"Shit they are moving slow!"

A female barbarian says. Her "armor" exposing her huge cleavage and her muscular thigh are mostly naked.

"They are indeed Tatiana. Not gonna be a match for my mighty hammer. " A dwarf in full plate answers. His hammer is two times his size. And engraved with magic runes. They are standing at the top of a hill, looking at their future battleground. Several miles away, ten of thousands of enemy soldiers advancing in several lines towards them.

A tall and well built middle aged man approaches them. They both bow to him. "Lord Arthur! My dwarfs are ready to kick some arses." "And my brave sisters are at your will as well!" "Okay then. Here is the plan." Arthur continues. "Your dwarfs charge the front Bughdan. My cavalry charges their flank while they are busy dealing with you. And Tatiana's amazons rain them with arrows. Let's give them hell!"

Soon they march. Dwarfs walk till they are several hundred meters from the enemy line then charge into them. To their surprise the line in front of them just keeps walking. Holding their spears in front of them. Dwarfs have to stop their charge before getting impaled by spear.

"What do we do now?" one dwarf asks. "Smash them!" Another replied. But dwarves are too short to reach the enemy and so is their maces and axes. They tried to charge several times to no avail . And the enemy was moving forward slowly. One dwarf tries to swing his hammer into them but just hits a few spears. Few dwarves rush into their doom. Others are just going backwards step by step. Soon they see no other way but to retreat. Bughdan encourages them to attack "come on you cowards, charge" but as he tried to swing his hammer the weight of the hammer breaks his balance and he falls. "Fuck this useless shit is heavy".

Arthur and his knights are leading a thusend heavy cavalry into enemy flank. But sadly the enemy is not blind and can see them advancing. And even if they were charging from cover their voice would ruin the element of surprise. So when they rich enemy flank, "the flank" is ready for them. And they are holding "spears!" Arthur shouts. "Don't charge into spears!" But the battlefield is way too noisy for an entire cavalry regiment to hear their leader. His horsemen rush into spears, against horses better judgement. And die an agonizing death. For some reason horses are not good at "breaking enemy lines" head on.

Meanwhile Tatiana and her amazons are shooting arrows non stop. They are all beautiful, strong, clean and wear make-ups. Some of them shoot several arrows at once but strangely enough none of those arrows fly far. Enemy archers are also shooting at them. And those big exposed cleavages and naked thighs are proving to be a nice target. Many of them bleed to death.

Enemy is advancing slow but steady. And soon Arthur and his warlords has no choice but to flee. Decades later when asked "what was the reason for your defeat", Arthur replied: we were backstabbed, by the reality!"

King Gregor the 3rd sat in his chambers, sipping at a glass of warm, honeyed wine.

Today was an important day for him, the dawn of what was sure to be a successful campaign against the kingdoms at the edge of his empire. This was not his first war, one does not rule a land as vast as his without putting a few unruly lords in their place, and he doubted it would be his last.

The kingdom of Falder sought to expand its borders into the lush, resource rich lands of the fey courts. The courts were small, isolated, and very territorial, but the lands they held were some of the most verdant, beautiful lands he'd ever seen. The king idly wondered if he could build a summer home there, once the land was in his grasp. If his generals had advised him correctly, his first warband would have arrived on the field of battle a week ago. They were no strangers to war, and he doubted they would have faced much trouble against a force as small as the fey courts.

A knock at his door interrupted his train of thought.

"May I enter, my lord?" It was one of his military advisors. He recognized the voice, but couldn't recall his name. "You may." The door opened to reveal an average man in plain brown robes. He carried a few sheafs of parchment, which he placed on an empty desk. "News from the front, my lord. The generals told me to appraise you as soon as possible."

The king pursed his lips, and nodded for the advisor to begin. The robed man cleared his throat, and held up a letter. "Squire Peter of Faldridge reports that, the 5th infantry and calvary divisions of the royal Falderian army has been..." He squinted. "Completely destroyed."

The king choked on his wine. "What?! Give me that!"

He snatched the letter from his advisor, scanning the contents. The paper had seen better days, and was very short on details. Written in a clear, panicked haste, all the king could gleam from it was that his forces had faced a crushing defeat, with few survivors.

The advisor picked up another letter, this one a more detailed battle report.

"The squire of Faldridge.." The advisor resumed, "Was one of only a dozen to survive the engagement, and gave a clear report of events after retreating to the primary gathering at the edge of our borders. According to his reports, after rallying to defensive positions and establishing standard formations, our forces met fey infantry. The enemy footmen were loose and unfocused, many either rushing within the range of our pikemen and being cut down, or falling in close combat to our swordsmen."

"That... doesn't sound bad, how did we lose?"

"It began to rain blood, sir."

"It began to rain-" The king cut himself off.

"Yes. And then the blood caught fire."

"How the fuck does blood catch fire?!"

"I'm not entirely clear on that, my lord. I would have believed the squire had simply been hallucinating, if not for the fact that our entire division is dead..." The advisor reread a line on the letter. "Oh, I misread. Our entire division is undead."

"Unde-"

"Yes, they got back up and started killing each other. According to the squire, shortly after they lost formation a man identifying himself as a 'necromancer' revived our fallen forces, and instructed him to return and tell us what he'd seen."

The king rested his forehead in his hands.

"I see."

"Do you have any orders, my lord?"

"Is my son old enough to rule yet?"

The advisor raised an eyebrow in confusion. "He turned 23 last winter, sir."

"Good, tell him the crown is his, the necromancers are his problem. If you need me, I'll be busy faking my death."

It all began when the worlds colided.

How it happened or why, noone understood. But now new foes were marching through the land, alien kingdoms were demmanding new lands to expand. When king Andrew "the Conqueror" learned that a band of around 250 men had trespassed his frontiers, he expected the his army to easily fend off the offenders. After all, they were just 250 men armed with pole arms... and there were some children among their ranks!

And now he was sitting on the throne, listening to a messenger's report. "My lord, your army was dispersed" he said, terror in his voice. "They fought valiantly, but those strangers were able to fight off all our forces".

"How is that possible!", yelled king Andrew. "What about our griffoon raiders? Their charge is unstoppable to any known foe!"

"They were killed by lines after lines of pikes. They first killed the majestic beasts and then ended the life of their riders!"

"What about the Valkiry Warriors? They wear great swords, certainly they were able to cut the enemy polearms!"

"Just... a few, my lord. the Valkiry warrior wore no armour at all".

"Outrageous! And what about our infantry? We had over 1500 pikemen! What happened?"

"The children happened, sir". There was an incredulous silence after those words, so the messenger explained himself. "Our pikes collided with the enemy's polearms, it was an stalemate... but then our first line fell, man by man. The children that marched with the enemy warriers ran under the pikes and stabbed our warriors in the knees. That's how they were defeated".

The king sat on his throne.

"My lord, they are marching this way".

"How do they call themselves? What lord or tyrant do they serve? Maybe we can still negotiate a truce..."

"They call themselves... Tercios Españoles, from a foreign land called "España" or "Espania", I'm not certain how to pronounced it. They gave me this message for your eyes only".

The messenger gave an scroll to the king. There was a message written in ink with a polished hand writting.

"To the king called Andrew who helds the title 'the Conqueror':

We, the Spanish Tercios, have been tasked by king Felipe the Second to conquer this land for the greatest interest of the Spanish Empire. We stand no quarrel against you, your family or citizens. Your warriors, while foolish, fought with honor, so I know you will do the same, for only a great king can inspire such a thing in their soldiers.

This is the only time I will make this offer. Surrender now, king Andrew, and you shall be treated respect. If you refuse, know that it will be my honor to fight you until death embraces any of us.

May God bless you,
General Ambrosio Spínola."

Mid-day 3/2/045: "Warsong's Bridge."

A soft wind blows through the encampment as I turn the haft of my spear between my gauntlets. The small detachment of our regimental engineers is sprinting between the river's shore and the nearby forest as I observe the distant swamps of Kadesh. Death's hand lingers above the regiment plucking away at the strands of my heart as the enemy legion approaches unseen miles away.

The scouts say we are outnumbered and word has gotten out that we are merely to buy time for the king's army to assemble. There won't be any escape should we be driven into the knee-deep waters of the marsh, they would sooner run us down than accept surrender. The terse rattling sounds of boots scraping against dry gravel betray the sergeant-at-arms's approach as the weathered veteran appears astride my posting.

His dour clean-shaven appearance betrays his status as the section commander as he tucks his feathered helmet under one arm. He doesn't speak for a long moment as he observes the shifting of the spear's pole in the dirt judging. My half-plate is in tatters from the march toward the front as many others as the superior speaks after returning his sight to the distant swamps bridged roadway. "Armsman."

There's no lapse between my feet and arms snap to attention and the unspoken command. Years of training with the regiment have brought my mentality into a perfect representation of mental discipline. One right face raised gaze, and the pole's stamp into the dirt is completed before I voice my completion of the order. "Sir!"

I lock eyes unblinking like the soldier I've been trained to be as the officer leisurely turns to face me. There's a look of disdain in his eyes before he speaks; a judging unspoken hatred that speaks volumes as he returns his gaze to the enemy's approach. "Cut the bullshit, son, I'm not going to report you to command for being personable."

"Yes, sir!?" hesitantly I lower my parade rest into an at-ease posture before leaning onto my polearm to relieve the aching in my feet. It catches his eye but he says nothing as he sips from a small mug of ale.

"How's the watch Tir?"

"I already sent off my farewells with the corpsman sir. I'm vanguard." The old fellow gazes into his drink for a moment before tossing the clay pot down the slope. My eyes followed the shattering utensil as he spoke in his standard aggravated tone.

"They put you on the front, why wasn't I informed of this?"

I didn't say it was because my family back home was killed in a raid and that I wished to die with honor. I didn't say it was because I hated the rebel horde and I wanted to mangle as many as I could. Instead, I pulled my scarf below my collar. The red fabric clung to my helmet like a blindfold given to the soon-to-be hanged. "I don't have anything left sir."

He took a moment to inspect my person before slapping the side of my helmet with his closed fist. The blow rang through my helmet carrying my head back an inch before I returned to my position of rest unfazed. The officer grabbed the end of my scarf inches from my countenance before whispering.

"Don't you fucking try that again; there are better ways to die. You're one of us, we don't leave our own to die on the battlefield! Head to the rear line and find the medics, make sure no one we don't like gets in there. You might be the best spearman in the platoon but I don't need another corpse on my hands. Do you understand!"

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

"That doesn't look like Rome," the sergeant observed.

"No, it does not." The captain looked up at the sky. "I do not see any familiar constellations. I do not know what happened, but we did not come out of the Alps. These mountains are strange. Perhaps we are in the Orient? My compass does not seem to work here."

"What's your orders, sir?"

"While I hope the locals recognize the authority of the Pope, I suspect we are among heathens. I know it has been a long march, but we need defenses. Have the men dig a ditch and set up a palisade.

/---------

"An army appeared overnight?"

"Well, not an army, m'lord. More like a large company."

"And what have they done so far?"

"They appear to have set up an encampment like the northern barbarian tribes, with a crude stake wall."

"So they're tribesmen, eh?"

"Well, we aren't sure. They aren't dressed in furs like the barbarians. They wear a mixture of brightly colored fabrics, and use metal armor. And they seem to use exceptionally long spears and crossbows, not axes."

"At any rate, they are armed intruders and should be dealt with accordingly. Have them dealt with."

"Yes, your majesty."

/----------

"Well, I don't recognize the style of their armor and clothing, but it doesn't seem very exotic. Maybe even a bit drab."

"This is a conscript army, I think. Bound by sumptuary laws. The knights have nice armor, though, they are probably petty nobles."

"I wonder what that one in the blue robe on the hill over there is doing, waving his arms like that?"

"Some sort of messenger or scout, maybe? Communicating by arm signal? I've read about such techniques before. Maybe we should try it sometime..."

FTHOOOOOOM!!!

"SHOOT THAT SCOUT!"

/-------

"General, your report?"

"Yes, your highness. We started with the usual approach. Have the battlemage open with a fireball, follow up with a charge to mop up the panicked stragglers."

"I am familiar with the method."

"Well, they didn't panic. Dozens of them shot at the mage with crossbows. He blocked most of the shots, but a few made it through."

"Go on."

"The charge failed as well. Those spears are too long, we couldn't close. And their armor was strong enough that our archers had to get dangerously close before they stood a chance of penetrating it."

"Tell me why I shouldn't have you thrown in the dungeon?"

"Because a second group of soldiers just appeared on the other side of the city?"

/---------

"Sir, where are we? That river does not look like the Yangtze."

"I am not sure, but this looks like what the caravans describe as being to the far west of us, beyond Constantinople. Perhaps we are in Rome?"

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[removed]

The Orc Shaman laughed and began to tear out the silly human's heart, devouring it infront of his captured comrades.

"Blood Hawks for most, the butcher to the others."

Humans had tactics, but raw might and might was all the orcs needed. They could work, but they didn't have their own mages... the best ambushes, of course, were the ones were they had no chances of the others.

The armor would be taken and strung with their bones, used to forge darker and crueler weapons. The forges of the Orcs needed warming as well... perhaps, the Shaman thought, looking to his 'meal' their bones would make better kindling.