"So then Terrance, what do you think of this business?" Admiral Blake asked as he studied the walls of Newcastle with the aid of an Air Lens. The Fortress was more unassailable now then ever, its walls manned and ready, and supported by an entire fleet of frigates and ships of the line hovering low over head.

Regarding the Fortress to their east, Dunwell simply shrugged. "We haven't the naval forces to contest that Tristanian fleet as well as the Fortress guns." He still couldn't quite believe that Tristain of all Kingdoms had chosen to launch this insane attack. It was an outrageous gamble given their military disposition. Perhaps Lord Cromwell had been too overzealous in backing them into a corner. "I suppose the situation favors pursuit once they break port."

Blake seemed disappointed by this assessment. "We haven't the forces to cut them off as they leave port, and fleet pursuits are always a tricky business."

"I apologize for my novice suggestion." Sir Dunwell offered dryly.

The two men stood atop the deck of the Thunderchild accompanied by the ship's Captain and several other officers and messengers waiting to relay communications to the fleet and the army below.

"In any case, it seems that General Ashborough has decided to preempt us." Blake sighed, gesturing to the camp beneath them where regiments were already forming up for the assault.

As soon as the Army Commander had gotten wind of what was happening he had flown into a tirade over the whole affair. Baron Ashborough had been banking his future status on being the man to lead the final assault on Newcastle. If this siege turned into a farce, he would be humiliated beyond measure.

More importantly, at least to men like Admiral Blake and Sir Dunwell, if Prince Wales or King James were allowed to escape and survive in exile, they would be an ongoing source of instability within Albion. They were the last loose ends that had to put into order before Reconquista could fully claim the White Isle as its own.

"Admiral." Captain Stayner spoke. "I must ask what you do intend to do about this situation. The General will be expecting your support for his assault."

Blake remained silent as he continued to examine the walls. A man less familiar with the Admiral might suspect that it was a sign of senility, the mind wandering. But Dunwell suspected that the Admiral was simply appraising the situation in his own methodical way and would not be rushed.

In the end there was only one possible course of action if he wished to keep his head and prove his Loyalty to the cause of Reconquista. The Fleet would have to support the attack. The Royalists could not be allowed to flee, especially not with the open backing of Tristain. Which meant holding the Tristanian fleet here in defense of the Fortress until their own reinforcements could sally from York.

"Admiral." Captain Stayner repeated with a vague hint of impatience.

"Well, I don't suppose having Ashborough in my debt would be a bad thing." Blake bemused. "Captain Stayner."

"Yes sir!" The Captain stood attentively.

"Relay orders to the fleet. Prepare to make altitude of Forty two hundred and commence port side barrage."

"Sir?" Captain Stayner fumbled. "The fleet . . . at that altitude we won't be able to offer accurate supporting fire to the ground forces."

"Captain Stayner." Admiral Blake asked back. "If General Ashborough must assault the Fortress directly without covering fire, he will take heavy losses, correct?"

"Ah . . . Correct, Sir." Stayner nodded. "That is why we must move the fleet into range to offer support . . . "

"And so long as that Tristanian fleet is in position, what will his losses look like?" Blake pressed.

Stayner grimaced, "They would be . . . significantly heavier, Sir. Horrific."

"Overall, the fleet displacement slightly favors us now that we've consolidated our forces." Admiral Blake continued as if giving a lecture. "But if we move into the range of Newcastle's guns to support the assault directly, our own fleet will be badly mauled. So . . . We'll bring Tristain's fleet to us so that General Ashborough need suffer only heavy losses rather than horrific ones. Now then Captain Stayner, relay my orders to the fleet. We will concentrate our gunnery on the dock area. That should force them to move against us."

Eyes widening, the Captain now understood Blake's orders. "Aye, as you command, elevation to be Forty two hundred and gunnery laid in on the docks." Turning smartly on his heel, Captain Stayner departed to relay the instructions to his crew.

Standing with hands clasped behind him, Admiral Blake continued to observe the preparations below. The heavy siege cannons along the line were being pulled forward and loaded to support the assault. Each threw shot heavy enough to punch clean through the broadside of a Ship of the Line or shatter Fortress walls to powder. Now they would be aimed in hopes of breaching gates or striking Newcastle's own gun crews as they fired from atop the walls.

The objective would be much the same for Newcastle's gunners, to suppress the Siege Line's cannons and kill as many of the besieging troops as possible as they closed the distance under the cover the partially completed siege works. Be it magic or mundane, this would be a battle of thunder.

"And if you do not mind my asking, how do you rate your contingency, Terrance?" Blake asked.

Sir Dunwell frowned. "I do not have perfect faith in its success. If it succeeds in whole or in part, we will know shortly." In either case, nothing of value would be lost.

"Very good." Admiral Blake answered, rocking slightly on his heels as the Thunderchild began to ascend.

Lord Mortimer and General Gramont exchanged glances. "Actually, it is how we can be of service. Prince Wales, we are here to collect you." Behind the Salamander Lord, Kino and Caramella both perked up noticeably, a shared look of worry crossing their faces.

Wales frowned. "I'm afraid that isn't possible, I can't abandon my men while a battle is in progress." To add emphasis he waved his hand out past the Fortress walls where the remnants of the Orc force had found shelter among the ruins of the city outside of the Fortress walls.

Perhaps two thirds of them had been annihilated in the first salvos, but it had brought the survivors to within a stones throw of the Fortress and occupied the gunnery crews and Mages while the more valuable commoner and Mage formations maneuvered into position down the narrow siege works.

The first human troops were beginning to emerge now under the cover of heavily reinforced wind magic barriers. Sapper troops with grapples and ladders, pikemen blocks issued with half pikes for close combat, sword units, and musketeer companies forming up into narrow lines of advance. Behind them came the supporting Mages and still more sappers pushing mortars into position among the ruins.

The opening shots had been exchanged, but the battle was only just beginning.

"Besides. Someone will need to lead the rearguard and hold off the Rebel forces while the evacuation is completed."

Yes, that was the way it would have to be. He had considered it carefully over the course of the past nights. The ALfheim Fae possessed wings which would allow them to escape Newcastle once the last evacuation ships departed, likewise the Eagle stood ready to evacuate the last of the rearguard. But a handful would have to man the walls to the end to prevent their comrades from being cut down as they fled.

Having faced it once already, Wales found that he really was not so afraid of death anymore.

Yes, this was for the best, his Kingdom was fallen, his throne taken by a usurper, the Nobility of Albion neither wanted nor seemed to need the Royal Line. He was no use to his people, he was no use to Henrietta, it was noble, it was honorable, it was . . .

"You're a moron!"

Wales blinked, Caramella stood less than a half mail from his face, having pushed Lord Mortimer roughly aside and more importantly appeared quite a great deal more angry than usual.

"Watch your tongue when speaking to Royalty!" King James barked. "There's still time for me to have it cut from your foul mouth, girl."

"Beg pardon, King James." Caramella said with mock politeness before glaring back to Wales. "You're a moron, your highness. What the hell do you think all of this is?" The Faerie swordswoman threw her arms wide, gesturing to Newcastle, the Tristanians, and the Faeries. "We're getting everyone out that we can, everyone."

Wales gently pushed Caramella back. "It's only natural that I stay and . . ."

"What?" Caramella challenged. "Lead?!"

As if to add emphasis to her question, the cannons thundered again with their second salvo, meeting resistance in the form of the wide cast wind barriers of the approaching formations. Here and there, a barrier fell and the soldiers beneath were subjected to withering fire from the musketeers manning the walls. But they were growing closer by the minute. Soon they would be in range of the cannons of the hovering Tristanian fleet and the Rebel metal would truly be tested.

"Or are you going to fight? Because right now I think I could take you on even without this." A hand patted the hilt of her sword. Shaking her head angrily. "There is no reason for you to die here except your stupid ass death wish!"

He blinked, Caramella was shaking, trembling ever so slightly. He knew that she could be open with her feelings, but he'd never thought they would be expressed like this over him.

Caramella was . . . She was his friend, and he wanted to make her understand. There were reasons, good reasons, for why he couldn't flee. How could he explain it to her?

It was hardly a death wish. He simply couldn't run now. So many brave men, good men, had fallen in the name of the the house of Tudor, and now there seemed no chance that it would ever be restored, certainly not if he shamed himself by running. If he had not spent those lives, had in fact wasted them, the least he could do was cast his own along with them.

And besides, even if he did run, without land or title, he would be more a burden than an asset to anyone that dare harbor him. His death now might even open options to Tristain in their coming war with Albion. The Rebels had obtained what they were after here in Newcastle, Henrietta's love letter, and the daMage was already done. But there was still a chance to downplay its effects. His survival would damn Henrietta and Tristain in the eyes of Germania, but his death might absolve them. It was the only thing he could do for Henrietta, his life was the only thing he had to give.

"I've been informed that the house of Tudor is very particular about oaths and repaying debts." Lord Mortimer interrupted, breaking the stalemate between the two.

"It is." Wales agreed.

"Blood ties or not, relations between Kingdoms are always practical affairs." Mortimer mused aloud.

The Prince narrowed his eyes "What are you suggesting?"

"Payment for services rendered, Highness." The Salamander bowed his head. "Specifically, you."

Wales shook his head head, not comprehending. "Beg pardon, Lord Mortimer?"

"It's simple enough Prince Wales." General Gramont stepped in. "Tristain and Albion have a long tradition of alliance, but that doesn't mean that Tristain can do something for Albion and receive nothing in return. That's why your father agreed to give us you."

"Father?" Wales turned about, what was the meaning of this? Though his father was his sovereign and could do with his life what he would, Wales felt ever so slightly betrayed.

"The Royal Family of Albion honors its debts." King James said neutrally. "General Gramont and . . . Lord Mortimer are correct. They claim they have use for you alive and I am inclined to agree."

Wales shook his head. "And what does it make us if we bend the knee and escape? The Line of Air is tied to Albion. This is our Kingdom. To abandon it would be to brand ourselves cowards!" What right would they have to rule the White Isle then?

"You are correct my Son. Albion is our Kingdom and the King must fight for her to his bitter last breath." King James turned to his son, eyes forceful in a way that they had not been in a very long time. Not since before Wales' brother Lionel had died. "But you are not yet King and Albion is not yet your Kingdom. You will obey your Father."

"I . . ." Wales took a step back. This wasn't right, he didn't have the right to do this.

"Prince Wales." Mortimer spoke one last time. "It is understandable. You don't want to send the message that the Crown of Albion will bend the knee to a usurper. But the fact of the matter is that Reconquista . . ."

"The Rebels." Wales corrected.

"Reconquista," Mortimer emphasized, "Will see the knee bent whether you like it or not. What sort of message do you think that will send? And what do you think will be said about your family's honor once you are gone." Mortimer snorted in disgust. "The writing of history is a privilege reserved for the living."

Wales fell silent, trying to think of a reply. He could simply refuse, but he would not disobey his father.

"You said I can be of use to you." Wales said quietly. "How?"

Mortimer nodded. "At the moment we've only the nascent beginnings of a plan. This is something that Lady Sakuya suggested, but I am inclined to agree. Our own history has seen many violent popular revolutions and the aftermath are rarely pleasant. A surviving Prince of Albion might seem an appealing alternative to Cromwell's rule in a few years time."

Anger flared up within the Prince, "You want me as your pawn." He growled softly.

"We want you as our Knight." Mortimer corrected. "Or if you haven't noticed, Tristain is about to go to war and needs every advantage it can get. Your survival and your reputation will be a propaganda coup that will pay dividends in the times ahead."

"He is right my son." King James added softly. "Our treacherous people might despise the house of Tudor as a whole, but you are still much beloved. If anyone can ever retake our throne, it is you. And if there is a Kingdom that we can trust to aid us, it is Tristain."

Wales bowed his head.

How could deciding to live seem so terrifying? To have his life given back to him. Yes that was it. He had grown used to thinking of the end and it had become a welcome comFort. He had known his fate with certainty. But now the world was stretching out endlessly before him once more and he longed for the confines of 'destiny'. It was ludicrous!

"I accept, Father." Wales said quietly.

The wave of relief that passed over Kino and Caramella and to a lesser extent Lord Mortimer and General Gramont was almost palpable.

"A wise decision." Lord Mortimer breathed. "Then . . ."

"What the devil are they doing?"