They left Darwood Keep at dawn. Ruddy sunlight glinted off their black, iron helmets and steel weapons as rows upon rows of Cranaks steadily poured out of the heavy timber gate. Dasken headed the host of three and a half thousand, leading them out of the dense forest of Darwood Grove. He rode a new Fawg than before, this one was armoured and had a nasty scar running down its muzzle. It growled at all the other Fawgs and constantly snarled at any Cranak who dared approach it, Dasken enjoyed its company immensely. Behind him, Rukh and a dozen hand-picked guards followed in a heavily armed procession.

And next to Dasken rode Krugen Saak, his newly appointed captain. Krugen was old, almost nine hundred years old. He was bedecked in a criss-crossing of scars and was armoured simply in a leather tunic, he wore no helmet and had a coarse, brown eyepatch. His only weapon was an ancient Krakhr and he didn't carry anything else. His movements were deliberate, and he didn't often speak. The army of Cranak considered him a relic, one of the weakest in the army, most hadn't ever seen him fight. As soon as Dasken saw him, he made him his captain, a controversial decision but one that Dasken hadn't doubted himself on. Krugen was, in his view, the most dangerous Raiset in the procession and he wanted him on his side. Krugen's Fawg looked as old as its master, Dasken had offered him a new one but he had refused. The grey-furred, scarred creature with a missing fang was his only companion and, apparently, the only one he needed.

"How long till we leave the wood?" Dasken asked Krugen, suspecting the Raiset would be the most reliable source of information.

A wary, experience-honed eye slid towards Dasken, "We should reach the outskirts in three nights time, if we are not hindered by Fawgs, or worse." Krugen answered ominously. Dasken nodded and the old eye slid back to the bracken-coated path.

The going was long and the claustrophobia of his journey there, came back to Dasken. The dark, twisted trunks stabbed into the sky, their wind-beaten branches blotting out the sun and fresh air. Krugen was a quiet riding partner and as Dasken felt no obligation to converse with Rukh, the ride was made ever-longer by the silence. A kind of boring rhythm fell upon Dasken, the crunch of branches, the thud of his Fawgs paws and the swaying of the branches all added to the convoluted chorus. But the heat made it worse; sweat dripped from his face and fat flies plagued him constantly. Dasken became fond of night. Of the refreshing chill it brought and the darkness that melded into the trees making it easy to forget they were there.

They were making camp by a creek on the second night when they first heard the howls. Long, baleful cries that echoed along the procession causing Raisets to tense and grip their weapons. Dasken turned to Krugen, "There must be a pack nearby." He said but Krugen didn't even feign agitation.

"They are far away, they will not bother us, for tonight at least." Dasken relaxed and the order to stay vigilant spread along the army. But however far away they were, the cries continued through the night. Dasken couldn't sleep.

The shattering chorus of howls ripped through his eardrums, repressing him from his only salvation and leaving him to stare at the low, flickering flames of his fire. A crack of wood brought Dasken sharply back to reality, he watched through hooded eyes as Krugen sat opposite him. The Raiset brought out his Krakhr and started oiling and sharpening it, his eye never leaving the blade. "Where did you first come from?" Dasken asked finally,

"Here." he said, never taking his eyes off his sword.

"Here, as in this very part of the forest?" Dasken asked tiredly.

"No." Was Krugen's only reply.

"Where?" 

"It is now called Brockbridge."

"You don't look much like an Aderley." Dasken joked half-heartedly.

"I knew the first one." 

"Did you, I suppose on the battlefield?" Dasken asked, mildly interested by the conversation.

"Yes, we met briefly before I killed him." He answered in a toneless voice devoid of pride.

"Have you always been in Rawthawn?"

He snorted slightly "I was here before it went by that name." he answered, still diligently sharpening his blade. "How long have you had that sword?" Dasken asked.

"It is older than me." He said, surprising Dasken. A particularly loud cry ended their conversation and Dasken could think of no more to say to this gruff veteran of a thousand battles. Krugen eventually stopped sharpening the blade. He leant against a tree and, still clutching his Krakhr, fell asleep.

By dawn the howls had stopped, and the army woke and prepared to continue their journey. Dasken moved his way along the well-stamped carnage of a path that led through the camp. Roughly patched pavilions dotted the area, but most Cranaks slept outside and those with pavilions had hired guards outside them. Hundreds of clumsy, burnt out campfires littered the ground and hundreds of new ones lit up the morning gloom. As Dasken walked, Cranaks shifted themselves and backed away, they all knew what had happened at Darwood. Dasken allowed himself a quick smile of satisfaction. Dasken stopped at the pavilion which he had gifted to Rukh. Rukh however was sprawled several meters away, his bloody face only confirming what Dasken had expected. Dasken drew his Krakhr and violently slashed the cloth entrance away. He entered the pavilion to be greeted by two spears and a sword levelled at his chest. Dasken feigned indifference "I didn't realise there were so many Rukhs."

"What?" The one with a sword asked stupidly, Dasken could see the remnants of a keg of grog; that was good, drunk thieves are easier to kill.

"See, this pavilion was given to Rukh, I'm sure this is just a mishap with names but there seems to have been a mistake."

"There ain't no mistake little Sadrugh, I don't make mistakes." Said the one on the right, the biggest, Dasken calmly noted.

"Well then there is a problem here." Dasken said hefting his blade.

The big one laughed "So that scum we beat bloody was your pet? A shame to die for such a rat. Now you just leave, and we'll forget you ripped my nice new tent."

"Its called a pavilion, you imbecile." Dasken said before kicking a nearby chair into the big Cranak's legs. Dasken grabbed the other spear and as it slipped through the other Cranak's drunken fingers he stuck it in the sword wielding Cranak's belly.

The big one was circling him and the other Cranak he had disarmed had drew a sword and clashed it against Dasken's Krakhr. The big one lunged with his spear at Dasken's unprotected back but he was too slow. Dasken pushed away with his blade and spun round, shearing off the spear head and landing an explosive kick that sent the big one flying. The other one came back at Dasken and slashed again with his sword, Dasken parried easily and the two whirled round the pavilion, their blades dancing; taking care not to step on the dead Cranak and the groaning big one. He was good, Dasken observed as he stabbed and spun at the sword wielding Cranak, but not good enough. The Cranak lowered his blade for a second and Dasken sensing an opening in his defence, stabbed upward and then suddenly arced downward sending his opponent's sword clattering onto the ground.

The disarmed Cranak had a befuddled expression on his face as Dasken stabbed upward. His krakhr slid through the Cranaks chest and he roared with exertion as, with his blade, he lifted his attacker bodily into the air before throwing him sideways; the lifeless body coming free and landing in a crimson, unnatural heap. Dasken breathed heavily and turned around to see the big Cranak was up, and pointing an already loaded crossbow at his head.

The Cranak, still clutching his side with one hand, grimaced evilly. "Time... To.... Die." He said in short, wheezing gasps. Dasken stared at him boldly as the sound of a crossbow quarrel whistled through the air.

The big Cranak stared in disbelief at the blooming red flower of his chest, the still loaded crossbow slipped through weak dying fingers. The Cranak fell to the floor with a dull thud. Dasken turned to see Krugen slowly lower his crossbow and swing it on his back. "Thank you," Dasken smiled. Krugen didn't look at him, he just grunted as he surveyed the bloody, alcohol stained mess that was the pavilion. Dasken walked out and nodded at an astonished Rukh, "Better pack up your pavilion." He said before walking past him toward the campfires. He was hungry, killing drunken thieves did that.

It was two hours before they resumed their march through the forest, only a day left till we're out, though Dasken; only one day left. Noise, Dasken now treasured it. The sheer silence of the trees was threatening to suffocate him. "Drums!" He shouted finally, it was unwise but Dasken didn't care. The thundering beat of over three hundred hide drums resonated through the trees bringing the sound of life to the empty wood. Dasken enjoyed having the drums as they marched, until the howls returned.

The brave clashing of the drums whittled and died against the cries and shouts of the wild Fawgs. Dasken began to hate noise. They marched for half a day, howls their chorus and roars their melody. Until it halted and new noises spread along the trees. These new shrieks weren't a challenge, they were fear and pain. Krugen tensed beside him and slowly unslung his crossbow, Dasken drew his Krakhr, a move that swept along the procession as blades were drawn and arrows nocked on bowstrings. The screams of the dying stopped as suddenly as they had started. A nervous tension gripped them all as the entire army ground to a halt.

"Where did they go?" Dasken muttered to himself, trying to keep his nervously-growling Fawg in check.

Krugen looked around the underbrush with his one eye, missing nothing. "We should continue, or we mig-" He started saying before the hailstorm of arrows ripped through the trees into the procession.

Hundreds of men burst through the trees either side of the path, yelling and shouting, their swords and spears crashing into the army. "It's an ambush!" Rukh shouted.

Dasken watched the men pour onto the path, "They're wearing Brockbridge armour, its those bastard Aderleys!" He shouted angrily. Krugen shot a man in the temple as he was aiming his bow and calmly reloaded a quarrel before shooting another.

"What the hell do we bloody do?!" Dasken screamed at him.

Krugen didn't stop his cycle of reloading and shooting, he just uttered one word: "Run."

Dasken snorted angrily and screamed as loud as he could "Run you bastards, run! Get out of this hellhole!" He led his Fawg at a gallop through the path, Rukh and the guards following behind him. His order swept through the army and those that could, ran away.

Norac Aderley watched astride his destrier as most of the Cranak army ran in a herd of violent trampling. Norac was old, almost sixty; dressed in an ornate iron breastplate engraved with a badger, and a long azure cloak with a golden clasp. He was tall and even without his muscled destrier, towered over most men.

He dismounted his steed and drew his blade. Claw, was the swords name and though the blade was straight and tall, the handle curved, much like a badger's blunt claw.

"My lord?" Asked his squire, an adolescent boy of sixteen

"I have decided to enter the fray, tether the horses and follow." Norac said in his usual, emotionless gravelly tone. The squire gulped nervously and after tying the horses drew his own blade in such a clumsy fashion that he almost impaled himself.

"Steady yourself boy!" Norac growled "This is no time for cowardice!" The boy gathered a resilient expression and gripped the sword tighter, his knuckles white against the leather. Norac nodded to the thirty knights that were together on incline and they marshalled themselves behind him.

They charged down through the archers and corpses along the crimson stained incline and into the heart of the battle. Norac was no coward, and this was an opportunity he could not miss. It was him. Krugen. The Cranak Captain may not have been as revered this far north, but in Brockbridge he was an evil legend. Norac carved his way through the crowds of roaring Cranaks, his great sword leaving a path of destruction. His squire, was close behind him, faithfully protecting his back, not that it needed protecting.

Krugen sat astride his old Fawg watching the battle unfold and contributing with his crossbow when needed. That was when Krugen saw him, an Aderley of Brockbridge, the Aderley. His missing eye seemed to itch, vengeance. Krugen loaded his crossbow and led his Fawg into the midst of the fighting.

Norac sent Claw hissing through the air crumpling the armour of the Cranak in front of him, he brought it up and delivered the final blow. Lord Cryne came up beside him, "My lord, we are faltering there are still more of them!" He yelled against the noisy backdrop. Norac turned to answer but missed his chance as Krugen's quarrel buried itself in Lord Cryne's neck. "Bastard." Norac said before striding with his blade outstretched toward the Cranak Captain.

Krugen slid his crossbow on his back and drew his old Krakhr, the blade had been forged for the Great Phoom War and he had used it ever since it was given those many years ago. There was no other blade for him. He raised it up and kicked his Fawg into action.

Norac prepared himself ready for their blades to meet when a spear from seemingly nowhere flew toward him. He instinctively swung his sword to knock it away only realising his mistake to late. He could only see Krugen's krakhr thundering toward him before he was pushed out the way. The squire, the poor, foolish squire had drawn his blade and upon pushing his lord, dug it into Krugen's Fawg's scarred head. The beast shrieked in pain and Krugen leapt off. The squire lifted his sword and bravely charged Krugen but he easily sidestepped, slashing the boy's leg savagely. The teenager screamed and backed away, his blade still held high. Behind him, Norac got to his feet and lifted Claw ready to help but not soon enough. Krugen sent the boys blade skittering away and with a single, violent blow hacked him aside, instantly killing him. Norac swore under his breath and charged the Cranak.

Krugen watched as the old lord charged him, he sidestepped but the Aderley was expecting it. The great sword came swinging toward him faster than he expected and though he parried it, the vibration hurt his hands. They sliced and hacked at each other in frenzy, each of them blinded by vengeance for each other's crimes. Krugen was losing, he could feel it; he had been a fighter long enough to know when he had met his match. He showed no fear, that was beneath him, but he frantically strategized a way out. With more luck than skill the lord's great blade glanced against Krugen's wrist causing a deep cut and his once powerful sword manoeuvres to weaken. The lord sensed the weakness and pressed him along, slashing mercilessly with his sword. Then Krugen tried a desperate upward cut, hoping however weak, he was still faster than such a hefty blade, he was wrong. All he heard was screams, all he smelt was blood and all he saw was a grizzled lord swinging a great sword at his unprotected throat.

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Authors Note:

Bit of an exciting chapter, and a look at some different perspectives as well. I'm sorry for the long wait! I had to think a bit more about this one.

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