The crystal-bladed axe trembled in her grip. Chaos tainted the air, the dreadful song of the ravens swarming overhead, Dark Saints carriages galloping and bounding over the rocky slopes, and above all, the chilling war cries of the approaching Drisian soldiers.

Yet Farren was swept away from reality, the deafening sounds of battle so dulled she could hear her own breathing, blood rushing into her limbs, feel the single bead of sweat trickling down the back of her neck-- a sharp awareness like the first time she plunged her dagger into the undead flesh of the Vasaen back in the woods of Kinallen.

She had envisioned such a fight back in the cavern in the wall behind the waterfall, where the last remains of Dresius lay.

Farren charged into battle, movements in sync with her people. Dust flew from the many feet and hooves striking the ground, and the Miadelians emerged from the murky haze as one.

The enemy sent their mounted force ahead to encircle them in a ring, archers falling back to aim.

All Captain Walric needed was a single shouted command to arrange her battlemages. Only twenty five as they were in number, they sped forward in the formation of a deadly spearhead.

"Break!" A clear voice resonated through the plains, the flash of a gleaming sword caught in the full moon night. Xenro was the poisoned tip of the spear which drove into the enemy lines.

In battle he was but a distant star, for few could keep up with his speed. The infantrymen who clawed up from beneath at the Midaelian riders perished under his sword once he'd dismounted. One enemy down, he went for the next whilst the last one's spray of blood still hovered in the air. They closed in on him from all sides to beat him down, but Xenro got up each time, more bloodied and battered than before and still raging.

Clouds swirled overhead to shield the stars and an odd darkness fell. The more he killed, the more he hungered to kill, and his greatsword turned a murky black right down to the hilt, chunks of flesh still sticking to the wide blade. Xenro chanced a look above as the last of the infantry fell, and moonbeams flickered through the clouds to bathe him in an ethereal light. For a brief moment he seemed as though a king marching in disguise with his soldiers to the last, losing war.

Captain Walric halted for a moment to watch his rampage, torch held aloft. Farren caught up once they'd slowed down.

"That...is not how a farm boy fights his first battle," she whispered, holding onto her pendant.

Because he is no farm boy, but a God long forgotten and rejected by the heavens.

"Maybe his Da trained him well?" offered Farren.

Even as Xenro annihilated a score of the infantry single-handedly, more came marching up from beyond the slopes ahead. Tired and wounded, Xenro mounted and pulled back to the formation.

The ring of the cavalry would not yield easily. The Drisians drew back, and a faint whiff of sulphur reached their noses. The grasses at their feet rustled, the night wind blowing unnaturally warm.

"Down! Down, at once!"

Gunvald loosed a warning cry in Velan before a stream of sorcerous flames leapt forth to set the plains alight. Fire engulfed the Midaelians and rose sky-high.

✦✧✦✧

And all could have ended thus.

That was all it could have taken to wipe out this company, outnumbered and outmatched.

All there would have been left were smouldering flesh and bone, burnt crisp beyond recognition. Here would they perish, like the vampires once did in the Culling, like the Chosen Warriors did in the Great War. The clamour of the fight ceased for the moment. Embers danced upon dry grass.

The Drisian cavalry stood peering through the haze waiting for the fire to die down-- to see by their own eyes the doom of their enemies.

Hold your horses, people.

The smoke began to disperse once the silent minutes passed.

There waited the Midaelian soldiers and mercenaries, crouching behind their mounts, untouched except for minor scalds.

"Onward!" cried the mercenary captain. The enemy was caught off guard.

A chorus of alarmed cries rose from the cavalry as their armour began to...freeze. Frost crept up across plates of armour, lodging into the joints and rendering them immobile. Ice spikes shot forth from within helms, slicing through skull and through brain.

Yet the Drisians did not back down.

Blood streaming down their faces in black trickles, misshapen armour grating noisily, they still charged forward, unfeeling, unseeing against a backdrop of smoke and mist from the collision of fire and ice.

"Now that did not bloody go as I planned," muttered Xenro drawing his sword back as an arrow clanged into the hilt, barely missing his wrist. Another Drisian lunged at him from the left.

A glimmer of green cut through the air, and Farren's new axe tasted first blood the night. The man rolled off his horse, head sliced in two and sending a splatter of cold, black blood across Farren's face.

"You owe me another blood-beer for that one," she said as she spat.

He tried to offer a smile in return, but it was no more than a grimace. Exhaustion and dread was beginning to take hold of him, as it did to her.

"Twenty kills in a row!" she said to Xenro as she locked blades with another. "By the Gods, you'll blow your cover at this rate!"

"A true God of War shouldn't tire by twenty," he said, leaning forward in his saddle wearily. "He slays thousands, Farren."

"You immortals and your impossibly high standards," she muttered as she threw a vicious kick to her opponent's chest.

The soldier went staggering, and a Sacred arrow from behind finished him off. Dorin Farler gave her a thumbs up from afar.

Yet things were not looking so good.

Despite being sufficiently armed with the Sacred Blades, the company found it hard to stand their ground against the enemy, for even if the weapons could kill them, their strength outmatched even the strongest of the vampires of Valston. Magical attacks eluded their bodies though it cut through armour.

The spearhead formation was made to pull back, spreading out into a crescent instead as the Drsians tightened the circle around them like a fist around a throat.

Is there no ordinary soldier left amongst them?

Ahead went one of Farren's ordinary throwing axes of steel, spinning through the air to hit a horseman in the torso, tearing through mail.

The man only staggered to regain his balance before dislodging the axe from his mangled ribs-- and throwing it right at her, aiming for her head.

She swerved sideways barely in time, heels scraping flurries of half-burnt earth.

The axe struck the ground at her feet, blade dripping with black blood. It seeped into the soil, the darkness spreading like a drop of ink in clear water.

The battlemages charged again. A bout of immobility spells from the mercenaries landed upon them next as a test, and none reacted. There was not a soul left in them that was not undead.

"Vasaen," said Gray beside her in a hoarse whisper. "Every single one of them. We're fucked."

"Would it kill you to show a bit of optimism?" Rendarr was on her other side.

The three drew nearer, standing back to back. Four infantrymen began closing in on them like feral wolves, two from each side.

"Gray's right though. We're royally fucked." Farren bared her teeth in a grin, plucking the axe from where it was embedded and shaking blood off it. "But if we survive this, we'll have a damned good tale to tell, eh?"

Uttering cries in chorus, they attacked.

But once these were down, she had no moment to spare.

When she looked up, the horseman she'd wounded was headed straight towards her, injuries already beginning to close up and heal. Even as the carriages crashed through the front lines and ravens descended upon the Drisians, the Vasaen galloped toward her. She'd lost the captain and Xenro somewhere within this writhing mass of clanging blades and crashing shields.

Arrows whizzed through the air left and right, some colliding into shield and some into armour.

"Come on," she murmured, axe ready. "Let's see how you like the taste of dirt!"

✦✧✦✧

She tasted it first.

Farren lost her footing on the first strike she made, the collision of spearhead and axe strong enough to throw off her balance. A firm kick from spiked boots sent her rolling across rock-studded earth.

She'd had experiences in fighting multiple enemies at the same time-- yet now one was enough to overpower her.

Around her, the crescent formation had scattered, and disorder ran rampant as the Vasaen soldiers began unleashing sorcerous attacks. And here was one of them, closing in on Farren, seeming particularly amused by her failed attempt of finishing him off earlier. She now realised too late how fatal an overconfidence her previous kills had given her.

"On your feet!" cried her opponent in Drisian. "No fun in kicking a dead dog, eh?"

Farren rolled across the filthy ground again as stomping hooves charged to trample her.

Gods, why did I ever renounce the deal?

Pain rattled every inch of her being. She'd likely fractured a few ribs, for it hurt to breathe. Was it too late for her to run back to Atruer?

Against the night-sky stood the Drisian horseman, high upon his horse, teeth bared in a sneer in his shadowed face under the helm.

For a brief moment, she became certain that this man was none other than Lord Atruer in disguise. His words were still loud and ringing inside her head.

Oh, you will come back. They all do.

With trembling fingers and a racing heart, Farren reached for the dagger at her belt. A little cut would do. All he needed to be summoned was a bit of pain, and a strong will. It would hurt a little, but then it would never hurt at all. Xenro's summoning ring left untouched, she went for the Lord of Despair once more.

A new deal. Yes. She'd be smarter this time.

"You dead or what?" spat the man.

Her reverie broke as the spear plunged into her thigh and pain roared like fire.

The flash of a torch nearby revealed the man to be merely an undead, common man-- and not an ancient God in disguise. She was seeing things. Such was the full extent of the withdrawal.

Two ironclad hooves came crashing down on her as the man galloped to crush her to death with his mount. Farren thrust out the handle of her axe, the horse's legs thudding heavily onto the shaft-- inches above her chest.

"Stop it! Stop it!" she cried to her own intrusive thoughts, a desperate attempt to bar her mind from spiralling down the wish to cheat through life. It was as though Atruer still had that hold on her, long after their bond had been broken. "Stop messing with my head, damnit!"

The dagger between her teeth, she scrambled away from under the horse, sacrificing her newfound axe beneath the beast, and leapt up for the rider, a raw rage radiating in her. Caught off guard, for he was sure his opponent couldn't possibly emerge alive from underneath the hooves of a raging warhorse, he got no time to guard himself.

Farren's attack was crude and desperate-- not of a well skilled warrior, but of a woman trying to survive. The blade dug below his chin and shot out through his mouth stretched into a dying howl.

He fell. And so did Farren, onto her knees and panting. Blood ran from her thigh, her surroundings blurred.

Cries of victory rose in Midaelian from afar, more and more soldiers emerging from the carriages and into action.

A slender arm stretched down to her. She looked up to find Klo standing over her, a bloodied sword in one hand and Farren's axe in the other.

"One would think I've more responsibilities to take care of other than recovering your weapons from wherever your toss them," she scolded. The sergeant leaned heavily on one leg even as she spoke.

A ghost of a smile returned to Farren's sweaty face. "You wouldn't find a better private in all of Stormvale. That's the least you could do! I've got it all under control."

"Oh yes, I can see that," she said.

She let Klo pull her up.

✦✧✦✧

Smoke still billowed around the wide circle, yet Farren could see the fight had begun to come to a close. The timely aid from the princess had rescued them from a losing fight. Dark hours passed long and painful until the east horizon began to pale to the colour of the bloodless faces that stared sightlessly above at the survivors.

Corpses lay at their feet, many black-blooded and some blue-cloaked. Not all of the Midaelian soldiers would return to their homes. Yet for each sacrifice there would be one less sorcerous monstrosity left to prey upon the innocents back home.

Fractured ribs and limping steps, Farren and Klo held onto each other for support, reminiscent of their earliest battles in Kinallen. None had started upon this journey believing it would not end in chaos, nor were they strangers to the scene of massacre and wailing voices drifting to them. Yet every fight they faced broke the shell of numbness they would work so hard to grow over their hearts. And here it was again.

Brothers and sisters in arms with whom they've marched but a day ago lay dead and dying, a fourth of the company perished. Both the squads from Kinallen and vampires of Valston suffered casualties, yet it was the battlemages who took the brunt of it, like a steel shield against the enemy flames.

If there was one thing Farren had learnt, it was that there was nothing called easy victory. She knew not how much the Drisian general truly valued his undead soldier's lives, but for them, one lost life was as much a reason to mourn as a thousand. The ravens sat perched on the withered branches of nearby trees, touching not the fallen.

There was but little time to be spared to speak to the squads who'd arrived with reinforcements. Tents were pitched for the injured. Healers among them got to work, led by Foxward and Crowder, the rest of the soldiers spreading out to form pickets and keeping watch.

As Farren sat in a long line of the wounded, her eyes went to Xenro standing far away on a rock, facing the direction the enemies had come. His expression was dark and he spoke to none as he stood guard over the newly excavated Sacred Blades and armor.

An agonizing cry rang out to the skies.

She tore her gaze away to find Captain Rivera, kneeling low on the ground before the corpses of her people--the vampirefolk. Her gauntlets lay cast aside as she scrubbed her hands with the contents of a water-skin. Her hands were long since washed off the gore, yet she kept on cleaning and scraping them with nails, hard enough to draw blood.

"Edis forgive my sins!" She wept.

The jester in Farren was empty and had long fallen silent, devoid of any words that may lighten the situation. And she had but little skill in consolation, let alone the fact that hers was a grief she could not hope to comprehend.

"Please," she said as she limped over, and took the captain's scarred hands in hers. "Without your guidance we may have never found the weapons."

"So you say..." Watery, scarlet eyes bore into her. Captain Rivera's voice was grave as she spoke, clenching Farren's fingers in an iron grip. "You all have found and wielded the weapons you longed for. Tell me then, why is our victory not absolute, even with divine help?"

Farren found no answer to that.

"Speak!" she snapped. "If you struggle to beat less than a hundred, what would you do when they breach the borders and show up in their thousands? The dark magic ruling them is infinite, and the weapons are not. This all was just a waste that led to the deaths of my people! And you...you have the audacity to try and console me with words you don't mean?"

A hand landed on Captain Rivera's shoulder.

"Willa, that's enough. The lass meant well," said Captain Walric. She sat down heavily, a blood soaked rag pressed to her arm. "No such thing as my people or yours. We all carry our wounds, whether or not it meets the eye." Her gaze flicked to Farren.

"Everyone knew what they were signing up for. Hell, you showed us the way-- and I'll be damned if I ain't grateful for that. If the legions of Vasaeni indeed show in their thousands, we'll still fight. Because that's what we do. Would you rather be cowering with your people behind your city walls then? How long would they hold before they too begin to crumble?"

The vampire captain looked as though she would reproach her too, but her eyes halted at the blood trickling down Captain Walric's neck, the red smudges reaching across her armor.

She smiled wryly. "It's not mine."

She jerked her thumb to where two healers carried Bjorn off to the tents, his large frame fallen limp and pale. Behind the healers rushed his twin Gunvald.

"But this is surely yours, Captain," said Crowder as he came up to crouch beside her and gestured to the bleeding arm. The rag had been soaked through.

Captain Walric regarded him with narrow eyes. "Ah, you must be the ice mage Ellie took as an apprentice."

"Aye, I'm him alright. Mind if I take a look?" he said.

"As long as you don't make it worse." She stretched out her arm with a wince.

"I would trust Doc's judgement even if she'd chosen Pickle and taught him healing, just sayin'," Farren piped in. Then added hastily: "No offense to you, Crowder."

"None taken," he said, grinning as he inspected the wound. "Pickle is probably better at magic than the soldiers of Kinallen combined. Just sayin'."

With that, he got to work. Softly spoken incantations wrought a sorcerous chill in the area surrounding the gash on the captain's arm. At once no difference was visible. But when Crowder washed off the smeared blood, it turned out the bleeding had been staunched.

"The cold shrivels up the bleeding vessels, you see," he said, "squeezing them shut. A sort of constriction, if you will. Now we've got a clean wound Foxward can suture up with no trouble."

Indeed, across from them waited a queue of those waiting to be stitched up, wounds sealed shut with ice magic.

Captain Walric eyed her arm and let out a low whistle. “From ice magic to healing. Must've been a wild ride.”

"Any magic can be used to heal, Captain. Fire to cauterize, ice to soothe, lightning to shock a failing heart. Even immobility spells, to numb a limb," the young man said. "All it takes is a willing heart. So I can be both a healer and an ice mage, Eliora says."

"Indeed you can be, my boy," said Captain Walric as she looked at Crowder in wonder, then smiled to herself. "Thousands of leagues afar, and she still makes me eat my damn words. By the Gods, woman!"

Yet the splintered moment of joy ended too soon. After the night waned and came the next dawn, and a considerable number of soldiers and mercenaries were healed up, Lieutenant Evander gathered them to speak.

"The time has come," he said, "to embark on our second mission. This is only half the job done."

✦✧✦✧

Blue banners rose upon high poles to ripple in the wind, red specks of blood drying upon them like smudges of rust.

Barren and shelterless as the land was, it was now reclaimed once more.

The many faces surrounding the lieutenant were grim and weary, some donning bandages, others dreary expressions. The younger faces looked to have aged a decade while the old seemed ready for anything tossed their way.

"We must ride for Glasswolf," said Lieutenant Evander. "Commander Karyk has long been moved to the palace dungeons there from Calbridge Castle, and thus it will be our next destination."

"Then how do you suggest we enter the city? To say we've blown the cover of stealth would be an understatement, sir," said Klo. "The carriages sent forth along hidden passes through the hills were not meant for war, but to bear the weaponry back to Midaelia."

"We couldn't have predicted this battle," said Farren, eyes travelling toward the pile of dead. "Though they've shown us hell, they were few in number. I daresay they were a scouting party patrolling these lands, and ran into us by pure chance."

"Even so," said the sergeant, finally losing her cool after so long of keeping calm, "news of this battle is likely well on its way to the Drisian capital, for Rhilio's sake! If we head there now, we'll be facing a host of firemounts from high up the city-walls."

From within the crowd, rose an arm, bare of armour and lined with suture marks still raw. The commotion stopped and eyes turned on Captain Walric. Silver wisps of smoke spiralled out of the Roll hanging loosely from her lips.

"What you fail to see," she said, "is that we've killed them all-- this scouting party or whatever. The only way this news would reach the capital is if we carry it to them. Should we?"

Hungry, drained and wounded, the temper of the soldiers was quick to rise. Angry voices rang out to her. "What are we? Their undead slaves?"

Captain smiled. "We can pretend to be. To enter their city."

She took a long drag of the Roll and turned her eyes upon the dead, lying some distance away from the tents, already beginning to decay into bare bones.

The pale light of dawn glinted at the Drisian sets of helms, weapons and armor still clinging to the corpses.

Now a deathly silence ruled them all. Horrified eyes stared at her, stunned by the implication.

Lieutenant Evander took a long moment to consider this, before agreeing. "The best way to hide from your enemy is to become one of them. A desperate measure, no doubt, but it's either this or pulling back. I won't force anyone to this perilous mission. If it comes to that, I must go alone, for I cannot abandon a friend. Not when I've come this far for him. Those opposed to this may remain to hold fort here. The wounded are to be sent back across the border."

Honor was a deadly thing to hold onto. None came forward to this proposal.

Captain Rivera stood up, her expression anguished. "Forgive me, Irava, Lieutenant, but I cannot do this. I have qualm enough to deal with for a lifetime. I will not don the armor of the Drisians. But neither will I hinder my brethren from joining you."

Yet the entire host of vampires sided with her. Only a few uninjured battlemages remained. Soldiers of Kinallen began to pull away too, heads bowed. Klo remained with the lieutenant.

Farren stood up with a groan, cracking her knuckles and stretching her arms. A weary smile crept on her chapped lips.

"I, for one, haven't much honor left, do I?" she said. "What's so bad about donning the hides of our slaughtered enemies?"

Even through all his exhaustion, Lieutenant Evander beamed at her-- the proudest she'd ever seen him be. She squared her shoulders and offered him a salute.

From among the returning soldiers, Rendarr stared at them over his shoulder for long before he was obscured by the crowd.

Xenro hopped down from the rock and strode toward them, sword hefted on his shoulder as always, the air about him ragged, tired and war-torn.

"You don't have to go," said the captain gently, laying a hand against his cheek. "Stay back with Bjorn, will you?"

"I am no healer, of whom here are plenty. And I am sure he would rather I accompanied you," said he, plain and simple. He slid his sword back into its sheath and regarded them with his deep, ancient eyes-- looking almost annoyed. And he did not even bother to soften his next words.

"Noble fools, leaping right into trouble. Typical of you. You plan to don their armor. Blend in, as you say. But do any of you speak Drisian?"

Lieutenant Evander cleared his throat.

"And no, I do not ask about formal, courtroom language straight out of a dictionary," Xenro added.

The awkward silence that followed was answer enough.

"Thought so," Xenro said, tossing his fur cloak over his shoulders. The white-maned horse assigned to him in the morn of the journey tottered forth at his call. "We ride out now, fast and swift. And let me do the talking."

As the little company shorn from the main host set out for their final mission in the enemy lands, clad in the armor of the fallen Drisians and the rising sun above them, cries rang out from behind.

Two figures hurried toward them, motioning with their waving arms.

"Wait for us!" cried Rendarr and Gray.