The Orc roared as it grabbed hold of the edge of the wall and slung itself over, sword like a meat cleaver coming up to block the pathetic pointy eared human to its front.

The Gnomish Forged Battleaxe went through the crudely formed metal blade like a knife through hot butter, then through through the Orc's helm, skull, and the entirety of its head, before finally coming to a halt sunken into the creature's ribcage.

The Gnome cursed as he kicked the carcass free, where it then tumbled off the wall to beat aside the men climbing up behind it.

The outer defenses were beginning to collapse. Though they'd inflicted obscene casualties against the leading ranks of the Rebel army, the soldiers had finally carried the battle into effective spell casting range where their greater number of battle mages could have its full effect. Spells and cannon fire were traded at ranges so close that one could walk along the pyrotechnic display from one end of the wall to the other.

The Faerie and Royalist mages still manning the wall sent out one last wave of fire to beat against the defensive barriers of the army. The air shields rippled, folding back on themselves in swirls of air turbulence before solidifying once more. The rebel numbers were simply going to carry the day and there was nothing more to be had about it.

"Sound the retreat to the inner wall." General Gramont instructed to the Lieutenant at his side, waiting as the junior officer relayed his orders in a magically enhanced voice.

Gunnery crews and mages retreated first under the valiant guard of the Faeries and armsmen. Armsmen sabers flashed and glinted in the sun, biting down and through the rebel swordsmen and musketeers that were beginning to occupy the walls.

Faeries held back the last of the orc troops that had been kept in reserve for the final assault, the powerful demihumans making little headway against beings that could almost equal them in strength and possessed far more grace besides.

The Armsmen withdrew slowly and in good orders over elevated bridges that connected the tops of the two walls above the outer courtyard. As soon as the last man was across, the bridges were destroyed and the Faerie melee fighters escaped back behind the inner wall using their wings.

A few musketeers fired their loaded weapons, grazing Faeries. General Gramont watched as one Leprechaun staggered in midair, a musket ball bouncing harmlessly from his armor's breastplate.

It was fine craftsmanship, Belgen thought, at that range, all but the heaviest Halkegenian armor would have been punched through.

Gathered on the inner walls, the armsmen grabbed ready muskets that had been prepared in advance and fired a final volley against the soldiers that were now swarming over the walls and into the outer courtyard. One last salvo of the inner cannons joined them to sweep the outer battlements.

The gunners and armsmen did not bother to reload. The evacuation ships were now filled and awaiting only the last of the soldiers, there was no need to risk themselves fighting for the inner walls. General Gramont signaled to commence the retreat to the dock area.

"General Gramont!" A messenger saluted him and then waited for his approval to continue. "The Eagle is fully prepared for departure and Prince Wales is at the helm. They can depart as soon as they take on the remaining Royalist defenders.

"Thank the founder." The General sighed, fortunately, King James hadn't learned about the incident on the lower docks until it had already been dealt with and the docks reinforced.

Now, the King of Ablion turned to the gray haired man who had remained at his side throughout the battle. "Paris, now is the time for all but the rearguard to depart. Take everyone and tell my son to launch at once."

"My King?" Paris asked. "Surely my place is with you to the end."

King James shook his head. "Were that it would be. My son will need you more than I. Go with Wales, your advice might save him one day old friend."

Bowing reluctantly, the Royal adviser departed to gather those who would be escaping. Only fifty of the Royalists intended to stay behind, holding the inner citadel that barred the way to the docks as the last troops departed.

"And you, General Gramont." The King said.

"Your Majesty?" Belgen asked.

"I have no right to ask it of you. Especially after the miracle you've give us this this day." King James confessed. "But if you still hold any lingering fondness for my brother, the Prince Regent, then see to it than my son is kept safe and offer him what aid you can."

"Of course." Belgen breathed.

A shout came from the upper walls. "Incoming!"

The thick timber gates of the fortress's outer wall began to shake on their hinges as something struck them head on, and then again, and again. Heavily warded against interference by magic, brute force would be the only way to tear down the portal that barred the way to the citadel. The remaining mages on the inner walls were concentrating their fire at the weak point, trying to stop whatever siege engine the Rebels had brought to the front but to little success.

The gate creaked, began to split, and at last failed, a tumbling mass of vaguely humanoid stone battering through at last before turning to and fro to beat aside the barricades and iron portcullis that barred further advance. Quite the construct to have rammed through so easily, the Rebels must have had an expert Golemetrist on their side.

Behind the Golem, a troop of heavily armored Mage Knights atop Dullahan Beasts, vicious products of Germanian alchemy that breathed steam and spat poison, charged into the fray, wielding their heavy spell lances to saturate the walls in bursts of fire and deadly wind blades.

"Lord Mortimer, King James, I do believe we shall be getting our hands dirty!" General Gramont observed before raising his staff and beginning to chant.

Belgen slammed his staff down, its contact with the ground met with a -crack- like a whip. The earth in front of the inner wall began to flow forward towards the large Rebel Golem, rising, taking shape, materials hardening and transmuting, limbs articulating, artistic flourishes and engravings growing out and etching themselves until the masterwork spell of Gramont Earth magic rose fully formed, a vaguely feminine suit of magically animated iron armor over ten mails tall, the Grand Valkyrie.

The Rebel Golem's clumsy strike was grabbed deftly in one articulated gauntlet, throwing the clumsy brute off balance as the Valkyrie's free hand balled into an iron fist and then exploded forward so swiftly that the air boomed with its passage.

It was too much for the rebel mage, wherever he might be hiding. Rebel Stone met Gramont iron and was found wanting. Inferior construction sheared and cracked, bursting apart and dissipated the controlling spell. The Rebel Golem crumbled and collapsed back into gravel while the Valkyrie advanced to plug the gap in the gates and prevent a fresh wave of Orc shock troops from rushing in where they might be a bother for the remaining defenders to hold back.

The Mage Knights on the ground must have seen Belgen and reasoned, correctly, that he was the originator of this latest construct. Their lances turned towards the General, then, the air around them thundered. Commoner soldiers clapped hands to ears and screamed as eyes wept blood. The Mage Cavalry and their behemoth mounts were tossed about like toys by the King of Albion and his vacuum bomb.

Stunned for a moment, their thick armor had saved the Elite Ground Assault Mages who now spied their former king and hooted with glee that they might be offered the opportunity to claim his head. They neither expected nor knew what to make of the shower of brilliant sparks that suddenly filled the air around them like fire flies and then struck down in their hundreds, each bursting with the force of a grenade.

Wind barriers were overwhelmed, Dullahan Beasts were pummeled until their exoskeletons began to deform and peel away, exposing the vulnerable horseflesh beneath, Mage Knights were felled, bodies either broken within their armor by concussive force or shredded to pieces as that same armor failed and they were left helpless and exposed.

King James and General Gramont turned to stare at Lord Mortimer. The pale Salamander Lord gave a small shrug. "You said we should get our hands dirty."

"Well then." Belgen said as he marched his golem to the gates, casting another enchantment to revoke his previous spell, the golem began to crumble back into its base material and then fuse together into a crude granite wall. His warding wasn't top notch but unless they had a triangle mage or three ready at this very moment, he judged it would take them around five minutes to get through that.

The Rebel soldiers that were still coming over the walls stopped in their tracks and leaped for cover as a roar came from above, a Cait Syth Dragoon crashing heavily down onto the top of the inner wall. It's rider's gold polished armor glowing in the reflection as the brutish ALfheim drake opened its jaw wide and breathed its sustained jet of iron melting flame across the outer courtyard.

The commoner troops that weren't incinerated fled back over the walls in terror, having the sense to realize this was solely a battle of mages, magic beasts, and golems.

The Dragoon turned to General Gramont and Lord Mortimer and pulled up his helmet. The nose of the Captain of the 3rd Provisional cavalry twitched in that vaguely feline fashion common to the Caits. "My Dragoons are finishing their last passes now. How long until the troops can finish loading?"

"We're getting closer." Lord Mortimer breathed.

"So's my next birthday!" Gaius snapped.

"No more than five minutes," Belgen said, "Look, the first transports are shoving off!" And it was true, behind Newcastle's solemn citadel the masts of a transport were spreading like a bird in flight.

King James watched the sight, whispering a small prayer. "Then, we part ways now General Gramont. The citadel will guard your retreat." The King turned and raised his staff to the remaining Royalists manning the wall. "Men of Albion, to me!"

"That's the last of them. Shoving off!" Airman Evans shouted as the Eagle's gangplank was retracted and the ship was made ready to depart. Crewmen worked the Capstan wheels, driving gearboxes below deck to pull the frigate from her dock and into position over the hole bored through from bottom to top of Newcastle.

Wales looked around the docks one last time before turning at the voice of his Manservant and now First Officer, Maison. "Sir, Captain Lydel reports the ballasting engine is fully charged, we are ready to depart at your order.

"And the cargo?" He asked.

"Secure in the hold." Maison said. "I daresay you can't see a thing beneath the chain."

While most of the Zombie remains had been incinerated, the ones they had been able to find in any case. Wales and his men had been careful to fully retrieve the pieces of the one that Kimura had dismembered. An intact zombie would be valuable evidence to present to the Church of Romalia, perhaps even enough to gain the Church's support.

Wales took a breath and then nodded to himself. "Very well. Prepare the engine for maximum power."

"Aye sir, Maximum power, prepared for ascension." The Helmsman reported.

"Wait a second." Caramella perked up from her perch beside the helm. "Did you just say ascension?"

"Aye." Wales smiled slightly. "If I'm to flee from my own Fortress, Surely I may at least use the front gate!"

The Eagle was in position now, the hundred mail wide hole that was the core of Newcastle Fortress and its underground docks and storehouses gaped above them, and beyond that the clear skies.

"Engines, standing by at your order my Prince!" Maison reported.

"Very well then. Engine room, full power, ascend to four thousand." Wales instructed, raising a hand to the helm railing to steady himself as the docks disappeared below them and the Eagle began to rise up past the spiraling staircase at the heart of the citadel, emerging into the central courtyard.

The Eagle swiftly rose past the five story tall Citadel and joined with the evacuation transports. Hoots and calls of greeting were given by the Faerie Dragoons as they fell in to escort the last ships out.

Beneath them, Newcastle began to burn as the the battered assault forces of the Rebel army commenced the final storming of the Citadel, Father and his Knights preparing to fight to the last. Though barely spoken of, charges had been laid through the Fortress so that when they were finally brought down, the last defender could immolate themselves and deny their bodies to the Rebels' foul necromancy.

* * *

"Admiral, the transports are braking away. We must pursue at once!"

Admiral Blake turned his attention to Captain Stayner, once again, a Captain attempting to instruct an Admiral. Lord Cromwell might have freed him to command a fleet, but the leash did chafe.

"Admiral, HMS Eagle spotted topside." A midshipman shouted across the deck.

Using an air lens, Blake was able to confirm that the unknown ship was indeed the Eagle, the advanced frigate's sleek hull, and rigged sails giving a most predatory impression as she caught the tail winds and chased after the bulkier cargo vessels that had been docked at Newcastle only briefly. In all, it could not have been but an hour since the first ships had been spotted, and now, with their objectives achieved, the Tristanian fleet was beginning to spread sail and deny battle.

One by one, the frigates and ships of the line ceased their exchanges and began to pull away, the Thunderchild's last broadside bouncing almost harmlessly off the thick hull of a Tristanian Third rater as she and her two sisters fell in around the crippled fourth ship of the line, the victim of concentrated fire dealt by both the Thunderchild and the Unconquerable.

"T-the Eagle?!" Stayner stuttered. "Admiral, if the Eagle is departing then that means that one of the Tudors must be aboard. We cannot allow them to escape."

"Very good Stayner." Blake said tiredly. "How do you propose we stop them?"

"We . . ." Stayner hesitated. The man was a good ship's Captain, with time he might even be a passable strategist. As he tallied their losses, he grimaced. "We can send the frigates to pursue." He suggested.

"They'd be cut to peaces." Blake answered. "Those Tristanian Third Raters are still more than enough to take on our lighter patrol cruisers."

"The Dragon Knights then." Stayner suggested.

"They probably wouldn't even make it through the screening forces." This time the reply came from Sir Dunwell. The Dragon Knight rubbed at his brow. "Reports are still being tallied, but 7th Squadron took heavy losses. Their Captain is dead, along with a quarter of their veterans and half of their recruits. My own 4th Squadron suffered the loss of yet another Knight and his mount, while another was forced to abandon in midair." The years seemed to catch up with Sir Dunwell. "Between Tristain's own Dragons and the Faeries, our cavalry is outmatched."

"Is their nothing we can do?!" Stayner asked, clenching and unclenching his fists.

This at least Blake could understand. Though not a devout follower of Reconquista's stated mission by any means, he took professional displeasure in seeing the Navy's reputation so readily tarnished.

"It will be up to the York Squadron to intercept them." Blake answered, as unsatisfying at that was.

At this time of day, the winds from York would be especially favorable and the retreating Tristanian fleet would be fully clear of the Isle mists and exposed in broad daylight over the sea. With just a little luck, and provided that his dispatch had arrived, the York forces might yet manage to intercept. Ten battleships would make short work of that poor man's line of battle that the Tristanian's had brought to bear, and seven frigates would stand good odds of running down the Eagle.

"Captain, instruct the fleet to drop altitude and maneuver to offer any aid we can to the General's forces. If there is any resistance left within the citadel we can at least put an end to it."Blake instructed.

"Aye . . . Admiral." Stayner turned to depart with a look of contempt.

Blake mused, if Stayner was his watcher, just how damning would his report to Lord Cromwell be?

"What a damned fiasco." Blake muttered as smoke began to rise from the heart of Newcastle.

Dunwell picked his way forward across the battle damaged deck to stand beside the Admiral. "An unexpected attack by a minor power with allies of unknown ability. Given the circumstances we could have done worse."

Blake looked down at the devastation spread across the field between the siege line and the fallen fortress. By now, smoke was beginning to rise from the citadel as the lead elements stormed the final bastions and slaughtered the defenders who had stayed behind to allow the last ships to depart safely.

Through his air lens, the Admiral watched the very last of the Fae using their wings to depart from the dock area, flying up to settle onto the deck of the Eagle or one of the other Transports while the frigates fired their cannons in one less spiteful volley.

He cursed softly. "But we could not have done better."

Dunwell frowned. "The question now is . . . how do we isolate ourselves from this . . . fiasco?"

Blake snorted, Dunwell had never been politically deft. "Well, in that regard we're blessed. General Ashborough has dug his own grave this day. He's spent too much time maneuvering to take credit for the fall of Newcastle. So falls the glory, so falls the blame. All we need do is underline our own efforts. I doubt even Lord Cromwell will question the decision to preserve the fleet over the ground forces. What I would like to know, is what you plan to do about the Prince, or King James if he managed to escape."

"I imagine that will be something for Lord Cromwell to decide, though if their destination is Tristain, I've been told our agents are . . ." The Dragon Knight was cut off by the arrival of a Dragon setting down heavily on the deck. A young Knight slipped down from the saddle and came running, exhausted, to Blake's side.

"Admiral, urgent dispatch from York." The Knight panted, his eyes were deeply ringed and skin sallow, signs of physical exhaustion.

Blake quickly unfolded the dispatch. He stared at the page for several moments. It was only one sentence, but at first it didn't make sense. Then, the most unfamiliar knotting began to grow in his stomach. The letter almost crumpled in his hands as he quite uncharacteristically lost his temper and let out a roar of anger that drew the attention of every man on the deck.

"Admiral?" Sir Dunwell asked before receiving the crumpled note to read himself. The Dragon Knight let out a hiss.

"You, lad? How fast did you travel?" Blake asked the Knight.

"Ah . . . I ya . . . Best speed from York once the fleet was spotted on the horizon Admiral Blake . . . I would have flown sooner, but not a one man knew what was going on. The port was bombed Sir!"

Thirty Leagues. Blake thought quickly, at full speed that was less than twenty minutes flight for a good Wind Drake. He turned his eyes to the south where York was hidden in the morning haze. By now, even if they arrived to help, the battle would already be well under way and most likely already decided.

Suddenly it all seemed like some sort of sick joke and Blake chuckled softly, receiving worried looks from Dunwell and the young messenger. "I do wonder sometimes if God and the Founder don't find ways to punish us for our hubris . . . Now I know." His efforts to preserve the fleet of Albion had been spit upon this day, by . . . by children . . . by commoners playing a game . . . by Faeries.

He took comfort in one small fact. If he was to hang for this, he most certainly wouldn't be hanging alone.