"Kill!"
The roar was a physical shock as the two forces slammed together on the narrow mountain pass. The Rebel Army, devoid of heavy shields but fueled by the intoxicating scent of freedom, met the charging slave soldiers with a ferocity that bordered on madness. They leaped from the rocky ledges, swords flashing in the sun, burying steel in leather and bone.
Warm blood sprayed the dusty path. For the rebels, every swing was a strike against their former lives. For the slave soldiers, every step was a heavy chore performed under the shadow of a whip.
The first encounter was over before the dust could settle. The vanguard of slave soldiers, seeing the iron-willed men before them, broke instantly. They didn't retreat; they surrendered on the spot, dropping their wooden spears and falling to their knees.
Kress wiped a smear of blood from his cheek, frowning at the hundreds of men clogging the path.
"Confiscate their weapons and leather vests," Kress ordered. "Strip them and move them to the rear."
"Kress, we can't take them," his lieutenant, Damian, hissed. "We don't have the food, and half of them could be moles for the Archon."
"We fought for freedom, Damian," Kress replied, his voice hard. "We have a responsibility to lead those still in the dark. Take their gear and put a guard on them. If they want to be free, they can start by staying out of our way."
Below the Highlands
At the base of the slope, Elville watched the rapid "defeat" of his vanguard with rising hysteria. His face turned a mottled purple.
"Traitors! Filth! A swarm of double-crossing rats!" Elville screamed, his voice cracking. "I'll have them executed! I'll nail every one of them to crosses and let the sun peel the skin from their bones!"
He was so blinded by rage that he failed to notice the shifting expressions of the nineteen thousand slave soldiers standing behind him. Their eyes, once numb, were now flickering with a dangerous clarity.
Taylor, the garrison commander, felt a chill. He caught the eyes of a few trusted brothers in the ranks and gave a subtle, sharp nod. They began to tighten their formation, pulling their personal guards closer. Taylor had seen many fools in Tyrosh, but Elville was a special breed. The man was a master of palace intrigue but a babe in the woods of war. To march men to exhaustion and then threaten to crucify them for surrendering to a better life? It wasn't leadership; it was a suicide note.
"Hurry!" Elville shrieked, snapping a golden whip in the air. "We have twenty thousand men! Charge in waves! Wear them down! If they kill a hundred, send a thousand!"
The slaves didn't move out of loyalty. They moved because the garrison's spears were at their backs. But as they gripped their spears and began the climb, a new thought took hold: Why die for a man who wants to crucify us, when we can 'surrender' to the men who will give us bread?
Suddenly, the slave soldiers weren't sluggish. They charged up the slope with a sudden, frantic energy—not to kill, but to escape.
The High Ground
Kress's eyes widened as a literal wall of humanity surged toward his lines. "This is bad! They've gone mad! Groups Three and Four—to the front! Brace!"
Thousands of slave soldiers swarmed upward like a locust plague. The first dozen reached the rebel line, and just as the rebels prepared to strike, the soldiers threw their spears down and slid into a kneel.
"We surrender! We surrender!" they cried. "Don't kill us! We want the collar off! We want to join you!"
The sheer volume of bodies threatened to overwhelm the defense. Kress realized the tactic instantly. "Open the ranks! Let them in and circle them!"
The rebel line parted, funnelling the 'invaders' into a large clearing on the plateau. As soon as the slave soldiers were inside the perimeter, they dropped their weapons in a clattering heap.
"Damian, take their vests," Kress shouted, his heart racing with a mix of relief and triumph. "Put the leather on our front-liners. And grab those spears!"
The Rebel Army had been making do with sharpened stakes. Now, they were suddenly equipped with iron-tipped pikes and hardened leather. Their combat strength was doubling with every wave of "attacks."
Below the Highlands
The smirk was slowly sliding off Elville's face. From his vantage point, he saw a thousand men disappear over the ridge, but the sounds of battle were suspiciously quiet. No screams of the dying—just a dull murmur.
"What is happening?" Elville demanded. "A thousand men should have made a dent! Why have the rebels reappeared at the edge?"
Taylor remained silent, his face a mask of stone. He still thinks he's in a ballroom, Taylor thought. He thinks a slave's heart belongs to the man who owns his body.
"I refuse to believe it!" Elville roared, brandishing the golden whip again. "Garrison! Take five hundred of our best and lead the next wave. I want those rebels broken! If twenty thousand can't take one hill, I'll burn the lot of you!"
The garrison guards looked at each other, then at the steep climb ahead, and finally at the thousands of slaves who were now looking at the mountain path like it was a doorway to heaven. The trap was set, and Elville was walking right into it.
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