The Last Banner

The study felt smaller than usual, the warm glow of the brazier casting long, flickering shadows on the cluttered desk. Duke Leonidas sat behind it, his frame slumped against the high-backed chair as though the weight of his title had become too much to bear. His breath was labored, and his face was pale, though his sharp eyes betrayed none of the exhaustion etched into his body.

Hadrian stood a few paces from the desk, his hands clasped behind his back, while Alexander leaned casually against a nearby bookcase, his polished armor catching the light. The tension in the room was palpable, thickened by the soft crackle of the fire.

Leonidas broke the silence with a cough, his hand gripping the armrest tightly as he regained his breath. "Orcs," he rasped, his voice low and gravelly. "A village near the western border. They've raided it."

"How many?" Alexander asked, his voice steady but edged with concern.

"Scouts estimate thirty," Leonidas replied. "Maybe more. They've holed up there, pillaging what they can. If we don't act quickly, they'll regroup and attack the neighboring villages."

Alexander straightened, his jaw tightening. "I'll take the knights and deal with them."

Leonidas nodded, but his gaze shifted to Hadrian. "And you?"

Hadrian met his father's eyes evenly. "I want to go."

Alexander turned to him, one brow raised in surprise. "You?"

"Yes," Hadrian said, his tone resolute. "This is the perfect opportunity to test the matchlocks in real combat. I'll take a small group of my militia and support the knights."

Leonidas frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. "This isn't a drill, Hadrian. These aren't targets you can predict."

"I know," Hadrian replied, his voice calm but firm. "That's why it's important. We need to know if the militia can hold their ground when it matters."

The Duke regarded him for a long moment before sighing deeply. "Very well. But you follow Alexander's lead. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Father," Hadrian said, inclining his head.

Leonidas gestured weakly toward the door, a faint cough escaping him. "Go, both of you. Make sure they don't come back."

As they left the study, Alexander glanced sideways at Hadrian. "This should be interesting. Just try not to blow yourself up, little brother."

Hadrian smirked faintly but said nothing, his thoughts already turning to the preparations ahead.

The courtyard of the manor was alive with activity. The clanking of armor, the rhythmic beat of horses' hooves on cobblestone, and the low murmur of voices filled the crisp morning air. Mounted knights in their polished plate armor lined one side of the yard, their banners fluttering lightly in the breeze. On the other side stood the spearmen and matchlock militia, their formations tight and disciplined, though their faces betrayed a mixture of nerves and anticipation.

Hadrian walked among his men, his eyes sharp as he inspected their equipment. The spearmen wore simple but effective light armor—layered leather reinforced with iron plates that covered their torsos and bracers on their forearms. Their helms, plain but functional, gleamed faintly in the sunlight. The matchlock militia carried their weapons slung over their shoulders, along with pouches of powder and lead balls strapped to their belts.

Alexander stood near the stables, tightening the straps on his horse's saddle. He glanced up as Hadrian approached, his expression faintly amused. "You've got them looking sharp. Let's hope they can fight as well as they drill."

"They'll hold," Hadrian said confidently. "They've trained for this."

Alexander smirked, stepping back to admire his mount. "Good. Because orcs don't care how straight your lines are. They care how quickly they can break them."

Hadrian turned his attention back to his men. The nervous energy in their stances was palpable, but he could see the faint flicker of determination in their eyes. These were farmers and tradesmen, not professional soldiers, but they had something to prove.

"Form ranks!" he called, his voice cutting through the chatter.

The matchlock militia moved quickly, their movements practiced but not yet perfect. The spearmen followed, their shields strapped to their backs and their spears resting at their sides. Hadrian walked the line, checking their gear and offering quiet words of encouragement.

"Remember your training," he said to one recruit, a wiry man with calloused hands who held his matchlock tightly. "Stay in formation, follow orders, and trust the man next to you. That's how you survive."

The man nodded, his grip tightening on his weapon. "Yes, my lord."

Satisfied, Hadrian moved to his own horse, a sturdy bay gelding waiting patiently near the edge of the courtyard. As he mounted, he caught sight of Alexander watching him with a faint grin.

"You look the part, at least," Alexander said, adjusting his sword belt. "Try not to fall off your horse."

Hadrian rolled his eyes. "Let's just get moving."

With a sharp whistle from Alexander, the knights began to file out of the courtyard, their horses snorting and stamping as they moved into formation. The militia followed, their lines straight and disciplined, though the occasional glance over their shoulders betrayed their inexperience.

Hadrian brought up the rear, his sharp gaze scanning the convoy as they moved toward the western road. The tension in the air was heavy, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on them all.

The convoy had been on the road for over an hour, the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the crunch of boots on gravel filling the crisp morning air. The western road stretched before them, winding through rolling hills and dense woods. Hadrian rode near the front of the militia, his eyes scanning the horizon, though his mind was already running through the formations and strategies he would employ when they reached the village.

Alexander, riding just ahead, glanced back with a faint smirk. "Still thinking about your 'toys,' aren't you?"

"They're tools," Hadrian corrected without looking at his brother. "And you'll thank me when they save your knights from a charging orc."

Alexander chuckled. "We'll see."

Hadrian's attention shifted to one of the supply carts trailing behind the main group. Something about the way the tarp shifted seemed... off. He frowned, reining in his horse and motioning for the convoy to halt.

"Hold!" Hadrian called, his voice cutting through the steady march. The men slowed to a stop, their murmurs filling the sudden stillness.

He dismounted swiftly, striding toward the suspicious cart. The driver, a wiry old man with a face like weathered leather, looked startled. "Something wrong, my lord?"

"Let's find out," Hadrian muttered, pulling back the tarp in one sharp motion.