Edmund had been watching the battle with interest, for obvious reasons. The fighting was going well for him, not out of any sense of accomplishment or victory, but for holding his enemy to a standstill. He just needed more time. The Vretans were holding, but from last report only a few minutes ago, barely, and at the breaking point. He was holding out for his last hope, but he had no idea where they were, holding to a specific order of total secrecy, and he knew as well as they held, his entire line was going to fall apart or have a disastrous break eventually. He just needed a bit more time. Enough to-
"Bloody hell, what's going on there?" a household knight yelled out.
"What?" the Prince said, broken from his thoughts.
"On the right! They're pushing the rebels back!"
"What?"
He looked to his right flank, and watched in stunned silence as the knight's assessment proved true.
"Throne on Terra! How?"
He squinted, unable to see exactly what was happening, but quickly figured out that someone, or something, was tearing through the enemy lines on his right flank. It was if holes had suddenly been cut through their ranks, a sight as remarkable as it was confusing. He did not notice the two Eldar nearby, who signaled with their hands and body language that they understood, and were concerned by, the possible answer. He looked at the two and politely coughed to get their attention.
"I've heard that Serjeant Wessyng is quite good with a sword. You think he's behind whatever is going on over there?"
"In a way of sorts," Anya said, a twinge of sadness in her voice.
"If only your mother would aid us in this endeavor. But I jest, it would make me look bad relying on her in front of my superiors at best, at worst, it drags her into a fight she probably has no interest in!"
"Yes."
The Prince frowned at the lack of response.
"Your mother is a good conversationalist, so I find it odd that you lack the quality."
"Forgive me, Prince Edmund, my mind is focused on many things at the moment. The battle, if we need to flee this place, and what to do should the worst occur."
"Ah! I apologize. I did not know you were doing such. I will not bother you anymore."
Anya was normally able to hide her frustration or anger, but between having to see this battle turn slowly into a wasteful stalemate, to seeing her kin suddenly involve themselves, and even worse, having to constantly fear for-
She shuddered. She was already in a nervous state before, but after what he said before charging off into battle…
A messenger charged up from the right, bearing Vretan heraldry.
"Your Highness! Lord Diazon requests permission to push forward!"
"Emperor above! Your regiment was barely surviving a few minutes ago, what happened!"
"We are… unsure, at this moment."
Anya could tell, even with her rudimentary understanding of human emotion and body language, that he was hiding the truth of the matter. In the few occasions where the warriors of Ducaish were near the Vretans, they always found them… interesting. Their language and what snippets of their culture they gleaned were beyond suspect in their familiarity. Even more suspicious, when she questioned her mother about it, she was instantly shut down and told to focus her mind elsewhere. Stranger and stranger with every moment.
"If it comes with no risk, and you can take the advantage, do so!"
"Your Highness!"
The messenger ran off, and within a few minutes, the line began to shift into the rebels.
"Stick it to them. Stick it to them!" the Prince bellowed, aware that only a few would hear.
But he had every right to be happy, as the battle he had to only hold for victory now was a much closer fight than before.
XXXXXX
"He wants us to what?" Roger said in disbelief.
"To push forward!" a man at arms said with a Vretan accent.
"Bloody hell, we barely can hold on!"
"But the ranks are thinning ahead! Somethings killing them and the others are starting to buckle!"
The serjeant clenched his fists and cursed. He knew exactly what was helping them, and despite all his efforts, he was unable to stop his erstwhile comrades. He knew they would not survive the daring strike into the enemy, even the best and most effective Eldar could only last so long surrounded on all sides by thousands of humans. He had failed to stop them, and now five more dead warriors of Ducaish stained his hands.
"Very well," he hissed, "Does the rest of the line know this?"
"They are preparing to push as we speak."
"Then we're on. Davie! Get the others, we're pushing ahead!"
"What?"
"We're pressing the advantage and trying to win this battle!"
"But they're battered as is-"
"I know, but orders are orders. C'mon."
The old soldier grimaced and spat a chunk of phlegm on a dead rebel.
"Should have stayed on fucking Anglerre."
"You and me both."
"Right lads, back into the fire!"
Bob looked to Roger, who nodded to continue the medical work he was attempting on a gruesome wound a Guardsman had taken. Parky and Hawke were checking their weapons before nodding. They were tired, sweat pouring down their cheeks, their hair sopping wet. Looking at Parky bothered Roger more than the former thief, his young features looking far too beaten and worn for a boy of his age. How old did he look now? He was only in his mid twenties, yet some days he felt like he was a decade or two older. Would he look like Davie when he got back to Anglerre? Would he even make it home? He shook his head and cleaned blood that stuck to his blade before cracking his neck and leading them back into the hell ahead of them.
"Sarge?" Parky suddenly asked.
"Yes Parky?"
"I thought the abhumans were staying out of this?"
"What?"
"I saw a few of them go ahead."
"They have trouble listening to me. Remind you of anyone?"
Parky laughed and nodded.
"No matter who, if you're in command no one listens unless it's absolutely important."
"Yes, and I've kept you alive so far, so I've done a good job, eh?"
"Only because everyone before you got killed," Davie chuckled.
"Up yours," he grumbled before grabbing a Vretan to move him aside.
A clarion call went up, a long note followed by a short one, the order to advance. A great roar erupted, and the men who were on the back foot surged ahead. Now in the front line, Roger slashed into the men ahead, their faces a mix of sheer terror and confusion.
"Demons!" one spluttered before the Wratihbone gutted him.
He hated to admit it, but in more ways than one, the five who sacrificed themselves to help him and the regiment they were fighting to the death with had done more damage than they probably expected. The peasants especially were shaken, some even throwing their weapons down in surrender, some being spared, most being cut down without mercy. If they had not been slaughtering and almost able to defeat the Vretans, they would have had a better chance, but war was war, and it was hell. The lines started dissolving into smaller fights, some one on one, to small groups skirmishing. Had this been the same fight only a few minutes earlier, this would have spelled the end of the army, but the balance of the fight had definitely swung towards Anglerre. He was soon guilty of doing the same.
"How ugly's your sister?" he taunted a few soldiers of Al-Madin.
To their regret, they took him up on it. They were good, maybe near the level of one of the Guardsmen they engaged, but it was still not enough. Parry, cut, dodge, thrust. Mechanical, ingrained in his mind and body from the years of training, even before the Guard tithe took him. Estevan de Balois' face, his immaculately maintained beard and all, was hovering near his vision.
"Give no chances to your opponent, he wants a fair fight, not a dumb boy trying to stab in the dark!"
A cleaver like swing came towards him, which he blocked with a guard above his head. He pulled his blade to the right, throwing his attacker off guard before a slice to the left cut the throat.
"Damn you Roger, why were you born a peasant!"
He grinned at the memory of the Gasc swordmaster. His opponent, enraged at the death of his comrade, made a fleche. Amateurish, surprising for what was supposed to be a trained soldier. Such raw aggression would only result in disaster. To make up ground, he was now on one leg, driving forward as the other was in the air to help him stay balanced. It didn't matter when Roger avoided the thrust of his bladed and lopped off his arm. He screamed in agony before a Vretan drove a spear into the wounded mans helmet, sending him to the ground in a lifeless heap. He looked around to find another target, and quickly found one. Another peasant, but one as young as Parky. He seemed too frightened to move, and the Guardsmen had not noticed him. Roger spat and rushed forward to grab him and throw him to the rear as a prisoner. The boy started when he felt someone grab his shoulder, but nodded when he was motioned to follow the stranger.
"You boys bit off a little too much to chew, eh?" Roger said.
"What?"
"Should've known that this wasn't going to work out. You're fighting professionals."
"You are infidels!" his prisoner said in outrage.
"Infidels that are kicking your blessed teeth in."
He avoided a group of smaller fights all around them, trying to get to the rear. He had no idea where his squad was, having gotten into smaller fights of their own, which he cursed for losing track of them. He already had enough issues, and now having to figure out where his own men were…
"Alright, there's the end of the lines. You're going to go there, and find a sipahi, names Ulgan. He's my prisoner, and you'll be safe with him. Do you understand?"
The boy nodded.
"Right, then we'll get you out of this mess and back to your home."
"Your friends burned my home," the prisoner hissed.
"Then when we win this, you'll be able to rebuild it. Now run along."
Roger noticed a bag of what looked to be coins, near the hand of a dead rebel. He'd give it to the kid as a bit of convincing. He bent down to pick it up.
"Here, let me get-"
The words broke off as he heard a tearing of flesh, and the roar of an engine, and he could feel blood splatter on the top of his helmet. His head snapped up, and to his horror, the young man had been cut-no, torn- completely in half. Had he been standing, he would have certainly been killed as well. Before he could figure out what the hell was going on, he felt a vicious kick in his side, and was rolled onto his back, the pain searing through his ribs. He lost his breath, struggling to get up. Despite all the carnage around him, he could hear the sound of boots crunching towards him. Black boots. Behind them was a red cape.
"Your stay of execution ends today, Wessyng," a voice full of spite and disgust spat down on him.
Roger gritted his teeth and cursed before looking up, but he knew who it was. He faced his attacker, into the red, hate filled eyes of Commissar Dimitry Lucan.
XXXXXX
"Anxo, are you sure of this?" Gwyndair whispered through his helmet, effortlessly moving through the trees.
"If I was not, would I have bothered you with this?" he responded.
"I would still have joined you," Shae added.
"I think you for coming with me, it is easy to convince my Aspect brethren, but your kin-"
"I am a warrior. Why else am I here?"
"True."
The three flitted through the foliage, and soon reached a clearing. Holding in the shade, they looked out in the distance, before Anxo pointed towards a set of perfectly white tents. A few guards lingered about aimlessly, almost all facing the battle and neglecting their duty.
"He has to be there."
"Are you certain?"
"When I confronted him, he was all bluster, but no action. He will gladly lead from the rear."
"I count fifteen guards. Should we eliminate them first, then strike at your old friend?"
"He will have no chance of escape. I assure you. But if you wish to add a few more kills to your name, I will not stop you. I only have one target that I wish to eliminate."
"Very well," Gwyndair shrugged. "When you are ready."
He looked to the Avenger, who was watching the battle with some interest.
"I can sense it," she said. "The ones who deserted us. They joined the fray."
"I pray for their safety, but I fear that given the situation, that is not possible. We must focus on what lies ahead of us, not them."
Shae nodded, unhappy to think that the closest thing she had to a friend was out there, possibly fighting for his life or about to give it. Morgyn and Anylrch were a surprise to rush off, but she had always wondered about those two, especially given the brief tenure the latter had with the warriors. But why Dewyn? He had nothing to gain or lose, and he had no feelings towards Roger other than obeying his orders. Was there some sort of loyalty he always held and had never made public? It bothered her more and more as she mulled over her thoughts.
"Shae?" Anxo asked, concerned at her lack of response.
"I am ready."
"Then strike fast, and only be noticed when it is far too late."
Crossing nearly half a mile at an inhuman rate, Anxo felt exhilaration as his chainsword tore into a startled guard. Shae and Gwyndair made short work of the others, but a few were able to raise the alarm and try to put up a fight. It went poorly for them. Cut down by the blade of an Avenger, or torn to shreds by the whisper quiet chains of the Scorpions, what was once the cream of the Al-Madin garrison were wiped out in less than two minute. Now all he had to do was check in on his prey.
"Salim? What the hell is going on out there? Are the Anglois beaten? I want this damn day to end, or at least tell me my miserable brother in law has been killed. At least something good could come from this fight."
Anxo remembered the voice, but instead of it being the cowed and terrified one he had met before, it was authoritative, even arrogant. It did not take long to figure out who its owner was. He quickly peered into the tent, seeing there was one more guard, a bigger, nastier one than the others. He looked back to his two comrades, who were scouring the rest of the tents for any survivors and dispatching them quickly, satisfied that he now was able to finish on his promise. He took a breath and prayed, somewhat melo-dramatically given the situation, to the bloody handed God and dashed into the tent. To the guards credit, he noticed the green blur rushing towards himself and his charge, but even the finest steel and training that Mekkar could provide mattered little. With a single strike, the guard's head was sliced in half down the middle. The emir had barely processed what happened before he tried to run away, but one of his ornate stools was grabbed by his Eldar tormentor and tossed his way. The ornate woodwork turned to little more than overpriced splinters as it collided with the head of its owner, sending the man sprawling on the gilded carpet covering the ground. He raised himself up slowly before he rolled over to face the demon who had tortured his dreams for months now.
"No!" he gasped.
"You and I had an agreement, fair emir. But you have broken that compact, looking at the slaughter on the fields ahead. Do you remember what I promised you when we last met, should you violate our agreement?"
"I had Edmund where I wanted him! I was to free our lands from their evil-"
Anxo swung his chainsword so it barely cut the emir's cheek, the blood leaking down to his lips.
"You know nothing of evil, Sal-Hadin. I will correct that promptly."
The first of many screams came from the tent, with no one to answer or aid him.
XXXXXX
Roger held his hand on his side, taking gasping breaths as he did so.
"Piss off, we're fighting for our lives here!"
"You shouldn't be here, what's left of your corpse should have stayed on that pole and been picked clean by the birds! You Xenophile scum, fooling Edmund into believing your nonsensical excuses! An end to this farce," he hissed with a smirk, swinging his chainsword down to Roger.
Scrambling for his blade, Roger parried the blow and rolled to his feet. Even in the gold-braided and award filled uniform, there was nothing more dreaded than a commissar in a fight. More than a few men had seen them in combat, and even less engaged them directly. Almost none survived to tell who won. Years of Schola training had forged men and women with no fear, no mercy, no pity, and Roger could feel it in every blow and thrust aimed at him. He crossed blades with him, and as the motor roared and the sawblades grinded harmlessly on his ancient and deceptively tough blade, he pushed his head towards the commissar, his teeth gritted in anger.
"You can have me when the battle is won, we have an enemy ahead."
"The greater enemy is the traitor in our midst!" Lucan shrieked.
Realizing he had no chance in convincing the zealot, Roger pulled away and continued to duel. As the battle raged around him, Vretans and rebels engaging and dying, not noticing the fight between what should have been comrades in arms, he could feel himself becoming tired, the days exertions finally taking their toll. He was running on adrenaline and instinct, which was beyond dangerous. One needed an unheeded and focused mind to fight well, as Estevan always said. But had the swordmaster fought a commissar? Maybe, but-
He blocked a swing from Lucan and rolled under his opponent's arm, slicing at an ankle. The wraithbone sliced into the armored boot, but it was merely the tip of the blade and caused nothing more than a slightly painful cut. Lucan cursed as his target came back to his feet and took a stance.
"Your blade is not of human make. More proof that I was correct."
"And your actions prove Edmunds assessment of you just as much."
Lucan snarled and charged again, six or seven vicious strikes that became harder to reply with every hit. Rogers' sword arm, already pushed to the limit, was screaming in pain, his nerves almost driving him to madness, but he had to fight on out of sheer spite for the commissar that had nearly killed him before the Leopards were even a ridiculous, impossible thought.
"Let's finish this!" he bellowed, attacking Lucan in response.
The blows were good, damn good, but so was the commissar. Then, he did something he rarely did: he made a mistake. He made a thrust towards Lucans chest, and was but an inch away when he realized what he had done. Lucan swung his weapon down on Rogers, knocking it from his hands. He felt pain run through his arm as it was thrust away from him, then a vicious punch to the abdomen. He groaned as he went to his knees, looking at the polished boots of his soon to be killer. He looked up into the eyes one more time, the fire still burning behind them.
"Finally. Roger Wessyng! Today, by my God-Emperor given authority, we have gathered here to execute a traitor, a man who has betrayed everything we stand for, what we believe in, what we are fighting for! Normally I would simply have given justice on the spot, but this needs to be seen by all of you, to remind you of your duty, and what faces those who refuse it, or go against it!
Roger looked at Lucan and laughed, turning his victorious glare into one of anger.
"How long have you been memorizing that?"
"Since I was denied the right to perform my duties and enact the will of God-Emperor. Good riddance, traitor."
His last moments of defiance were spent looking at his executioner with disgust as the chainsword was lifted to come down on his head. He wondered where Davie, Parky, Hawke and Bob were. What they would think if the battle was won and found his corpse. What of the Leopards? Kallen, Moire, and the rest? And Anya… he couldn't bear to think of that. But he could spend his last moments with no fear, giving no satisfaction to Lucan.
"Just finish it, asshole."
The commissar grimaced, his teeth bared as he swung down, the roar of his blades engine as it reeved to full and the chains rattled towards his skull.
The clash of steel startled them both.
Roger looked to his left and found a man in Al-Madin forged armor, his helmet covering his face.
"Ulgan?"
"Kill him! Kill him now!" the sipahi roared.
Roger grabbed his Eldar blade and thrust it half way into the braided uniform in front of him. Dropping the chainsword in shock, Lucan turned to the man who denied his kill, but was unable to say anything. Blood bubbled from his mouth, his eyes going from bloodshot to entirely red, almost demonic. Then he turned to the man he had spent months trying to find, to finish the justice that was denied him and his beloved Imperial Guard. He spat blood out in a raspy gurgle, his gloved hands curling into near-claws, hoping to tear at his unjustly free killer. He swung them at Roger, his hands trying to tear at his face as the weight of the dying commissar forced Roger flat on his back, his victim sliding further down the blade inch by inch. But he was nearly dead, his body weakening and going limper with every desperate, gore filled breath. Then, mere inches from Roger's face, as the fury in his eyes was palpable, his target looked one last time into his eyes.
"Rot in hell, you sniveling cunt," he hissed, then drove the sword up all the way to the hilt.
Lucan jerked one last time, his mouth dropping open, splatters of blood covering Rogers face. The body went entirely limp now, the eyes empty, whatever was behind it finally dead. He rolled the body to the side, seamlessly pulling the blade out of Dimitry Lucan's corpse. He looked at the body for a few moments, almost in disbelief of what had happened. He found an armored hand outstretched to him and grasped it, finally lifted to his feet.
"Cheers, Ulgan. I thought that was it."
The battle raged ahead, but the two didn't notice as they stared at the ornately uniformed body.
"What was his problem?"
"A lot of things. He didn't like me all that much."
"I could tell."
"I guess I owe you one now, eh?"
"Actually, I still owe you. That was for sparing my life outside Al-Madin."
"How did you-"
"It was hardly an effort to see that golden and red bird amongst your fellows. I am glad I helped when I did."
"Yeah, I am too. But you shouldn't be here, you'll get killed."
"True. Should I return behind the lines?"
Roger swallowed as he looked back at Lucan one more time.
"No, go to Edmund. He's on top of that hill. You can't miss him. Tell him who you are, and that you're my prisoner."
"Very well. Are you sure I cannot help anymore?"
"Consider keeping you away from the frontlines another time where I saved your life. I need to find my men and figure out what the hell is going on."
"Very well."
Ulgan moved to the rear as Roger looked ahead. He walked forward, realizing what was once the front was now further ahead. Corpses in varying states of mutilation were strewn on the ground, most of them rebels. None of the ones in red and blue looked familiar. He continued to the front line in a daze, trying to process what had just happened. What if someone found out he had killed a commissar? What if-
"Rog!" a voice cried out.
"Davie!"
"Where the bloody hell were you!"
"Busy."
"Goddamn. We've pushed them back, but it's a close run thing."
"I see. What should we do?"
Davie looked grimly at the line.
"Hold on."
"Let's do it."
The two rushed forward to the line, no thought but to stand and fight occupying their minds.
XXXXXX
Edmund stared down at Anya, her longrifle pointing to the right, her focus unbroken for what seemed like minutes.
"You… do realize there's a ceasefire, right?"
Her face had spent that time in dead focus, a twinge of what may have been fear there as well. But as suddenly as it started, she relaxed and lowered her rifle.
"Apologies, Edmund. All is well now."
"Good. Good."
The Vretan page from before was rushing up the hill again.
"Your Highness, we've pushed the enemy into stalemate, but our lines will only hold for so long. We're short on men, and the living have been fighting nonstop."
"I see."
The other regiments had held firm with little issue, but exhaustion and the sense of being overwhelmed soon spread through his army.
"Damn it. Tell Diazon to stay firm, the time of reckoning is almost here."
It was groxshit, but it was said believably enough.
"Very well, Your Highness."
The man darted off, but another was moving towards them, and he did not look familiar. His armor was off, not looking anything like Edmund had seen before. His knights had noticed as well, and were preparing themselves. He was about to grab the Claw of Gasceaux when a clarion sounded in the distance, amplified through the internal speakers of his helmet. His head snapped forward and he gasped. It was a six note blast, one high then one low repeated three times in quick succession.
"Reinforcements?" one of the knights said in confusion.
All the knights on the field were able to hear it, and from the left and right of the line, they were all confused. What reinforcements? But Edmund knew what it meant, the signal, and what for the battle.
"Excellent timing Captal," he muttered.
XXXXXX
Wheeling around the forests and into the clearing behind the rebel army, Captal de Gast rode on his stallion with a grim determination. Behind him, nearly five hundred knights and men at arms, all mounted, followed. This was Edmunds secret weapon: the hammer that awaited the anvil. Knights who had vanished in the night before the march, the horses that were missing, all were accounted for in a secret manuever that was so well hidden, even Edmund had no idea where they were and had moved. Had there been sentries or a suitable screen around the emir's armies, then maybe they would have been discovered, but now the flower of Anglois chivalry, along with a few of their lower born cavalry, were moving into position behind the rebel force.
"I'll be damned, I think we found troops with worse awareness than us," a northern Avalonian knight chuckled.
"Blessed are we, for our enemies are ludicrous," a Vretan responded.
"Silence!" the Captal boomed. "We are not ready, and do not waste breath that you will need to kill all before you!"
The two hunkered down in shame. But they were right, the rebels had failed even the most basic of defense and picketing. Were they that incompetent or arrogant? The captal looked grimly ahead, seeing red and blue specks desperately holding a hill, a figure at the highest point. Edmund always loved to show off, but that they had held long enough.
"You think he heard our signal?" he asked his herald.
"If he didn't, he'll figure it out when we tear through his enemies."
"True."
He hit the side of his helm as it connected to the others in his group.
"Prepare yourselves! No speeches! Only slaughter!"
With quiet agreement, swords were pulled, lances readied, and a few spears of the men at arms readied for the same purpose. They quickly formed from a line into a square formation, a hundred wide and five deep, closed in knee to knee, as every knight dreamed. Even the Captal was not spared this, his throat feeling full as he finally, after nearly fourty or so years of life, would charge in a way he was always taught to do. He looked around, and satisfied that all was ready, turned to the herald.
"Sound advance, speed us up as you see fit."
"Captal."
Slamming his faceplate down, he felt the clarion echo into his teeth. They slowly started to move, their steeds moving hoof by hoof. Keeping formation as they started to gather speed, they moved from trot to gallop. Then, as they were only half a mile away, they pushed into full charge. Lances lowered, the roar of hooves droning all around the captal. His banner, a gold chevron on light blue, three small white lions rampant in the chevron, flapped in the breeze, held by one of his many nephews. He wondered if Bertucat was safe, but banished the thought. No worries, only slaughter. The force pushed ahead, a thunderous roar the only warning that they were about to crash into the unaware men ahead of them. Closer they came, and then, a few hundred yards away, the first of the rebels at the rear realized something was wrong. A few turned to figure out what was happening, but with the speed and lack of detection, it meant whatever they could try would do little to stop the riders. Men behind him roared in fury, exhilaration, or were simply following their brethren. As the last yards were covered, all seemed to go silent, and the world felt as if at peace. The last thing the Captal saw before the red haze of battle took him was the anguished and frightened face of a rebel who was impaled on the end of his lance, and the last he heard was the shattering crash of steel, horseflesh, and lances into the stunned rebel soldiery.
XXXXXX
Kallen and Moire stared open mouthed at the action, almost unable to grasp what they had seen.
"I thought humans charged no longer?"
"I believe we were quite deceived, sword-sister."
The charge had smashed into the center, and despite the small size of their force, the damage was remarkable. Men were run down or cut to pieces, some were even thrown towards the hill from the sheer momentum.
"I am impressed. Our Shining Spears would do better, of course, much better, but with what little they have, they impress."
"You have low standards."
"Were you to see the females I bring to my chambers back on Ducaish, you would realize how incorrect that statement is."
Moire scoffed as she watched the knights reach their own lines, then turn to push left and right. The shock had crushed their victims, and now they were to push and take advantage of it.
"Our comrades have returned. Anxo and the others."
"Good to hear."
"I take it all went well?"
Anxo bowed, blood covering his chestplate.
"The emir and his guards are dead. A survivor escaped under our wishes, to spread fear through the hearts of his comrades. Did we just witness a cavalry charge? I always wished to see one."
"Correct. And it seems to have worked."
Even on the flanks of the rebel army, men were starting to retreat the way they came in disorder. It started with one, then a few, and then in groups.
"Isha protect us, he did it," Moire said in disbelief.
Prince Edmund and his little army, despite being outnumbered three to one, now had victory in their grasp.