many wore steel caps and chain mail or even plate armour. Chase knew that of the Pontifical Guard that formally was five hundred strong, only one hundred and eighty-nine remained, so many of the rest of the troops present were remainders from the city garrison, evidenced by their weary faces and already stained and beaten armour. A line of soldiers wielding long arquebuses stood at attention, being reviewed by a tall, stern man wearing the armour marked with a cross who was instantly recognisable: he was Captain Kaspar Röist, leader of the Pope's Guard. His lengthy, dark hair was tied back, and his beard was neatly trimmed.

"Wolff, Müller!" A voice beckoned; one that Chase instantly recognised as the one to have mentored him for months in swordsmanship. The two turned to see a heavily armed and armoured man a head taller than either of them striding over, wielding a shield and a longspear. A broad-bladed bastardsword was strapped to his back. The man's face was obscured by the visor on his Great Helm, but his brown eyes were visible, peering through the slit on the front. "Welcome back! I thought thou captured."

Chase huffed in a humourless laugh in response to Sergeant Rydere Ferrari's words. "The damnable desecrators are taking few prisoners. One of the Guard would surely be summarily executed."

Rydere growled out an oath of vengeance. "By the Lord's providence, I will make these wretches pay for their heresy."

"We have not the men to defeat the assailants," Marshall reminded him quietly, eyes darting about the assembled force. "We art outnumbered maybe thirty to one."

"That is why we will not be defeating them," a voice of authority interjected. The three turned to Captain Röist, standing with his arms folded across his armoured chest. "Our holy commission calls for another duty." As he spoke, Chase's gaze found another figure, surrounded on all sides by heavily armed men with golden accents and crests.

"Most Holy Father," Chase stuttered, kneeling before Pope Clement VII, dressed in the billowing robes of the patriarch of the entire Catholic Church. An elegant, glimmering headdress sat upon his head, and a golden cape with the Cross was draped over his shoulders. The elder man's face was wrinkled with worry lines.

"My liege," Marshall said, hastily dropping to one knee and crossing himself. "With respect, what art you doing here? Danger is close."

"I am aware to the situation," he said in a sad voice, eyes shining with a light of regret. As he spoke, the many troops in the cemetery ceased their actions, turning towards Pontiff. "My escort and I have delayed our path to bestow blessings upon thou noble warriors."

"Which we much appreciate," Captain Röist assured him respectfully. "But our primary concern is your safety. I must insist you make for the Castel as we cannot risk your demise at the hands of sinners; my men will stem the enemy advance as long as we possibly can."

Clement VII looked pained at the thought, eyes roving over the bedraggled troops which gave him looks of determination. "I will comply with thy wish." He raised his voice to carry throughout the entire courtyard. "The Lord is with thee in thine hour of need. The strength of his arm will propel thy swords in the act of righteous defence and, if he wills it, thou shalt conquer."

A bold huzzah rose across the several hundred soldiers. Weapons were shaken, shields were raised, and crosses were made. Chase found himself stirred by the rousing cry, lifting a fist and shouting his own yell. A tear graced the Pontiff's lashes as he nodded, unable to say any more words. One of his escorts ushered him in the direction of the Basilica.

"That was a stirring farewell," a voice inputted. Chase turned to see Rocco Pellegrini approach; arquebus firearm propped against his armoured shoulder. "Mayhaps we will bloody the ground with greater bravery."

"Thou pessimist," he rebuked, smirking at his black-haired friend. "The Good Father has quoth words of divine urging. Cease thy whinging as a purblind scold."

"Do not mistake my meaning," Rocco amended quickly. "I am ready to smite the poltroons where they stand."

"As we all are," Rydere agreed, eyes flicking towards their captain who had begun to line the soldiers facing the streets. "For Lord and land." He stamped off to where a company of spearmen was forming at the head of the defending host.

"Swordsmen on the left and right flanks!" Commander of the city Renzo da Ceri called out. "Musketeers and Handgonneers in between the ranks!"

"That means we," Marshall chuckled nervously, nodding as he and Chase marched to an assembling left array of men.

Chase found himself near the front of the rank, sword gripped in a trembling hand. Never before had he been in combat, and never had he taken a life. Having joined the Papal Guard just a few months prior, he felt afeared to his very core. A glance around proved similar emotions amongst his fellow warriors, even the experienced and older men. The doomed certainty present in their eyes was countered though by steel-set jaws and grim bravery. Admiration filled the young man as he watched even the wearied soldiers of the walls form together, shields linked, and blades drawn. Tense minutes of waiting passed in a silence that reigned amongst the defenders of the Lord's city, quietly combating the fierce yells and clashing of weapons of the approaching marauders.

All at once, out of the many alleys and streets came pouring waves and waves of armoured fighters, the leading ranks brandishing large halberd axes, levelled straight with bloodstained points. They flooded across the wynd and onto the green of the cemetery, letting out battle cries and thundering in a headlong attack.

"Charge!" Captain Röist bellowed, leaping forward with great strides, broad blade held high.

The defending levy screamed in unison as the sallied forth, plowing into the startled imperial troops. Harsh, grating cries emerged as bodies were impaled on the reaching pikes and halberds. Metal rang out with the collision of forces, clanging tumultuously. Fragments of iron and wood flew, flesh was rent, and blood splattered upon the grass. Heavy thuds of bodies impacted the ground.

Training kicking in, Chase batted a halberd tip away with his longsword and plunged it into the chest of the Imperial Landsknechte who wielded it. The blade sank into the man's chest, finding a chink in his breastplate, and he collapsed instantly. Chase stumbled, losing grip of his sword in the fallen foe. With a morbid hesitation, he drew it out with the slick sound of blood, barely dodging an enemy's blade in time. He swung around, parrying another swipe with a sharp clash then lunging forward, tip missing his attacker by an inch. Chase sidestepped an overhead slash from the man, bringing his own weapon up and impaling the soldier's neck. Blood ran down it as this imperial clawed numbly for his throat, eyes dimming. Chase whipped it away to smack an enemy in the side of their heaume helm.

The thunderclaps of firearms rang inside Chase's ears, and he felt something cut by his cheek, leaving a bleeding gash lengthwise across his face. He raised his weapon before feeling a heavy impact on his stomach. Chase was thrown onto his back, coughing hard. Standing over him, an Imperial peered through his visor in merciless rage, lifting a heavy iron mace to finish him. As the blow fell, a shield suddenly interposed itself between weapon and target. Marshall sliced the imperial at the waist with his sword before stabbing right into the enemy's visor.

"Thanks!" Chase gasped, scrambling to his feet and dispatching another attacker. At this time, men from both sides had started to litter the grass in a grisly disfigured carpet and the allied line began bulging backwards, pressed by steady streams of enemy forces. Wounded individuals limped away, only to be cut down ruthlessly and trampled by the forth of men.

"Fall back!" A cry began to move through the ranks of the Papal Swiss and the Roman troops. "Fall back to the Basilica!"

Chase and Marshall retreated several steps around a few headstones, watching as an Imperial collapsed, blood spurting from what whilom was his face. Whipping around, Chase saw Rocco motioning frantically, dropping his smoking arquebus onto the ground and pulling a shortsword from its scabbard on his belt.

Ducking an arrow that hissed by like a viper, Chase shoved an enemy aside and dashed, Marshall and Rocco right on his tail, for a reforming cluster of Guardsmen who hurled a cloud of spears, cutting down many foes. When they reached the friendly formation, they turned about in time to receive the pursuing imperials, trading blows and swings in a chaotic burst of combat. Chase fought ferociously, hacking down as many as his blade could reach, sending red fluid spattering onto his torn tabard. An enemy hilt ground on his shoulder, creating a sharp pain that wracked his upper body, but still he fought on, tearing open the perpetrator's stomach with a quick score.

A hand tore him away from the fighting, propelling him into a run towards the grandiose stone and marble structure. Chase's feet pounded in tandem with his heart, head down in a run as projectiles and death filled the night around him.

The colossal building stood tall with many pillars and buttresses supporting the overhang roof out front. Long, wide stone steps climbed the entrance; the huge archways that opened for all to enter. Windows looked out upon the courtyard, rounded at the tops and wide in size. A large dome rested atop the majestic structure, and benevolent figures lined the rooftop, watching in solemnity to the horror that unfolded on its front steps and made the young Swissman's insides writhe in turmoil.

Soldiers fought each other in scattered bunches, as the main body of the invaders had not yet made it this far. Frightened women and children fled into the Basilica, some grievously injured. Wounded and dying people groaned as they lay on the ground with the fallen. At the fountain, a child screamed hysterically as he clutched the hand of a dead woman who had been drowned in the waters while a city militiaman tried to pry him away. Someone tumbled down the stairs of the building, having a seeping gash in their thigh.

Chase, following the fleeing citizens and retreating soldiers, made for the steps only to skid to a halt, eyes finding three figures across the shadowy courtyard. Two men were restraining a young woman with dark hair, trying to pin her down. She wriggled and bucked in desperation, pushing away at them as hard as she could. She shouted and yelled at them and the night in general, cursing them and calling out for help.

Marshall ran by with his sword raised, headed straight for the distressed woman. "What art thou waiting for? An angel?!" Chase, shaking off his stupor, joined him in the charge. As they neared their destination, the two villains took notice, drawing their swords and rushing to meet them halfway. They clashed, swords ringing briefly before Chase cut one down across the face. Marshall removed the leg of the other before continuing on to the girl, kneeling beside her. "Art thou well?"

She spat blood from her lip, pushing off the ground. "I am intact and whole, thanks to thee." Her blue eyes sparkled in the light of flames and the moon which peeked between clouds. Her kirtle had tears and rips on the hem, and she had a long cut on her forearm. "I am Aveline Fuchs."

"Marshall Müller of the Pontifical Guard." He sheathed his sword and offered her a hand. She took it, and he helped her to her feet. "This is my companion, Chase Wolff."

"We must make for cover inside," Chase interrupted, eyes scanning the still active warzone. He spotted Rocco climbing the steps of the Basilica along with Rydere and a large number of defenders. "Introductions can wait."

"Agreed," Aveline replied, following the two men towards the building. She stopped as they passed her dead attackers, snarling in anger before stealing one of their shortswords away and rushing to catch up.

They entered the structure, finding winded and exhausted soldiers scattered all over with civilians cowering and crying, hushing little ones and wrapping injuries. The high roof had many decorations, and the floors were likewise, yet it was much too dark in spirit and lighting to even observe them. Chase led the others over to where Rocco crouched beside a doorway, cleaning his sword of stains. He looked up as they neared, grimacing. "We stood no chance. There art plainly too many."

The sounds of combat began to near on the steps outside, and Chase could make out enemy soldiers flooding the courtyard, cutting down all in their path. He lifted his voice up to be heard over the frantic back and forth of frighten people. "Where is the good Captain Röist?"

"I saw him over yonder!" A militia member with a gash above his brow replied, pointing his sword outside into the deadly night. "He took a ball to the side!"

"The captain is surely slain!" Another cried, retreating whilst cradling a limp arm that hung uselessly at his side. "Art we dead men for sure? The Lord has abandoned this city!"

"Nay!" A third, more powerful voice with the accent of the Swiss called out, standing with a fiery passion in his eyes that could be seen even in the shadows. His yellow locks were swept back, and his face was scarred and bruised. Armour rent and scuffed, Hercules Goldli stood tall and spoke with holy conviction. "The Pope is still crossing the Passetto. Be the captain dead or not, the Lord ne'er forsakes the faithful. Rather, it is our duty and privilege to spend our devotion for the grace and might of the Lord! For the home of the holy! By the faith and strength which art in our bones, we shall hold this line!"

Chase felt the Spirit move within his heart, stirring his arm to lift up his sword. The words left his mouth before he knew otherwise: "The Lord's will be done!" Beside him, Marshall cried out the same, raising his blade. One by one, many warriors let out their shouts of accord, weapons held high.

"I shall fight," Aveline decided, standing with her blade. "I have lost my home and friends to these knaves. I intend to repay them."

Marshall shook his head. "Thou must retreat to the Castel."

"I wish to fight for the faith," she rebutted stubbornly. "Thou canst prevent me."

Goldli motioned towards the entrance to the entrance of the Basilica, drawing his notched sword. "We shall satisfy the enemy's esurience for combat and screen the Father and all remaining civilians. Swissmen! Romans! Christians! Brothers! The time of thy oaths is upon thee. Defend thy faith!" The cry rose up from the Swiss Guard as they made a charge out of the tall archways, weapons ringing.

Rocco stood, wrinkling his brow. "I know not who thou art, but thou must leave." She just lifted her chin in defiance.

Chase breathed heavily. "Fine. We art short on time. Marshall, stay with her in the rear of the formation. Keep her alive." Marshall glared in frustration but nodded, raising his shield to a ready stance, while the young woman's nose flared in offence. With a sad smile, Chase turned and ran towards the rightmost entrance, coming into the moonlit battleground that was the courtyard. Throngs of men writhed, clashed, and died, swords swinging and spears thrusting.

Leaping from the steps, Chase brought his blade down on a hapless Landsknechte, cleaving his neck in a sickening burst. Landing in a crouch, Chase swept the feet from another, bringing him to the hard stones for a finishing stroke. The young Pontifical Guard dove and rolled aside to dodge a stabbing halberd which planted into the cobblestone street. Rising, Chase plucked a handaxe from the ground and hurled it with great strength, burying it into the chest of Spaniard.

"Lord and land!" Rocco shouted, leaping from the steps onto the back of a burly Imperial, latching on like a beggar to an unwalled town. The man tried to flip him over his shoulder, failing to lose the Swissman's grip. Chase lunged forward, driving the tip of his sword into the leg of the enemy, making him drop to the floor. Rocco landed hard as well, tumbling away roughly. "Hey, watch it!"

Chase downswung, finishing off the imperial swiftly. "Wast thou having a fun ride?"

"Could have warned me," Rocco retorted, slashing away an enemy as the fighting fiercely intensified. More than once, Chase found himself relying on Rocco's quicker feet to protect his blindside as enemy levies began to compass about them. Occasionally, he spotted Marshall through the melee using his shield to bat aside weaponry to create an opening for Aveline to throw in a stab. The two were fighting together in a more secure position, closer to the edge of the precinct. Few civilians were seen, as all had either fled or been slain in cold blood. Dark stains covered the stones and the men as the bodies began to pile and numbers of defenders decreased rapidly.

"To the Passetto!" Hercules Goldli cried out, decapitating a man in a strong swing. "Hold the way!"

Chase and Rocco plowed through several enemies in tandem, cutting their way free of the tangle and into an open space where they dashed in the direction of the causeway. Marshall and Aveline were already in retreat with a small number of Guards, hacking down several imperials that stood in their way.

The way to the gateway of the Passetto was littered with arrows, burning corpses, and shallow pools of blood. Here and there, more Swiss Guards or Roman militiamen linked up with the company of battered retreaters, which's heels were being nipped at by pursuing mercenaries of Charles' Empire. Men fell, struck by an arrow or ball fired from a musket, only to be trampled by the rush of men or abandoned behind in the shadows. Chase hardly spared a glance backwards as he heard the rearmost members of the company let out screams of agony as they were cut down. He focused on the pounding of his feet, his breathe which was gradually becoming shallower, and the men beside him. He found himself leaping over discarded equipage from the forward troops, who were attempting to lighten their loads.

The head of the column began to pass beneath an archway in a long wall, running up a narrow, rising brick road that was lined with battlements: il Passetto di Borgo. Atop the wall, a handful of archers loosed arrows to cover the retreat.

"Nearly there," Rocco panted hard as they passed beneath the archway and proceeded up the road, his tabard having torn completely off after sustaining some glancing blows. "The Lord's refuge." The huge walls of the Castel Sant'Angelo stretched out far to the left and right, containing a sprawling keep with rounded towers and parapets dotted with torches and figures of men.

Suddenly, a loud thunderclap of muskets and arquebuses sounded, and Chase felt a piercing sting in his left leg. He cried out as he fell to the ground, sword flying from his grip and face impacting the bricks of the causeway with a nauseating and disorienting clack. In his mouth, the young man tasted the iron tinge of blood as he had bit his tongue hard. With effort, he rolled over onto his back, watching the approaching mass of enemy troops. Failing to rise due to excruciating pain, he knew then that his time was up, so he looked up at the smoke-filled sky and prepared to offer his sacrifice to the Lord.

Over him leapt four armoured Pontifical Guards, greatswords cleaving through the attackers by doubles, then tens. They whirled like dervishes, felling Imperials to and fro. Rydere, helmet gone to reveal his brown, shaggy hair and his face of grim-set resolve, motioned back quickly. "We will hold them! Retreat! Retreat!"

Chase felt two strong hands hook under his shoulders and another pair steal away his bow and quiver. Marshall looped his arm under Chase, using the other to guard them with his upraised shield. Rocco supported him on the other side, retrieving his sword, while Aveline fitted an arrow to her bow and launched it into the enemies with surprising professionalism.

Chase felt faint, briefly remembering the effect that loss of blood and head impacts had on the mind as his vision began to blur. The lights ahead and the stone columns and fortress all blurred into one streaked mess. The sounds one men struggling and fighting became distanced, echoing hollowly inside his ears as he faded out of consciousness.

He awoke with a jerk, finding himself laying on a smooth, cool stone floor, facing a well-lit, arcing ceiling. He sat abruptly, finding a hand on his chest to stay him. Rocco crouched there, linen wraps in hand and face something a mix of relief and grief. On the other side was Marshall and Aveline, both looking exhausted yet similarly eased by his awakening. A sting in his leg brought Chase's eyes to his freshly wrapped and exposed leg. He realised that his gear and armour was missing, and instead he wore a simple tunic and short legs. He was also relatively cleaned up compared to the three beside him who were soiled in blood, sweat, grime, and dirt. Their raiment upon them were torn and ripped, and coagulated scars and cuts were apparent in many places. It took a moment for Chase to realise that all around in the great hall, benches and mats were occupied by wounded men, women, and children. Sobbing civilians and shellshocked soldiers loitered in stunned grief, and the young man's head turned right to behold the whole of Rome stretched out before him, with the great towers burning, churches destroyed, and buildings being stormed. Twenty thousand marauding Imperials raged through like an army of ants scrambled for food dropped from the market stall.

"Sergeant Rydere?" Chase croaked, recalling the events upon the Passetto. Dread filled him as his friends remained silent.

"He... he fell," Marshall finally answered gravely, head bowed in despondency. Aveline rested a hand on his shoulder in an attempt at comfort, having never known the man yet realising the greatness of his sacrifice.

Chase felt his throat choke in emotion, though he did not bow his head. Instead, with a tear, he whispered. "He is in the Lord now. Him and our fallen brothers and sisters. They have done their duty to God; now may they find peace in the next realm."

Rocco nodded, crossing his heart. "It is finished."

"Not for us yet," Chase said, slowly, painfully rising to his feet. His shoulder burned, his leg seared, and his head buzzed, but he was not deterred. The others rose with him, eyes fixated on him as he set his jaw. "Our foes art still at the gate. They have desecrated the holy capital, but they have not and will not break the Spirit of the Lord within us. We will hold out this fortress 'til the gates of hell themselves let loose their daemons upon us. For life, for liberty, and for the Lord."

On June 6, 31 days after the Sack of Rome began, Pope Clement VII agreed to pay ransom for the safety of himself and those within Castel Sant'Angelo which was worth 400,000 ducati and several Catholic territories.

Captain Kaspar Röist was wounded during the battle at the Teutonic Cemetery and managed to retreat to his own home, where he was confronted by Imperial soldiers who slew him in front of his wife.

Renzo da Ceri managed to survive the Sack of Rome, continuing as a condottiero until his death in 1536.

The rampaging soldiers of the Holy Roman Empire in the Sack of Rome killed an estimated 6,000-12,000 civilians, while nearly 33,000 more were displaced and scattered. Rome's population never recovered until many years later.

5,000 city guardsmen defended the walls and the streets before being driven out, incurring well over 1,000 casualties within the battle and many more wounded.

Out of the 189 Papal Swiss Guard that participated in the delaying rearguard action to defend the Pope, only 42 survived to tell the tale, fighting across the Passetto di Borgo until they ascertained the Pope's safety. Their bravery in defiance of overwhelming odds has become a symbol of courage, determination, and standing for one's beliefs.