Militia's Burden

On a grassy hill overlooking a field, a group of men, from the older side of middle-aged to arguably too young to be in combat, were gathered, breaking their fast quietly around campfires some chatting quietly. It was a cool, gray morning, the sky overcast. "A group", however, fails to adequately describe their numbers; there were hundreds, thousands of them. Enough for a respectable army, at any rate, at least in number.
A man on horseback rapidly approached the camp. The pounding of hooves alerted the camp sentries for a bit, but when they noticed that there was a rider on this horse, they relaxed. The man on horseback quickly made his way to the center of the camp where two men in particular sat. One had iron-black hair, clearly graying, his eyes dark and earnest. The other had blond hair and eyes filled with energy, and concern. The man on horseback approached them, and dismounted.
"Sir, I…my falcon failed to return to me when I made my first sweep and let it loose for its own this morning, just an hour ago."

The younger man appeared confused, and cautious. The older man simply nodded.

"Then they're close. How far out were you?"
The horseman, apparently a scout, paused.

"Not far, sir. Just…a ways from the tree line." He pointed into the distance at a forest.

The older man nodded.

"Very well. Then it's time." He turned to the others around the campfire.
"Unit captains-assemble the men. Muster in the formation that we discussed."
The men around the campfire nodded, and each went off.

"ALRIGHT! Breakfast is over, get your equipment!" that and other such cries were heard, and the camp quickly became louder and busier as men reached for their armor, their weapons, and as, slowly, the older man began putting his own on. It was nothing fancy, but it was of noticeable quality-higher than that of his men, at least. The younger man with the blond hair helped fasten it on him, then was himself helped by an attendant into his own armor. Shortly, the campfires were doused and the tents were abandoned.

"Sir…" the blond-haired man asked. "…isn't it foolhardy to leave the camp unguarded?"

The older man breathed deeply.
"Often it is, but our lines are intact. We're at most a day's march from the nearest city or town. Losing our supplies this close to a point where they can be replenished would be far from fatal. Besides…we'll need every man we can have fighting."

"Sir…?"

The army was mustering, quickly, into a battle line. Row upon row of men formed ranks until entire units were clustered together, sergeants shouting orders. They were outfitted in somewhat identical gear-some chain and plate mail, but clearly not of the finest quality, and differences could be seen from time to time between the suits each man was wearing. Even their weapons were not completely identical. Some carried short swords, others single-handed maces or axes.
"The core, and the frontline…" said the blond man, reciting his memory of their strategy and his own schooling in tactics.
Other men carried apparently mass-produced pikes or spears, some of the spearmen integrating with the "core and frontline".
"When the equestrian ones show up…also part of the frontline…"
Still others, in lighter armor, and with apparently also mass-produced bows, who had mustered in units behind the first line of battle.
"Our support…to soften up the beasts before they hit the line…"
Upon each flank were men on horseback, some with some armor, others with less, all carrying spears.
"Our shock and heavy units…"
Behind even the archers, near the commander and his lieutenant, were some men with somewhat crudely-constructed trebuchets and catapults, preparing the oil they would douse their ammunition in, and stacking large stones to be flung by their weapons.
"Our heavy support weapons…"
Finally, in front of the swordsmen and axemen, there were a few other men, outfitted in leather, and with light maces or whips, who were holding leashes, tying them to large wooden stakes in the ground. Those leashes, themselves held large, snarling wardogs. It was a foggy morning, and the dogs were snarling and barking not at any of the people around them, but at the distance…where they appeared.
Beasts, but mostly unlike regular animals-though the similarity was undeniable. Many creatures-humanoid-shaped wolves, massive bears, with claws and teeth twisted and sharpened, horses with horns and spiked hoofs, and more-as if all manner of creatures that could be found in the wild had been somehow twisted into vicious or unnatural forms, a mockery of their natural states-or of human beings.
"As we discussed. Good, you're paying attention. Have you ever been on a hunting party, lieutenant? A border sentry detail?" the older man asked.
The younger one shook his head.

"No sir, I…I have stood some time in a garrison, as have most of these men…but I've never seen the beasts in battle…or at all…before."

He suddenly got a look in his eye, a sly, valiant one.
"But they're what? Unicorns? Wolf-ish creatures? We have fairy-tale creatures coming to slay us? Any proper man who's served in the armies of our province-like these men have all had to-should have little difficulty today."

The older man looked the younger in the eye.

"Lieutenant, your bravado is less refreshing than it is aggravating and concerning. We may have told tales about bipedal animals and unicorns to our children for bedtime before the First Incursion, but…there's a reason why those stories were replaced." He said.

"As for the men…look at them. Some are too young. Some are too old. Some are fit and some are fat. Even if they remember their training and service in the regular forces, it's been years since some of them served-they're probably rusty, even with the streamlined training they may have received upon conscription into the militia. And this equipment…the best is reserved for the proper army, or the more elite units that our provincial strategy is based off of. We WILL need EVERY man here to be engaged in this battle."
"Sir, you…think we can win, don't you?"

The commander sighed.
"Yes. But…entertain no delusions, lieutenant. This will be very messy. The fact is, we're ultimately dealing with some fairly poor-quality troops, at least, when considering the rest of the Empire's armies….still, God willing…"
The lieutenant paused, unsure how to take what his commander had just said. As they looked out, the clergymen had been making their way through the formation, offering prayers and encouragements. Many men addressed them personally, and throughout the formation, men could be seen kneeling at prayer. The commander was willing to tolerate those who had not done this earlier, despite the fact that it may have, however temporarily, gotten in the way of the formation. He knew, as the clergymen knew, as the men themselves knew-this could be it. When the men had all been seen to, the clergymen (those that could not fight, at least) returned to the back lines, out of the way.
When the spiritual health of his men had been seen to, the commander, mounted on a horse of his own, rode out to the front of the line. He wanted to give one last address before what he knew was coming.
"IMPERIAL MILITA!" he called. "The detachments of the regular army have done what they can, to buy us the time we needed to get what training and equipment forged that we could. I do not profess that this will be an easy fight. We face…an incursion. A proper Incursion, the likes of which has not been seen in over a century. Our enemy is numerous, and will fight with all the savagery that rules it in the wilds. I do not profess to know why or how this occurs, but what I do know, what you all should know, is this: we are the last line of defense our province has in place before the horde of bloodthirsty beasts reaches our towns, our cities, our crops, our wives, our children! We are called upon to hold this line, while the rest of the Empire marshals. This is the price of living on the frontier-that this burden falls to us. But in three Incursions past, the border provinces have always proven that they could hold the line, that they could do the Empire a vital service that no inner province has ever been tested with. That is the legacy you are all heirs to, men! We will hold now, as our forefathers have! It is in our very blood, that we WILL hold the line today. I know that we will…because we MUST. As the last line of defense against the horde before our cities and our villages are assailed…we MUST hold. And that is how I know we WILL. We beseech almighty God in this undertaking, that this day, we will not be shamed, and that by our efforts here…our families may be safeguarded. That the Empire will gain the time it needs. This is our task, militia."
The commander turned, and rode back to his position behind the lines. The militia's positions on the hill, and his position in particular atop it, gave him a superb vantage point.
By this time, the horde was making its move. Flying beasts, landlocked ones, small, big, fast, slow, some looking like they were nothing more than beasts, some looking anthropomorphic, began making their way across the field.
The militia held the high ground on the hill, but as the beasts came on, they started looking…edgy. Some were visibly afraid, the commander could see that.
Gradually, however, as they got closer and could smell the men, the beasts began to get restless…while it was still a ways off, it began to charge.
They drew closer, and finally, the commander let up a cry.

"SIEGE WEAPONS!" he called, with a trumpet signal playing at his command.
The trebuchets had been loaded, and now, finally, their projectiles, large stones already doused in oil, were set alight.
"FIRE!" the sergeants of the trebuchets called, and the siege engines swung into action!

Suddenly, the cry of pain of a gravely wounded man reached the commander and his lieutenant.

The commander simply shook his head.

"Somebody ALWAYS has to get careless, don't they…?" he half-wondered, half said simply to express his disapproval.
The lieutenant looked in the direction of the cry, and saw a man lying on the ground with half an arm off-he had apparently been standing too close to the machinery or reaching out in the vicinity of the trebuchet when it was fired.

However, his cry was not the only cry of pain to piece the morning air. The equipment was not the finest, and the crews were not the best trained-at least, not unless, perhaps, they remembered what they learned during their mandatory service in years gone by. Many of the shots missed and fell short, or to the side, of the encroaching horde. Some of the rocks,  however, ablaze and soaring at high speeds, smashed into the beasts, carving out barely-visible gashes deep in their ranks as they knocked down or aside many beasts, killing them or grievously wounding them.  Many beasts to were immolated  reeled with fear. Others simply ignored the flames or charged through them. Some that stopped were trampled by the other charging beasts, some, though ablaze, charged until the flames consumed them. The cries of the beasts at these events sounded out, but they were far enough away that they were mostly drowned out by the other sounds-such as the pounding of the beast charge.
"SIEGE WEAPONS, FIRE TILL DANGER CLOSE!" A second trumpet signal to pass the command, and occasionally, though not in volley, the siege weapons would fire, until the horde got too close…

"ARCHERS!" he called, with a third trumpet signal.
The captains of the archer units each raised an arm, as the archers dipped the tips of their arrows in oil and torchbearers made his way through their ranks, and, touching the tips of the arrows and igniting them.
When the captains saw the arrows were ablaze, they threw down their arms, and their men, who had drawn their bows back and were aiming, let fly with their arrows. The volley was not the most well-aimed in the Empire, but nonetheless many arrows fell down into the advancing horde. The effects were in many ways like those of the siege weapons-but on  a different scale, as there were more archers than trebuchets or catapults-but arrows, of course, are a smaller projectile. Many beasts, being hit with the immolated projectiles, fell, stumbled, hit the ground hard, wounded, or dead, to be trampled by the rest of the horde behind them. Some, when hit, somehow kept running, even as the flames on the arrow spread to their coats and they burned alive while charging, like with the siege weapon barrage, driven on by some mysterious force until finally the flames claimed them. Some beasts, being beasts, reeled at the flames, and paused, being slammed into and pushed forward by the chargers behind them, some simply ran around the miniature pyres created in their midst or before them, the horde itself twisting around the flames as it charged. The air was filled with the shrieks, snarls, howls, neighs, and other cries of wounded or dying beasts-now more audible to the militiamen.
At this point, the war dogs in front of the first line of men were going crazy, barking and snarling and pulling on their restraints with all their might.

"ARCHERS, FIRE AT WILL!" the commander called, and at another trumpet signal, the archers reloaded, some reignited their arrow tips, and they all fired as quickly as they could-the first few lines of the advancing horde had been visibly diminished, but it was but a portion of all that remained. The archers let fly as fast as they could, some claiming even more kills as their feral enemy approached, and finally, the commander gave his next order.

"DOGS!"-still another trumpet signal.
Finally, the dog handlers broke the chains on their creatures, and, snarling and barking, the war dogs were off like shots, charging recklessly into the advancing horde, biting, jumping, intent on protecting their handlers and the militia they were attached to against these unbidden intruders.
The commander chuckled a bit, grimly.

"Isn't it a tad ironic, lieutenant? Despite our foe being bestial, we utilize beasts in our struggle against them. War dogs, warhorses, falcons…"
The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. How could his commander be joking at a time like this?
"I'm still focused, so you don't need to look at me like that." he said.
"Um, yes sir. Sorry sir. But isn't it wasteful?"
"What?"
"The dogs, sir. There's nowhere near enough of them. They'll all die."

"Probably, yes. But if all that "waste" can save ONE human life, it's worth it. Besides, the each beast may ignore any dog that doesn't directly attack them. The impact the dogs have on the horde may be miniscule, but still present."
The lieutenant paused.

"Sir, have you considered that maybe that's the reason? The reason why the beasts come against us again and again?"

"FOCUS, lieutenant. Besides, you're implying that they are more than beasts, that they have a consciousness. If that were the case, they may have tried talking to us once in the past few centuries, don't you think? Banish such thoughts from your mind-till after the battle, at any rate."
As the lieutenant noted, the dog charge was suicidal for them. Fierce though they were, the beast horde was also fierce, and gradually, each one was overwhelmed, or picked a fight it couldn't win, and their yaps and whines resounded but were drowned out by the sounds of the stampeding horde.
Finally, with the archers now firing on the rear positions of the horde, the front approached the militia's battle line.
"For the Empire. For humanity. For God." The commander said. "And may He have mercy…" the commander knew what was coming next.

The sergeants and captains shouted out orders, and the men braced, those that could formed shield-walls, however small said shields were, and the pike and spearmen lowered their weapons to face the oncoming charge…
…and so the slaughter began. Many equestrian beasts, rabid horses, or ones bearing single or double horns, threw themselves savagely against the line only to impale themselves upon the outstretched spears and pikes. The force of their charge nonetheless knocked some men holding those weapons back, staggering them, as the weight of the beasts still crashed into the front line, knocking down, aside, or even pinning some men, breaking bones and creating gaps into which other beasts would pour. The men on the front struck as the beasts came on, a wolf-creature's head was bashed in by the mace of one man, and it collapsed, its skull mashed into its brain. Another beast was stuck in the gut by the quick thrust of a militiaman's sword, its yelp piercing the air around it as it bled out and gradually lost vitality even as it tried to fight, before finally collapsing, slain. Still another was thrown back when it lunged at a shield and then knocked between its own kind behind it and the shield wall before it.
However, blood was spilled on both sides. One militiaman struck out with his axe, sinking it deep into the flesh of one of the beasts attacking, only for another to bite down on his arm, then pull with all its might, leaving a deep gash that bled heavily as the shredded muscle rendered the arm practically useless. Another was simply knocked down and trampled to death as the beasts broke through his section of the battle line. Still another man, desperately and heroically trying to contain the breach in the line that the corpse of a falling unicorn had created, swung his sword this way and that before him, striking down one beast, then another, and still another before one finally tackled him and sunk its teeth into his neck. A pikeman thrust his weapon forward, goring a bucking foe, but upon withdrawing his weapon, found it stuck in the creature's entrails, and was helpless as a wolf-creature set upon him and plunged its claws into his face and his head, hitting vital areas and killing him on his feet. Soon, people found themselves covered increasingly in sweat, grime, and blood-human and beast alike. Most militiamen were able to kill more than their own in beasts; it was easy enough to bash in the head, or stab, or otherwise slay two or three rabid beasts, but there was a horde of them; that outnumbered even the mass-conscripted militia that had been assembled there.
Some men even began to lose their courage, and there were instances of men who would simply drop their weapons and flee.
"Leave them." The commander said, noticing this. "Desertion is cowardly and despicable, and we must do all we can to discourage and not tolerate it…but we're losing enough men without chasing down our own. We cannot spare anyone."
The battle raged on. The militia fought valiantly, if desperately and in a somewhat undisciplined manner. It was a slaughter on both sides, as piles of beast corpses began to accumulate, but they kept coming…finally, the line of swordsmen, axemen, pikemen, spearmen, and other frontline militiamen began to grow thin…
"T-there's too many…" one axeman said. "We can't hold! We-" a beast charged at him, and he swung his axe, sinking it deep into the creature's side. It yelped and reeled, and the axeman, now focused, withdrew his axe and swung it again, causing the creature to back down more as a second cry of pain escaped it. It tried to swing its claws at the axeman, but he blocked one with his axe, the other scraping him and causing he himself to let out a grunt of pain as his arm was cut…but he raised his axe again and brought it down on the beast's head, breaking its skull and cutting into its brain, causing it to finally fall over dead. The axeman looked to see a wolf and a nimble deer creature, both bipedal, as if mocking the human form, advancing. He swung at the deer, killing it as his blade tore into the chest of its slender and fairly soft body, but the wolf was ready, and lunged, tearing out his jugular vein with its teeth. The axeman was killed where he stood, and his body simply fell forward, his blood draining out onto the grass.
As the carnage continued, the lieutenant paused.

"Sir, what…the line is weakening. I…I suppose it's time, isn't it?"
The commander nodded.
"Yes." He said.

"Trumpeters. Sound the charge of the archers and the siege crews…"
The trumpets sounded once again, and the archers dropped their bows, however reluctantly, as the siege crewmen stepped away from their machines.

"COME ON, MEN! TIME TO SHOW YOUR REAL METTLE!" a sergeant shouted, and held out a sword.

Another spoke advice that all sergeants had made sure to pass down.

"Remember, there's no shame in picking up the weapon of a fallen brother. I know it seems despicable, but…he doesn't need it anymore, and you do. Especially if you don't have a knife. Do not worry yourselves about the potential of such action as sin…I think God understands. But DON'T fight each other for them…we have enough foes to deal with without making enemies of each other!"
The fear was evident in the archers' eyes, as well as those of the men who had been manning the siege engines. They knew this would probably happen, but…it wasn't their strong suit.

"CHARGE!" the sergeants called, and with a warcry, the archers and siege crewmen ran forward, to join the front line, some with knives, some picking up swords or axes or what they could find on the ground. In a few cases, this even led to some men fighting and exchanging blows with each other over a single weapon both saw, despite the advice and orders of their sergeants. Though they were often worse at frontline combat than the militia who started there, their presence on the frontline at least added the numbers that the line needed to hold, and so the battle dragged on, with bodies of both humans and beasts growing thicker and thicker on the grass…
Through all this, the men on horseback had been staying back. They, too, were apprehensive. Edgy.  Some were afraid. Some were anxious. But they had been ordered that they were not to directly engage until their orders came…they looked on, and saw that even with the archers bolstering the ranks, the line was thinning once again against the relentless march of the beasts. Finally, however, it seemed the last of them had met with the militiamen, and they began to apply as much as they could to the frontline. The infantry were being overwhelmed by the sheer number of their opponent, and many wondered: why? Why had the cavalry not engaged, indeed, why had they REFUSED to engage when so many of THEM had already died? It was not good for morale.

But the commander had hatched a plan.
Finally, he nodded to his lieutenant.
"The grand finale. Ready to get your hands bloody, lieutenant?"

"May we meet…meet in the presence of our Lord, sir, if-"

"Do not speak like that, lieutenant. I intend to survive this day, and so should you. See you when we've driven the filthy animals off." The commander replied, and rode off to the right flank.
The lieutenant paused.

"Why should I survive, when so many already…" he shook his head, and rode off to the left flank.
Each rode to one of the flanks upon which the cavalry hung back in reserve.
"Alright, cavalry!" the lieutenant called. "It is time! We've drawn the beasts in!"

"NOW!" the commander, on the opposite flank, called. "WE WILL RIDE OUT AND CLEAR THE LINE! PINCER THEM BETWEEN THE INFANTRY AND THE CAVALRY!"

He drew his sword.
"CHARGE!" both the commander and lieutenant called, their escorts sounding the signal for the units.
And so the cavalry charged forward, smashing into the flanks and rear of the now engaged beast horde, and between the flanking attack and being sandwiched between the militia infantry and cavalry, the horde finally began to break.

The lieutenant and commander rode, swords out, striking with skill and precision, cutting beast necks open, plunging their blades directly between the eyes of any horse or other large beast that challenged them (both being reminded of the irony of using horse-mounted cavalry to combat the beast horde). The cavalry behind them fared well, their spears skewering many a beast. Some were knocked off of their horses and trampled, some were pulled from them by bear-creatures or other such things. Others were able to surround and put down even the strong bear-creatures and outmaneuver even horse-creatures and drive their spears directly into the hearts of their foes. Finally, it seemed, after everything…victory was near. The beasts were now cornered and encircled by the militia, and though cornered beasts fight savagely, they had been fighting rather savagely already, and the men, encouraged by their coming victory, pressed on resolutely, as the beasts' numbers grew thinner and thinner and thinner…
Then, it appeared, with a mighty roar.

Out of the woods stepped a huge, reptilian beast, which took to the skies with a beat of its powerful wings and shot towards the ending battle! The battle had distracted anyone from seeing it approaching, knocking over trees in the process, but now that it had stepped into the open and announced its presence, there was no mistaking it:

"DRAAAAAAAGOOOOOON!" a cavalryman called.
The commander frowned, for a moment. His plans had not factored this in…

"ARCHERS GET BACK TO YOUR BOWS!" he shouted. "You! You! You!" he pointed out some cavalrymen around him.
"SPREAD MY ORDERS! GET THE ARCHERS BACK TO THEIR BOWS! THE REST OF YOU, FORM THREE GROUPS AND PREPARE TO CHARGE AGAIN!"
As the remnant, and it was a tiny remnant out of a once-vast horde, was either slain or somehow escaped from the militia and ran back into the woods, the dragon approached, and took a dive, hurling a fireball as it descended! The fireball landed, charring some infantrymen instantly, and setting others on fire! However, the archers had got his message, and what few remained had ran back and gotten their bows in hand once again. They raised their weapons, once again, their arrows ablaze, and waited for the right moment…as the dragon strafed their frontline once again, they fired!
The dragon cried out in pain as the arrows pierced its underbelly-the part they were waiting for, and, losing its focus on flight, crashed to the ground!

"CHARGE!" the commander yelled, and a group of cavalry let out a warcry, charging at the dragon, speartips pointed its way…

The dragon tried to cough up some flames, but could only produce some comparatively mild embers, the gas in its throat expended for the time being…so it stood, though its stomach hurt due to the arrows.

As the cavalry charged, the dragon focused on the group coming straight for it, and struck! Several men were thrown aside, as one man and his horse were directly impaled/hit by the creature, another was caught by the swipe as it was arcing out, and thrown from his horse, crashing into another man and knocking him off! They were thankfully at the end of the formation, so as to avoid being trampled, but they were clearly injured...

...with the distraction in place, another group of cavalry got what they needed-an opening. They charged, and drove their spears into the dragon's side!

It roared in pain and looked their way, as the third cavalry group charged into the opposite side and drove even move spears into the creature.

Finally, the commander, leading that third group, saw his chance-he rode up alongside the dragon, and thrust his sword at the creature's flesh, while still riding, leaving a gash as deep as his sword's blade, and continued to drive his sword into the creature along its wing! The dragon, realizing that the ground may not be the best place for it, attempted to spread its wings and fly-but the commander's blade had left its right wing severely damaged, and it got off the ground, knocking many men and horses aside, before careening into the hill with a roar! A man at the side of the dragon saw his chance, and, taking a pike he picked up on the ground, charged the dragon and drove the pike into it, deep! The dragon flailed, let loose another flame which claimed the lives of a handful of archers standing in front of it, and as other men closed in and continued to strike at it from all sides, and finally, the lieutenant rode up, charging the head. With a mighty cry, he jumped off his horse and drove his blade into the dragon's skull! The creature ceased to move. The lieutenant, and the commander, after watching the spectacle, looked around. It was done. The beasts were either dead, dying, or had fled. His men had slain a dragon.

The battle was over. The militia had won.
The clergymen returned to the field, those who were not themselves in the fighting, and even those who were part of the fighting forces and who had survived. They began making their rounds, praying with the survivors and praying over the dead. The lieutenant paused, watching one kneel in prayer over a slain man, then, in finishing, draw his hand down the body's face, closing the eyes.
The commander rode up.
"Lieutenant. It's good to see that you made it."

The lieutenant paused.
"Sir, I…how? How can you accept…this?" he gestured over the still carnage before them. The unit sergeants and captains were attempting to round up and rally what few survivors they could-but the death toll was staggering. Over eight out of every ten men who had stood with the militia at the start of the battle had been claimed by the fighting.
"HOW?!" the lieutenant, his doubts coming to a head, shouted. "How could the Empire and the church tolerate this kind of massacre?!  If this is the kind of tactics that the Empire resorts to, maybe we DESERVE to be driven into extinction at the hands of the beasts…" he said.

"Our Lord's mercy and grace allows us to righteously stand against that fate, lieutenant. As for the slaughter…I do not profess to love it. I despise it; and it is a tragedy that so many of us must die…but the Empire and the church can tolerate it because it is NECESSARY." The commander replied.
The lieutenant still hung his head, but kept listening.
"The rest of the Empire needs time. Time to forge new and high-quality equipment. Time to muster and properly train its armies. Every other province needs that time. And the garrisons we maintain to keep watch are never enough; to maintain an army that would be enough to stop a full Incursion constantly would arguably bankrupt the Empire, at least eventually, and since these incursions come in periods every few centuries…we face a bit of a dilemma."

"So this is about MONEY?"
"It's about STABILITY." The commander replied. "Bankrupting the provinces would only hurt the Empire in the long run. Necessary as the army is, and noble as it would be to maintain it constantly, SOMEONE has to look after the upkeep of such a force. The extra taxes our people would have to pay during peacetime, the extra costs the provinces would have to pay for army upkeep…could total to a very high amount. Too much, perhaps, for either to function in the long-term under."

The lieutenant still paused.

"That's…"

"And what would you do? Force the costs on our Empire? Even IF we had an army constantly maintained at the size we would-arguably, as we never know the full extent of an Incursion until we see it-need, there would still be much death, even if the militia's staggering casualties would disappear, even if we could hold them at the borders. And then, what of supplying such an army in the long-term? Possible, but it still presents a logistical nightmare. I know that it seems like a simple and obvious solution, but the Empire has considered it for the past few centuries, you know they even tried it once, and the cost was too much to bear. The extra financial burden of the attempt left the Empire weakened and led to the slaughter of the Second Incursion."
The lieutenant sighed.

"I…suppose you're right. Still…how? How can these men have stood their ground, when they knew what was going to happen?"
The commander paused.

"Our will to survive. Unlike the beasts, we have virtues like courage. Like honor. Like discipline. We know that we're fighting for a noble cause."

The lieutenant looked out over the field.

"You know, this probably isn't the last of the horde. What will we do to stop the rest of it?"

"Wait and pray for reinforcements."
"And if they don't come?"

"I'll send the scouts out to look for a better position. This was the best they could find when we first arrived."

The lieutenant looked shocked.

"You mean…we won't simply retreat?"

"Perhaps we would do better in the fortifications of a town or city, alongside of whatever garrisons may be maintained there…I shall exchange letters with the general of the militia…" he said.

"…still. For now, we've beaten back the horde, or at least this portion of it. We've bought the Empire some time. Our deaths mean at least that much. Even as we speak, men across the Empire are being mustered.  Trained. Weapons and armor are being forged. Our deaths mean at least a little more time."

The lieutenant still seemed distraught.

"Is that all our lives are to the Empire? Currency, with which time can be bought?"

"To each militiaman falls a duty-a grim and necessary duty, the performance of which is a great boon to the Empire. All that is asked of us…is that we hold the line, and die fighting."
The lieutenant looked at his commander.
"By our deaths, vital time is bought to allow the rest of the Empire to prepare, to rally, so that more deaths can be prevented. So that the beast horde can be driven back. So that the Empire and the human race, by the grace of God, shall not fall before these fell creatures. All that is asked is that we meet the invaders, form a battle line, and hold them back, even though that usually means we die fighting. And we do it. It is what we do best."

The lieutenant still sat there upon his horse, listening.

"I know not what force or will drives the beasts into a horde and sends them against us, but…we hold the line against it and die fighting. It is what we do best, indeed. Before this malevolent force that would destroy the Empire, we are granted something that many men are denied."

"What, sir?"

"A man's death. However many of us die in the performance of our vital duty, at least this much can be said: we face the enemy, and before it…we die standing."