Building an empire which the sun never set-Chapter 38: The last stand of the knights

The Pendralis forces had secured the beach, and within thirty minutes, over five thousand troops had landed, bringing with them artillery, supplies, and siege equipment. Their organization was flawless—each soldier knew his role, each officer had studied the fortress blueprints, and every street, gate, and defensive chokepoint had been mapped long before they even set foot on Aragonese soil. There would be no chaos, no disorderly charges—this battle had already been won in planning. Now, all that remained was execution.

Inside the crumbling fortress, Alfonso Martinez, the highest-ranking noble still alive, took command of the remnants of the Aragonese defenders. The walls had been shattered, the cavalry annihilated, and morale was collapsing like the stone around them. Smoke still rose from the ruined battlements, carrying the scent of blood, gunpowder, and death.

For a brief moment, Alfonso considered surrender. But then, reality settled in. He thought of the Pendralis merchant ships they had raided, the civilians they had butchered, the women they had enslaved. He had no illusions about what would happen if he was captured. In this world, there were no treaties to protect prisoners of war. No codes of honor demanding mercy. Only power and vengeance. Surrender meant death. The only thing left was to fight.

At the command tent on the beach, the Pendralis generals stood at attention as Arthur entered. The moment his boots touched the ground, the high-ranking officers snapped to salute. Arthur returned the gesture with crisp efficiency before seating himself at the war table. Maps, reconnaissance reports, and troop movements were already laid out, marking every avenue of attack.

General George Brook stepped forward. "Your Highness, we have secured the beach. All troops and supplies have been offloaded. We are ready to begin the final assault at your command."

Arthur barely reacted. He had expected this. "And the fortress? Have they sent envoys to surrender?"

Brook shook his head. "No, Your Highness."

Arthur didn't even pause to consider why. He knew the answer. "They believe they'll be executed for their crimes."

The room was silent. The officers knew it was true. The men inside that fortress were not ordinary soldiers—they were raiders, slavers, and butchers. They had preyed on Pendralis ships for years, robbing and murdering with impunity. If captured, they would not be treated as prisoners of war. They would be tried as criminals. And criminals were executed.

Arthur sighed. "Then waiting for a surrender is pointless. Begin the assault."

Brook gave a sharp nod and relayed the command to the signal officers. Within minutes, the Pendralis army was on the move.

As the troops advanced, Pendralis artillery opened fire, launching a suppressive bombardment against the remaining intact walls to prevent enemy archers from harassing their approach. Explosions rocked the fortress, sending debris raining down as plumes of dust and shattered stone filled the air.

Captain Charles Lowe led the first attack wave, his unit moving toward the southern breach where the collapsed walls had created an entry point into the fortress. But as they stepped onto the rubble, they were met by Alfonso Martinez and his last remaining knights, forming a tight formation in the narrow corridor beyond.

Unlike a desperate shield wall in the open, Alfonso had positioned his men in a bottleneck—where the width of the passage would limit the number of enemies who could engage at once. It was the only tactic that gave his knights even a sliver of a chance.

Lowe halted, assessing the enemy. The knights were shoulder to shoulder, their shields interlocked, their spears forming a bristling wall of steel. There were no gaps, no weak points—just a solid barrier of armor and discipline.

Lowe exhaled through his nose. "Move forward. Keep tight formation."

His men advanced, rifles raised, but no shots were fired yet. They would not waste ammunition on armor that might deflect poorly placed shots. They would close the distance first.

At twenty meters, Lowe raised his hand. "Fire."

The first volley of gunfire roared through the confined space. Rifle bullets slammed into shields, punching through wood, steel, and flesh alike. Some knights fell instantly, their armor offering no resistance against the sheer force of the rounds. Others staggered, clutching at their wounds, but their formation held—briefly.

Then the second volley came. And the third.

In less than two minutes, half the knights were down. But some still stood, clenching their weapons, unwilling to retreat.

Lowe gave a second order. "Keep firing. Close the gap."

The marines pressed forward, rifles continuously firing. The distance between the two forces closed to ten meters, then five. Some knights, despite their wounds, lunged forward in a desperate attempt to reach the enemy line. One of them swung his sword, but before he could connect, a Pendralis marine raised his revolver and shot him twice in the chest, sending him sprawling backward.

The corridor became a storm of gunfire and blood. Knights who had once been the elite of Aragon fell like wheat before a scythe. The last of them, including Alfonso Martinez, stood their ground to the very end. He parried one shot with his shield, took another bullet to the shoulder, then finally fell to his knees as a third round tore through his heart. His sword slipped from his fingers. He slumped forward but did not collapse entirely.

He died kneeling, facing his enemy.

With the knights crushed, Lowe pushed his troops forward, advancing toward the eastern gate—the true target of the attack. The main army had already breached the outer defenses, sweeping through the fortress in organized, methodical waves.

Street by street, building by building, the Pendralis forces secured the stronghold. Gunfire erupted in alleyways, brief but decisive, as isolated groups of defenders were hunted down. The eastern gate was blown open, allowing more troops to flood in. Every corridor, every stairwell, every passage was cleared with brutal precision.

The battle was over in less than two hours. By nightfall, the fortress belonged to Pendralis.

The surviving Aragonese soldiers were rounded up. But unlike ordinary prisoners, these men were criminals, not warriors. Their fates would not be determined by military courts but by the laws of Pendralis.

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When word of the victory reached Arthur, he wasted no time. He stepped out of the command tent, mounted his horse, and rode toward the fortress, flanked by thirty rifle-armed royal guards.

The war was not over. But this battle was won.