Just as Keys began to inch away from his hiding spot he heard a heavy thump from the barricade. He turned around slowly, squinting toward it. There was another thump, then a third and an alarm was raised, thick accents shouting into the muffling swamps. Keys turned back to the tree, pressing against it and observing the scene. From the wood line Keys witnessed a group of men, soldiers by all accounts, make their way to the gate of the palisade. Farther along, a lone woman dashed through the trees, seemingly acting as bait.

As the group swung around to the entrance of the fort, one of the members started a dialog. This seemed to confuse the brigands as the entire encampment went into a frenzy. Keys couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the carnage. It ended as quickly as it had begun, most of the brigands were dead, and it seemed only the man in charge was wounded. Keys shrugged off the tree with a sigh and began walking back toward his horse when sudden movement in his periphery drew his attention.

He whipped his head just in time to see a woman get pulled into a thorn bush by a man. Before he even heard her scream, Keys was in a dead sprint toward them. Admittedly, a middle-aged man in armor is not the fastest, and it was of no help that Keys had a certain distaste for exercise. He did, however, make it to the area in his own record time.

Without halting his pace or even missing a step, Keys planted his sword blade into the mud and dove into the thorn bush. His bulk, amplified by his armor and speed, crashed into the man just as he dropped the limp woman. Keys could hear the man’s teeth crunch as his jaw slammed shut, driven into his head by Keys’ armored shoulder. They landed in the mud, the man on his back, hacking blood from his ruined mouth. He sputtered something unintelligible at Keys, who answered him with an almost regretful look as he slammed his fist into the man’s already broken nose a few more times.

Keys stood up, breathing heavily, and wiped some of the blood from his glove on to his breeches. He eyed the crumpled body in the mud. The bandit was still alive, but he’d be eating exclusively soup for the remainder of his life. Then as if suddenly remembering, Keys turned to the woman in the thorn bush. She was covered in little wounds, her skin was pale, and she seemed unconscious, but at least she appeared to be breathing, if ever so slightly. Keys reached down, gently lifting the woman from the bush and laying her down on some of the less squelchy mud he could find. The knight unclasped his honey-yellow cloak and covered the woman. He then sat down heavily beside her, trying to catch his breath.

Reaching out he gave her a cautiously shoved her shoulder. She looked like she’d live.
“Hey,” He wheezed, “Wake up.” His Murkran accent wasn’t as thick as rural folk, but it was still present. He looked over to his sword, sticking out the mud like a like a tiny monolith, then laid down on his back to catch his breath. He’d get the sword later.

Genseric stood there, impressed by Jahan’s rhetoric, yet also keeping a firm hand on the hilt of his sword. It would remain unsure what these brigands would do, as Genseric had no idea what was going through their minds. Much to his surprise, however, those behind the seeming leader of the brigands seemed to be taking Jahan’s words to heart.

Their leader, however, was in disagreement with them. This lead to fighting, which lead to great surprise for Genseric. They must have been quite uncomfortable, then, living the life of a brigand. The arguments quickly turned violent when the leader hit one of his men with his cleaver, and everything violent and angry. Nonetheless, even as they fought amongst themselves Genseric did not loosen his grip on the hilt of his sword.

Then the captain went forward, and tried to grab him back by his shoulder. However, the captain received to a blow of the cleaver to his arm. Genseric saw it slice into the captain’s arm, deep enough to cause injury but hopefully not deep enough to cause lasting damage. Genseric ran towards the captain’s aid, but he simply chastised him for not subduing the man with the clever. “Don’t Just stand there, subdue him,” the captain had said.

Genseric would follow his orders. His grip had been tight on his sword, and now he would finally be able to draw it. He drew his sword with his right hand and held his shield with his left. He ran forward towards the man who wielded the cleaver, and was confident that he would be able to bring down a single brigand. It would help that he had seen him fight in combat, and his fighting ability was not superb.

As Genseric ran towards him, while his opponent began to raise his cleaver. He stopped himself from moving suddenly, and the man’s cleaver went down right in front of him, missing him completely. He held it up again, readying himself to strike another blow. Genseric burst forward, and as the brigand began to swing forward his cleaver a second time, Genseric landed his shield against his cleaver, stopping it before it gained full momentum.

Then Genseric struck against the brigand’s hand with his blade. He tried purposefully not to damage him too much, as he assumed the captain had something in mind for him. So he only slashed against it, but not too hard, although hard enough that the brigand recoiled in pain, and dropped his arm.

When Jahan and Genseric had gotten the brigand down and knocked him unconscious, they would have left him for now. The captain looked at his wound, and seemed to continue on in the same capacity as he had said before.

“They're her kills so she has the right to take their stuff. Sorry lads' - rules of war. After yer' done with the bodies you can search the tents too. As sergeant, I'll take a small share of whatever you find,” their officer had said.

Genseric laughed, as he had discovered marvelous, yet very quickly suppressed his laughter. Truly, it was a break in character. He had no need of the loot. The son of a count who had been supplied with plenty, he had no need with what brigands could have. The loot, however, was mostly a secondary concern in Genseric’s mind. He stood beside the brigand’s body, the sword in his hand.

“Go ahead and take all of it,” Genseric said, turning to Jahan. “I’ve no need of it.”

As soon as the loot was collect they began their departure. The body of the brigand was carried away, Genseric doing his part in carrying him. They went back to the treeline where they had departed and left their cook and healer, Ellinor. However, she was not where she had been, where she had been left. Genseric dropped the unconscious body of the brigand and ran towards the spot where she had been.

Eira kept running through the woods, hearing armoured footsteps behind her. Good, they took the bait. She had studied the maps slightly before coming here, knowing that there was a swamp not too far away. She stopped in her tracks and focused on her hearing and shot an arrow towards where the sound was coming from. She did not wait for it to hit the mark before she started dashing again. Behind her she could hear a thud as the arrow struck a tree along with more cursing from her two pursuers.

She had gotten their attention once again, they slowed down for a moment to see if more arrows came their way before the took up the chase once again. By this point Eira had created a bit of a lead and scanned the swamp she had arrived at. She identified a path through the marshes and quickly got to work crossing it. On the other side of it she sat down on her knees as if exhausted.

"There she is!" a voice came from the other side and she looked back at it, a frightened look in her face. "Get er" the other said and they both began to dash towards her. A smile appeared on Eira's lips as both men tried to make their way through the water. She got up and turned around, facing both of them.

"May the gods be kind on your spirits," she said as they got stuck in the mud, "because this servant shall end your suffering." Eira notched an arrow and aimed at one of the men before letting it loose. She quickly shot the other man as well with a heavy heart. As they fell back into the murky waters it slowly started to turn red with their blood. She prayed that their deaths had been quick and painless before she doubled over and threw up.

"I'll never get used to killing I guess," she said and chuckled weakly once she was done. She wiped herself off on some moss before she started making her way back to the camp. Hopefully her companions were not all dead, his father would never forgive her if they were. Eira looked up towards the sky and made a quick prayer before she started to run once again. She made it back to the camp and saw that it had been cleared out. "I guess they made it out alive after all," she said to herself with a slight smile before they made their way back to where Ellinor should be. However, she was not there and Stein shouted her name.

"Feikinstafir" Eira scanned the area and found some footprints on the ground and started following them. She noticed that the 'knight' was on the move as well, possibly coming to the same conclusion that she had, Ellinor was in trouble. She readied her bow and notched an arrow, grasping it gently with one hand and the bow in the other as she quickly began to track.

It did not take long until she came upon an armoured person sitting next to a female body. Eira stopped dead in her tracks and quickly let loose an arrow that stuck to the ground next to the man's head. She quickly readied another arrow.

"Get away from her you rakki," she shouted at him, hoping that the others were following along her. While the man was armoured, she was confident that she could at least damage him enough with an arrow, and he was laying down, letting her at least let loose a few before he could make his way over, or try to kill Ellinor for that matter. Eira hoped that she would not have to kill another, she had killed enough for a lifetime it felt like.

Ellinor opened her eyes, squinting through the approaching fog. She saw a large figure in front of her and pushed herself up on sore elbows, unable to scoot away for the thorns.

She tried to speak but coughed miserably.

She heard many sets of footsteps. She knew now that her group must have been dead and the rest of the barbarians had made their way around looking for stragglers. She wondered if the lady with all the arrows had made it out. Alaina? Something like that. It took until now for her to notice that this man was a completely different one. This one was wearing armour and had a more clean face.

'State...your purpose,' she wheezed out.

The man looked like he was thinking before she heard an arrow thud into the tree next to him. 'What is it with everybody here trying to kill the cooks?' she thought as she squinted through the fog.

"Get away from her you rakki," she heard a voice call out.

'Ivanna?' she rasped, not nearly loud enough for her to hear, 'Get out of...here you...fool!'

This lady was crazy. They had all been slaughtered and she's aiming at an armoured dude. Arrow lady needs help but Ellinor was a bit busy at the moment and she wasn't exactly sure if she was talented enough to cure this lack of self-preservation.

“What’s your purpose?”

The girl was awake. Good. Keys was about to answer her when an arrow plunged into the ground next to his head. Either the shooter had a great aim, or a poor one.

”Get away from her , you rakki!” came a female voice, most likely the archer that planted the arrow next to his head. Keys put his hands up into the air, not bothering to stand. After his first fight in over four years Keys was exhausted. He was beginning to realize that at the end of his seven years with the Black Shields, he’d be in better shape than he was when he was a freshly knighted.

”I’m no threat,” Keys waved his arms about as he spoke, “I saved the woman. If you’re friends of hers then I’m your friend as well. And if not…” Keys started to rise, dragging his bulk from the mud. He looked over to his sword, now tilted a little in the mud where he’d stuck it. Too far away to get to. He peered over to the archer. She looked strong, but Northerners always were. Obviously the one who had dropped the guards, her aim was no longer in question, she’d meant to miss his head. If Keys charged, she’d have to the time for one, maybe two arrows before he reached her. Not excited with his chances against the quick woman, he fixed her with a stern look.

”I’ll have to kill you.” To emphasize this, he pointed to be broken body of the bandit, quietly groaning in the mud. Keys fists tightened and he imperceptibly began to lift his feet from the mud, freeing him for a quick charge if it came down to it. He looked down to Ellinor, who was saying something about Ivanna. Hopefully this Ivanna was the archer woman, because Keys didn't like his odds if she wasn't.

Well. Jahan thought, watching the carnage unfold before him. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I suppose it worked out. He had been sincere with his words - genuinely hoping that the brigands would see sense and join up with the Black Shields. Instead, he had apparently torn apart their - obviously fragile - status quo and caused a full scale brawl to erupt.

He had taken a few steps back when the fight had begun. He was more than capable of defending himself of course, but there was always the risk of getting injured in a brawl like that. The way the brigands fought showed a clear lack of training; their attacks were born of instinct rather than any rational thinking, and it would be far too easy for one of their flailing weapons to catch him if he stood too close. So he stepped back and observed, instead.

It was strange, really; thinking that something he had said had caused something so drastic to happen. But that was a train of thought for another time. There were more pressing issues at the moment.

He watched as the nobleman charged the brigand with the cleaver. He thought that the young lord could probably hold his own, but he still wanted to try and assist. After all, it wouldn't look very good if he didn't even attempt to help. He edged closer, watching as the two skirmished, until he saw the nobleman slash the brigand's hand.

Now. He thought to himself.

Rushing forward, he took full advantage of the brigands' momentary lapse of awareness and dived at his legs, tackling him to the ground. The brigand fell to the floor, his head connecting with the ground whilst making a sickening crack. Jahan was worried that he had done some serious damage to the man at first, but his fears fell away as the man began to groan softly.

“Go ahead and take all of it,”

Jahan looked at the nobleman, a look of thinly veiled contempt on his face.
"I'm good, thanks. I feel no desire to lower myself to the same level of these men, desperately rummaging through fresh corpses in search of minor loot." He said, turning away and beginning the preparations for the march back. He may have been a bit harsh to the man, but he wanted to stand out and make an impression. He couldn't act as a common soldier, even if he was one. He knew that the best way to earn a promotion was to act like it was already his.

Haesteinn was quite surprised to notice that neither of the two men had even attempted to take their share of the loot, nor Eira. He shook his head, annoyed slightly with them. If he'd been in better shape he'd have looted them himself. “Suit yourself, but if you think you'll grow rich off of king's pay, then forget about it.” he added before they left. As soon as they had all banded up they were leaving again - leading to the situation in the forest still. As Haesteinn called out for Ellinor, Eira had already begun trying to track down the culprit, and Genseric wasn't sitting still either. As soon as Eira had found the footprints however, it would become obvious that they had barely left the area.

Eira was slightly ahead, so Haesteinn couldn't quite see what was going on. Her yelling, however, made it clear she had found both Ellinor and someone else. With a pain in his arm from the cut he'd received he pulled out his bastard sword from the sheath, quickly stepping through the shrubbery and stepping past Eira. His blade instantly went upwards, and pointed at the mans throat. He formed a barrier between Eira and the man, in case he tried anything funny. “You'll not lay a finger on her, or anyone else, for that matter.” he said, looking Keys dead in the eye. As soon as Jahan and Genseric would arrive on scene as well, it was going to be obvious to Keys that he had not a snowballs chance in hell to try anything at all. He was facing two northerners, one of which with a bow whom had already shown her skill, and the other a trained swordsman with tribal markings and the markings of a Servant. Then there was Genseric, a noble 'knight' whom had not had the chance to show any real prowess, but looked mighty intimidating in his armor, and Jahan - a man who by any mans' standards looked quite strange, but at the same time, was armed, which was a deterrent in any situation.

“By King's decree, I am a sergeant of the Black Shields, so stay your hands, peasant.” he added bitingly. He inched slightly to the left, and used his left hand to quickly grab the sword that was sticking into the mud. He tossed it slightly to the back, near Eira's feet. “You're heavily armored for a brigand like those we just met. State your business!” He eyed Keys carefully, taking in the mans features.

It was only then that he actually noticed the near-lifeless body near the man. And then Haesteinn thought back to those words the man had spoken to Eira, and finally made sense of the mash of words he hadn't been able to decipher in the heat of the moment. His blade lowered slightly, no longer pointing directly at the man. And Ellinor looked to be fine. She was speaking nonsense, but she seemed fine. Perhaps he did save her.

“I.. I see. Eira, lower your bow. It seems that this man might be speaking the truth. Keep his sword, however. For now.” he'd say, lowering his blade even more and then sheathing it. It seemed that this man was sincere, even if his choice of words against potential friends were harsh. “Tell me your name. You're welcome to camp with the Black Shields for tonight.” He looked at Ellinor with a sense of pity. “You've earned as much.”

---

As soon as the two unconscious bandits were gathered again and everyone had taken some time to do whatever they must, the party headed back to the camp. It was a longer trek this time. The moon was showing already, indicating just how long they'd been out and about. Haesteinn would walk up front, leading the way. Two times he felt like he was lost. Two times he turned out to be wrong, and he was simply driving himself crazy.

After approximately forty more minutes, the party arrived at the camp. Haesteinn would order the rest back to their corner, where their tents had been set up. Upon entering the camp he would speak to Keys for a moment. “Hey,” he'd say to open the conversation while letting the others pass. “You should accompany me to Terryn. He's the commander, and he'll want to speak to you.” He'd then lead the way to the center of the camp, following the wooden planks that'd been laid out as a path of sorts. In the center of the camp was a great tent. It was lit inside, a certain luxury generally reserved for the noble and the commanding.

It seemed to be the latter. Haesteinn opened the flaps of the tent, and walked inside, holding open the flaps for Keys to pass through as well. Behind a desk was Terryn, looking at some map of sorts. As Haesteinn entered he'd raise his eyes from his works and look at the two men. “Haestein. My favorite sergeant.” There was a large amount of sarcasm in the words Terryn spoke. “What can I do for you and.. whomever this may be.”

Haesteinn bowed lightly, before approaching closer. “Me and my men found a brigand encampment not too far from here. We cleared it out and managed to take two captives. Might be able to get some information, or perhaps sell them at the next town we come to. This man here helped us. He saved the cooks life.” Terryn looked at Keys for a moment, seemingly not as impressed as anyone else would've been. “Right. Well, do with the captives as you please. You took them. Don't make them my problem. As for this man, I'll have a talk with him.”

Haesteinn nodded and attempted to leave the tent again, but was interrupted by Terryn. “And Haesteinn, get that arm fixed up. You're bleeding all over the place..” Haesteinn held his tongue, and continued on his way out of the tent. As he passed Keys he would tell him to meet the rest at the back right corner of the camp. Keys would then be left with Terryn as Haesteinn made his exit.

---

Haesteinn left the tent and immediately took a right, heading for their own little corner. He had no intention of fixing the wound, as the surgeons were always all over the place, and never in their own tents. It would be a lot of work to track one down for a simple small cut. But as he crossed a corner, he stumbled upon what seemed to be a woman with a sword, stitching up a man. He approached her right as she finished up, and looked upon her. “I've a cut.” he said norsely. “Do you have time to come with me and stitch me up?” he then asked, slightly more friendly. As he did so, he showed her his upper arm, which had a cut about 8 centimetres wide. It wasn't too deep, luckily, but it'd be better for Haesteinn if he did get it stitched.

If the woman agreed, he would walk back to the corner of the camp where Eira, Jahan, Genseric and Ellinor would most likely be. He'd sit down in front of his own tent, which was only slightly larger than that of the others. Those that had one, anyway. It seemed like Eira did not even have a tent. As he sat down he would take off the top layer of his armor, the heavy boiled leather he wore over the breastplate, before removing the breastplate. Third was the chainmail - the process of taking off the armor always reminded Haesteinn how annoying armor actually was.

After the chainmail all that remained was the gambeson, which he took off as well. Under it was only a light, red tunic. It reached to his elbows, so all he had to do was pull up the sleeve and let the surgeon do her work. On his upper arms and neck, as well as a small part of his chest, were some signs of tribal markings. No effort was made to hide them however.

“Eira,” A few moments had passed in silence, as nobody seemed to be particularly talkative. Haesteinns voice had broken that silence. “Make a fire.” It was an order, more or less. The northern man lived up to every stereotype that the southerners had about the northerners. At least personality wise. Then Haesteinns gaze would go over the faces of Genseric and Jahan. “Fine work today. Where are you guys from?” Using his free arm, he leaned back and grabbed something from his tent. Rummaging through a few items he pulled out some salted meat, before proceeding to stick it in his mouth and start chewing. “Then I know where to deliver a letter if you die.” Not necessarily meant to insult or belittle the others, the words certainly came out that way. However, death was common in warbands. A sergeant would most likely need to send a few letters in his service, and it was easiest if you knew where to deliver them.

Furthermore, it was a chance to learn more about his fellow soldiers. If they were going to survive, it was probably best to get to know them a little.

Meanwhile, in Terryns tent, the man would look up at Keys and give him a thorough look. “Your body looks like that of a nobleman. A little frail, if I may say so.” he spoke, harsh words with a harsher tone. “Your armor confirms that. Who are you, where are you from, and why are you here?”

Fall looked up as the soldier with the battered face left. The person looking on appeared to be someone that could have made such a request into an order. At the very least she was glad that he wasn't one of the veterans from her old company. She used her sword to lift herself to her feet, sinking the tip of the scabbard into the mud. "Sure, but don't expect much."

With her weapon balanced on one shoulder and a shoulder bag over the other Fall followed the northerner to his tent. It would serve her well to put some more effort into her work this time, being on the good side of the people that give the orders is never a bad thing. She dug in her pouch for a fresh needle and gut. The way things were going she would have to find more before long.

As the armor came off she took a long look at the tribal markings. It would be nice if she could avoid damaging them though this would be easier if he were to stop moving around. Her stitches were more confident this time as a novice might be more confident working on an arm than a face. Her mind wandered as she worked. What had these people been doing that had gotten one of them injured so quickly. They'd not been here long and any enemy sightings would have roused the whole camp.

The would was closed with only a handful of careful stitches placed carefully so that none lay directly on top of any of the markings. She dug in her shoulder bag and pulled out some linen bandages. She wiped the blood off and started to wrap his arm. She spoke softly "I'm not going to tell you not to use the arm but If you pull these out I might be upset."

The grim news of the defeat of two entire regiments of knights at the hands of those Cherwinian traitors spread quickly. It was unheard of, such a massacre. And a call to arms for a newly formed regiment, The Black Shield. His people, and The Great Monarch, needed his service now more than ever. Besides, Elis was growing weary of sitting on his hands around the monastery anyway. It seemed that priest truly willing to take up arms to defend their Monarch from abators were a rare breed. A time when perhaps a priest was most needed, men who were often looking death in the face and rallying full speed towards it. He informed his family of his decision. Like any mother, Valetta was expectedly full of worry. His father was just as proud as when he signed up for the Servants. He knew Elis would prove valuable to the cause, just as he had been before. Elis’ departure was tearfilled and heartfelt if short. His trusty steed would carry him to Rot Donar.

His horse, Epiphany, was a solid and strong horse. She had seen him through more than one tight spot while enlisted with the Servants. She was truly a horse bred for war. Sturdy, rugged and with enough endurance for a full day’s march with a skirmish at its finish, even in war armor. She had a steel resolve, and would sooner stomp and oncoming assailant into the ground than turn and run. She had a pure black coat, with a single white diamond marking over her left eye.

He carried a small pack with him filled with only a few essential items, field rations and water along with his staff, Servant’s Bow with a quiver of 40 arrows and the supplies to keep his bow maintained. His leather and chainmail was kept inside a Epiphany’s saddle pack, should the need for it arise. The journey to Rot Donar would be a three days journey if he didn’t encounter any surprises and the terrain was amicable.

In his trip, he encountered both surprises and inclement terrain. The lands had become quite muddy for almost the entire trip. It made travelling slow going, having to even dismount at times and walk with his horse through more difficult areas to more safely navigate. Not only that, highwaymen were out in full force. It seems the news of the Knight’s defeat spurred a few of the lands inhabitants to take up the trade in their absence. Most were woefully disorganized and wanted little to do with him, either once they saw the markings on his forehead or when a few of their brothers were quickly dispatched with precise arrow fire.

The unexpected distractions meant he was behind his estimated schedule by perhaps a day or more. As he grew closer to the camp, he spotted what had once been a bandit encampment. Little of it could be called a camp any longer. Looks like the raiders had been raided. He could see the corpses of the bandits littering the area. He had a few guesses at what happened. Looks like the Black Shield was already making its presence known to the local rabble. He encouraged Epiphany to step up her pace, promising to give her rest once they reached Rot Donar. He knew he could use it as well. Sleep did not come easy to him on the march, especially when he traveled alone.

When he finally approached, he was greeted by a lone ensign guarding the edge of camp. Elis dismounted beside the younger man, pulling the cloak from his head and greeting him with a smile. “Young Ensign, I’m here to enlist and offer my service to The Black Shield.” At first, the Ensign didn’t even look at him, just thumbing through some kind of roster, “Alright, we’ll need some information…” His stopped mid-sentence as he glanced at Elis’ markings. His demeanor seemed to visibly brighten. “Oh, a veteran from the Servants. We’ve been in need of more experienced soldiers. It’s good you decided to join the cause. I believe Commander Terryn will wish to speak with you immediately. Please, if you would follow me. And may I have your name so as I may properly address you?” Elis gave a singular nod and motioned for the Ensign to lead the way, “It’s Priest Ferguson Eris Rutledge.” As he followed he thought on the commander. He knew of Terryn, a veteran of the Servants himself. From what Elis had heard from rumor, Terryn was one of the few survivors from the recent massacre. A tried and tested warrior for sure. He believed the Commander to be a fine officer from everything he had heard and would readily serve in his ranks in whatever capacity the Command saw fit.

As he followed the young man, he surveyed the camp. He confirmed that, yes, they had raided the camp he passed earlier. He could make out two prisoners in the distance he could only assume were from the other camp. And it seemed there were some around tending to injuries and fatigue from a recent skirmish. Before the two reached the Commander’s tent, they made one detour at the stables, where he left Epiphany to her well deserve rest. They were soon at the main tent and stood outside, waiting for entry. The Ensign announced himself to Commander Terryn inside the tent, “Commander Terryn, you wished to be notified if any other veteran soldiers came to enlist. I bring a veteran of the Servants, Priest Ferguson Elis Rutledge, sir.”

---

As Fall finished up the stitches, Haesteinn swung his arm round a few times to test the stitches. They were fine. Not good, or bad, but just fine. “Fucking brigands.. thanks.. uh...” He mumbled as he looked upon the woman, clearly not knowing her name. It was a way to ask her name, in a more informal sense anyhow. As soon as she'd introduced herself he'd extend his arm towards the fire. “Feel free to stay.” he said as he got up and looked around the camp from the entrance to their little tent circle. It'd been barely a few days and there was already a community forming. In the distance he made out a figure being accompanied by a younger ensign. For a brief moment they exchanged gazes, before the man disappeared from view. When Haesteinn was about to turn back, a messenger suddenly appeared. He handed Haesteinn a letter, to which Haesteinn pushed the letter back into his hands. “Not everyone can read.” he sneered at the man.

The messenger apologized quickly and guided Haesteinn away from listening ears, to a quieter corner. There he explained the contents of the letter. When Haesteinn came back, an expression of pride and fear laid upon his face. “Brothers, I have news.” he said as he approached the group and stood near the fire. “Scouts report that they've found the Cherwinian army. Approximately 150 soldiers in camp. Not more than two hours from here, much closer to the Cherwinian border than expected.” He looked around the group to see the faces of all those that were near the fire.

“Besides that.. I've been selected as one of the sergeants to lead the vanguard.” For those familiar with the way the army worked, it was clear what that meant. However many were inexperienced and wouldn't understand what that meant. Haesteinn decided to simplify, to make it understandable for them, too. “That means you've been selected for the vanguard. We'll be the first one into the fray. Congratulations.”

To a degree, it was an honor to be in the vanguard. To a degree, it was also the most dangerous place to be. It would be up to them to decide what to think of it. “I suggest you all get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow we march again.” For a brief moment he would exchange looks with those in the little corner of the camp before kneeling down and laying into his own tent. He sure knew what he was going to do.

Meanwhile, Keys would be assigned to Haesteinn's command once it became clear why he was with the Black Shields. The same would go for the new monk, Elis. Although, he did seem to have a more friendly treatment than Keys' did, who was treated more like a local peasant than a nobleman. Meanwhile, Elis had favorable treatment akin to a noble knight, simply due to his service in the Servants. The question was whether or not Haesteinn would maintain the same attitude towards them.

---

---

The next day the whole camp awoke early, at the crack of dawn. The ale of last night had given many men a booze-bed, and many had trouble waking up. The sergeants saw fit to answer that with a kick in the side. Then, the thought of battle quickly took over. For a battle where they'd be outnumbered, it seemed like the enthusiasm was high. Many men and women wanted to take revenge for the destruction of two regiments, and those foreigners that were with the Black Shields looked forwards to the prospect of loot.

For Haesteinn it was no different. He had woken early and dressed up, not putting on his armor yet. He wore just his tunic, and his gambeson over it. The rest of his armor he strapped to his horse. Once he was done he returned to the place where his tent had been and looked at his fellow soldiers. Perhaps some would die today. Time would tell. For a brief moment he looked at the new guys - Keys, who he'd been informed today was under his command. The specifics remained unclear, but something seemed suspicious about this man. There was also the monk, whom was unknown to Haesteinn despite their service in the Servants. Perhaps the years had separated them, or perhaps their location of servitude. Not that it mattered.

They were all brothers now.

“Wake up ya' bastards.” Haesteinns voice rung through the corner of the camp, waking all those who hadn't awoken yet. Those who needed more help, he'd give a firm kick in the side. Not nearly hard enough to hurt them, not too much anyway, but certainly enough to wake them. “Let's march.” Within the hour all of the camp had been gathered up. Where had been a giant army camp before, there was now nothing more than trampled mud, and footsteps left behind by those marching towards certain death.

Something seemed poetic about it.

Haesteinn rode his horse, staying close to the rest of his troop, his small group of 'friends' that he'd gathered. While doing that, he attempted to make conversation with a few people. “How has the North been?” he asked Eira, aware of the answer already. 'War' most likely. “Where did you learn to stitch wounds?” he asked Fall, unaware of the implications of the questions. “Why join the Black Shields?” he asked both Genseric and Jahan. They were both a bad fit for the company - in every way and shape of what that meant. Genseric was a nobleman, but definitely not a warrior judging from his body. Jahan seemed more like a silver tongued traveler who'd lift your purse while buying you an ale.

By the end of the morning, with the sun right in the center of the sky, the men approached a open field. The swamps had ended - indicating they were close to the Cherwinian border now. Instead the ground was firm, usable by cavalry. Perhaps that was the reason the Cherwinians hadn't ventured too far. Their cavalry was after all among the heaviest in the known realms. The mere sight of them was enough to make men tremble, but their infantry wasn't much to be afraid of.

As the troop of nearly a hundred men approached the field, they saw smoke ahead. The scouts made it obvious to Terryn and the other sub commanders, as well as the noble lord that lead the army, that these were indeed the Cherwinians. And therefore, this was their objective. The King had ordered it!

The Cherwinians were hidden from sight by the luscious forests that laid ahead, and perhaps that was for the best. For now the Broacienian army was hidden from sight, and the Cherwinians didn't seem to be aware of their presence, yet. While the men laid low in the treeline, Haesteinn gathered his men.

Jahan, Genseric, Fall, Elis, Keys, Eira. They were all selected, alongside another batch of men - most of them no-names with a face anyone would forget. They were all militiamen, peasants with a cheap spear or short sword and a shield. Most of them would die. Ellinor, too, was selected for a much more specific task. “You need to stay behind the lines, never pull a weapon, and attempt to help whoever gets wounded. If you get surrounded - surrender. It's not worth losing your life over.” she was told by Haesteinn, who attempted to reaffirm to her that she would probably not be harmed.

As soon as they were all gathered, they would be ordered to gather their equipment quickly and get ready to move out. The rest of the army received the same orders, but they'd mostly be focusing on their flanking, and trying to remain hidden from sight. The cavalry was included with them, but it appeared Terryn would not ride or fight today.

It was only now that Haesteinn put on his armor, going through the lengthy progress of putting on the heavy leather armor and the chain mail. “Give me a hand.” he ordered Elis, since he was a Servant, and knew most likely how to work his way with armor better than any of the others. He even donned his helmet for this special occasion, which had a tail of horse hair on top to indicate that he was someone to follow into battle. Once everyone was ready, his force moved out. Approximately 60 to 70 men marched across the field towards the next treeline, from where they'd begin their assault.

---

Crouching in the treeline, spying upon the Cherwinians, Haesteinn sat and looked at the camp. There were tents set up that looked like they were of noblemen, and some men were out and about. It was a busy camp - 150 men surely was bound to give them trouble. But now they had the edge they needed. Once Haesteinn was satisfied with the opportunity, he stood up straight and looked back, heaving his sword high and sending it down, pointing at the enemy. His norse voice bouldered across the treeline.

“CHARGE! FOR KING GREGAR! FOR THE ROYAL FAMILY! FOR THE MONARCH! ATTACK!” The charge began, and militiamen and veterans started swarming from the treeline, bridging the small 50 meters that the camp was away from the treeline. Haesteinn and his companions would be in the thick of it, running into the camp. Some defenders already started scrambling to their weapons, and among them were knights, heavy armored noblemen who seemed all too keen to prove their mettle against Broacienian peasants. “On guard!” one of them yelled while several men mustered around him to defend the camp.

The return to camp had been uneventful, and Jahan had been ready to turn in early before Haesteinn broke the news to them.
“That means you've been selected for the vanguard. We'll be the first one into the fray. Congratulations.”
Jahan knew what a vanguard was; at least, he knew that it meant they'd be the first on the field. He felt oddly conflicted about the news however. Some primal part of him was excited, eager to get his blade wet at the earliest opportunity, whilst another more rational part of him felt only fear. It was obviously dangerous - when you're the first person to join a battle chances are you're also going to be the first person to die - but he knew that it was his duty. He had signed up for this, and he would follow orders until the last.

He turned in early that night, wanting to get as much rest as possible before the battle. He managed a few fitful hours of sleep, but any real rest was kept from him by a growing sense of anxiety and anticipation. It wasn't even that was worried about his ability to cope with such a fight. During his days as a mercenary he had become extremely proficient with his blade, and was nigh unstoppable when faced with one, or even two opponents. It was during those fights that he had earned the nickname 'Snakebite', as he would gracefully dodge and weave around the attacks of his enemies, before capitalizing on their smallest mistake with a lighting-quick attack. It was certainly an unconventional style, but it had always served him well and it meshed well with his particular acrobatic skillset.

---

Eventually the dawn of the battle came. He felt peaceful at the moment, as the marched towards the field - although he suspected that it was the calm before the storm, and that the coming fight would draw some emotional response from him. It always did. No matter how much combat you saw, nor how much death you caused, Jahan felt as though you could never get used to it. He had killed men, of course he had. But it was hardly something you could get used to. Not as long as you were a sane, non-psychotic human being at least.

“Why join the Black Shields?”

A gruff voice dragged him out of his musings. He looked to his left to see Haesteinn riding next to him, a look of feigned interest plastered across his face. He looked up, locking eyes with his sergeant and replied in a soft voice.
"In all honesty? A sense of purpose."
He dropped his gaze to the ground, a small chuckle erupting from his lips.
"I've lived my whole life without any sense of accountability. As odd as it may sound, it gets old after a while. You find yourself wanting something more stable, yet you know that you couldn't function as just a regular person, living in a village and doing the same boring job every day. I guess being a soldier just seemed like the right fit for me. It's essentially what I was doing anyway, except now I can believe that there is some greater reason for doing it."

With those words, he fell silent again, mentally preparing himself for what lay ahead.

---

It all came quicker than he expected. One minute they were crouched, hidden by the treeline - and the next minute all was chaos. A mighty cry of “CHARGE! FOR KING GREGAR! FOR THE ROYAL FAMILY! FOR THE MONARCH! ATTACK!” sounded the charge, and Jahan joined the mass of bodies running towards the enemy army. It was strange, going to battle with a host of men rather than on his own. It seemed oddly inspirational, and as he ran forward he caught himself shouting "FOR THE KING!

Then there was no more time for thinking. They were in the camp, and the defenders were beginning to fight back. His first kill was one born of instinct; an unarmed defender no older than Jahan threw himself at him, in some bizarre attempt to tackle him to the ground. His blade came up almost subconsciously, and he felt the resistance of the man's flesh as he drove his sword into his chest. Hot blood ran down his sword and onto his hands as the man went limp, and Jahan felt himself being pulled downwards by the weight of the man on his sword. He managed to dislodge his blade from his enemy, but in doing so lost his balance and went tumbling to the ground. Not that this was a problem to someone with his training of course. He tucked himself into a ball, rolling with the fall as he hit the ground and utilizing the momentum to propel himself back to his feet. He took a moment to wipe his hands clean of blood on his tunic before casting his gaze around.

It was like nothing he had ever seen before. he couldn't see anything except bodies and blood, his ears ringing with the screams of pain and battle-cries from those people around him. As he looked around, he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, followed by a warm sensation running down his left arm. He screamed in agony his he felt something slice through the flesh of his unguarded shoulder, screaming once more as he felt his bone shatter. Through some miracle, he found the strength to spin, using his uninjured arm to flourish his blade at his assailant. Unfortunately, he had no experience fighting in conditions like this and was once again surprised when his arm collided with an armored shoulder, his elbow connecting painfully with the metal pauldron.

This was all new to him, and he felt himself getting more and more panicked. His left arm was completely numb and hanging limply by his side, and his hand was slick with his own blood. He managed to catch a glimpse of the man who had stabbed him - a brute of a man wielding what looked like a simple woodcutting axe. A simple woodcutting axe that had just been brought down on his shoulder with the strength of this behemoth behind it. Although he was starting to become dizzy and unfocused due to the blood loss from his wound, he was still quick, and still in control of most of his body. He darted past the giant, heading towards the treeline that they had attacked from.

What took him a matter of seconds felt like hours. His left arm felt like it was about to simply disconnect from his body, and his vision was going black as he collapsed in front of a group of people who he hoped were his own army's medical team. Not that he cared at this point, he was just hoping that the pain would end. An end of some sort came quickly enough, as he slipped out of consciousness.

---

"The bone's shattered and the muscles been torn straight through, we're going to have to remove the arm!"

"Heat up that axe head man, if we don't cauterize the wound he's going to bleed out!

Agonizing pain. His side was on fire, he was sure he was going to die. Then blackness once more.

"The wound's been burnt, sir. Hopefully he should survive but it'll be a miracle if he can still function with only one arm. If I were him, I'd pray to the Monarch that I'd die of infection."

Elis’ enlistment was quick and unceremonious. The commander was a smart and imposing man, and Elis had found himself under scrutiny when they met. He had been pressed about his faith and his reasons for joining the Black Sheild. He hoped his explanations had been satisfactory to the Commander, but it was difficult to read on a man who was as experienced as Terryn. He found himself assigned to the command of Sergeant Haesteinn, who had himself served with the Servants. The name was familiar, but they hadn’t served within the same company. Perhaps they had even fought in the same battles on separate flanks, but their paths had never crossed. It didn’t matter, any former Servant would be both a trustworthy and capable commanding officer. He made his way to Hasesteinn’s command tent in time to heard word that they had been placed as the vanguard. He would be more than pleased to help lead this army against those Cherwinian cowards. Once Haesteinn finished addressing his men, Elis approached him to introduce himself. “Sergeant Haesteinn, I’m Elis Rutledge. Commander Terryn assigned me to your command. I look forward to doing The Monarch’s work with you tomorrow. If they’re anything you require of me, I’m at your command.” There was little more than to rest for the night and make preparations for the morning. Before turning in himself, he stopped at the stables to relieve Epiphany of his armor and make sure his horse would be prepared for him in the morning. He would be riding alongside the vanguard’s cavalry.

Elis was one of the first to wake. By the time the sun had begun coming up, he was sitting by the fire warming himself and inspecting his gear for the coming battle. He had his armor laid beside him and he was retensioning his bow. He inspected each of his arrows before returning them to their quiver. He polished the cross of his staff before saying a prayer for strength and protection to the Monarch. Once dawn approached, the whole camp came alive. He pulled his simple leather armor over his linen shirt and tightened its straps before shimmying into his chainmail. Once his armor was donned, he made his way to the mess tent for a light breakfast. His meal was quick, but enjoyable. It seemed they at least had a few cook who knew what they were doing. He made sure to thank the cook for her delicious meal before he left.

The remaining time before they set off was spent walking amongst the troops, inspecting their gear and assisting them in armoring themselves. While it hadn’t been his job to inspect the troops, a prepared and well readied army could mean the difference between a decisive victory and bloody defeat. He aided archers in ensuring their bows were properly tensioned. Satisfied with the soldier's preparations, he collected his horse. She had been fitted with her own set of light war armor, prepared for frontline combat. It was a simple arrangement, thick leather with thin metal plating riveted over bearing the colors of the Black Sheild. Her reigns were reinforced with chainmail to prevent them being severed in the heat of combat. He placed his staff. bow and quivers in their holsters on her saddle and led her back to the vanguard. Of the 60 or 70 soldiers in their company, there would be 12 on horse who would assist in sowing seeds of chaos among the enemy to ensure that the vanguard didn’t find themselves overwhelmed.

As the men collected their gear, he heard Haesteinn’s order and immediately assisted. He was adept at helping others fit armor. It gave him the opportunity to ensure each soldier would be prepared for the trials they would surely face in the combats to come. As he assisted the sergeant, he inspected each piece of armor before fitting it. It was all well-crafted, well maintained. The chainmail was finely made, sure to stop most arrows and short thrusts. This was a man who knew how to prepare for a battle. “There you are Sergeant, sir.”

During the march, Elis moved from one horseman to the next ensuring they all knew what would be expected of them. It seemed, out of these men on horse, he by far held the most combat experience. He made sure they understood how to use the horse to strike and retreat before the enemy had chance to respond. It was a quick training briefing, and he hoped they would take the lesson to heart. It would probably decide whether they lived or died on the field. It was clear some of these men had not seen real combat before, some of their horses weren’t even fit enough to wear their own armors. He made sure these men knew their role would be seeking out single units and archers, and not engaging men in groups. Elis finally reminded the men that no mercy should be levied unless they have surrendered, as per the Commander’s orders.

They were soon behind the tree line at the Cherwinian’s camp. Elis could feel the electric tension in the air among the men. All were ready to jump into the fray at Sergeant Haesteinn’s command. And as the sergeant roared a battle cry, the soldiers rallied with his casting their own voices into the air. Elis drew his bow, arrow notched and led the horsemen out into the field, “For the King!” He quickly let loose an arrow, finding its target. The enemy who had called out against them and began rallying men to his side dropped like a stone as the arrow pierced his neck. All but a few of the soldiers quickly scattered from him as they searching frantically for the source of the arrow. Elis thundered past them as he let loose another arrow. This one didn’t find its mark, but his third did, striking a soldier attempting to mount his horse, dropping him to the ground leg still tangled in its stirrup.

The handful of men on horse for the most part followed the instruction he had given them, wheeling into the confused Cherwinians long enough to deal a few blow and then racing off again. One had managed to get his horse caught by a couple spearmen and was unceremoniously thrown from his horse and skewered. “Don’t let their knights mount!” Elis shouted out to the horsemen. They circled around and charged past a group of infantry and battered a group of knights who had finally donned their heavy armor and were attempting to get on their horses and into battle. Elis tucked his bow into his saddle and lifted up his staff to engage these heavily armored opponents. He held it parallel with the ground across his body as he passed the first knight, allowing the momentum of his horse to cause the damage as he charged past and let the heavy iron of his cross plant firmly into the side of the knight’s helmeted head. The man tumbled from his horse in a heap on the ground, unmoving. The horsemen following Elis attacked other knights, to varying degrees of success. Most of the knights abandoned their attempts at mounting as the horsemen circled back for another pass and to return to safety of their main force. Again Elis readied his staff as he passed another mounting Knight, striking him square in the back. He slumped against his horse for a moment before collapsing to the ground in pain.

The group of horsemen galloped back past their allies and rested for a moment. Elis pointed toward a group of archers that had finally organized and was sending volleys of arrows at the vanguard, “Next target. Just like the knights. Make one pass through them and back and return.” They thundered off. As he followed them, his attention was drawn to the fighting happening amongst the infantry. He could see Jahan, one of the few men on the field he recognized after their meeting with the commander, being surprised from behind. Elis wheeled his horse around and sped into the engagement. He saw Jahan dart away from his assailant and begin a retreat, but the brute of a man attacking him began giving chase, along with several others in his company. Elis could see from here that Jahan had been wounded in the engagement. It wouldn’t matter if he escaped if the man simply ran him down. Elis spurred his horse faster and caught Jahan’s pursuers off guard. He galloped past and hit the enemy with his iron topped staff, sending him hurtling off his feet and onto his back as the iron cross slammed into his chest. Elis continued on until he had returned to near the treeline, where Jahan had reached. He waived down the medical staff, “Get this man a field medic, before he bleeds out!” Unable to rest just yet, Elis turned around while trading his staff for his bow once more and began loosing arrows at the other two who had given chase but were now just standing over their comrade, attempting to get him back to his feet. They were both heavily armored, so the arrows did little more than convince them not to rush the treeline any further.

Fall arranged the items back in her belt pouch.

"Fall, Fall Talon."

She sat down near the fire with her sheathed blade across her knees. She hadn't a chance to set up a tent yet and so leaned back against her travel bag. Her eyes followed the sergeant as he followed the messenger away from their circle. The last time she'd been in this situation, as a newcomer to a company of soldiers, she'd been a nervous girl who barely knew her way around a sword and was way in over her head. This time Fall was comfortable. She knew no more now about what was to come over the next few days or weeks but now she was used to that and was content.

One look at the returning sergeants face told her that maybe her younger self had been right to fear an uncertain future. The following message, while coming much sooner than expected was unsurprising. Their direction of march only meant that the Empire would be quick in looking to avenge the treachery of the Cherwinians and that its newest force would very soon learn just what it was to be thrown into combat.

The news went from bad to worse. The vanguard was no place for green recruits and she had no idea right now if she could actually trust any of them. There wasn't exactly anything she could do about it at this point. Fall unbuckled her cuirass and laid it off to the side. She sighed and laid back against her bag. Sleeping under the sky never bothered her and it was a clear sky besides.

---

In the morning she woke with the first light, never having been one for drinking. Fall laid back and gazed at the sky until the shouting started. She stood up and stretched, going through the motions in an unhurried manner. With no tent to pack she was able to take her time before the march. She chewed on a hard biscuit and drank from her waterskin while she buckled on her armour and picked up the rest of her possessions.

The march was easy at the front of the line with the road still undisturbed by the hundreds of feet behind them. She listed to the chatter around her until the sergeant approached her with his question, Where did you learn to stitch wounds?. She had the answer ready, long since decided upon after she'd rejoined the army.

"I was a caravan guard and you learn a bit of everything on the road. Who you're with and what skills they have vary so much from job to job that you really have to depend on yourself. I can cook, hunt and fix a busted wagon axle if I have to although lifting the actual wagon is a bit beyond me."

She chuckled to punctuate the last part.

---

If she'd had her way maybe they would have moved during the night and hit the enemy in the dark. Perhaps she was a bit bloodthirsty and it was certain that those in command would have a better grasp of the situation but it would have been nice to have given the enemy a taste of their own medicine.

Here they were in the middle of the morning with the sun beating down on them. She crouched with the rest of the vanguard in the treeline, spying on the enemy camp. It was nice to have the sergeant, whom she still not not have a name for, fighting on foot with them. Fall stood just after he did, drawing her blade. As the charge was sounded she shouted her own wordless challenge across the field, adding to the thunder of other shouts, pounding feet and clattering armour. It was going to be a long and bloody day.

coming into the camp now she spotted the knights that were the core of the enemy defense. Some of their soldiers seemed to be as fresh as the ones that she fought alongside. A militiaman beside her went down to a sword from one of the unarmoured Cherwinians. She stuck her sword through his lower back and levered it out through his side to spill blood across the dirt.

Fall turned in time to catch a glancing blow from a spear that scraped across the armour over her stomach and plunged past beneath her raised right arm. She stepped close to shorten the distance and whipped an elbow across his face before finishing the job with an overhand swing.

Another swing of her sword lopped off the head of his spear and just over a foot of its haft which she tucked in her belt. Fall stood for a second to take a look for a knight to kill.

Eira had backed down as asked. She still didn't trust the man. No matter, if he was a spy she would find out sooner or later. There was just something about him that did not sit right with her. Call it instinct or foolish, but she would keep a keen eye on the man from now on.

The return to the camp a dull affair. Silence reigned with only the sounds of their boots. In the corner of her eye though she spotted what she had actually came out here for. She made her way off the track, leaving the others as she slowly stalked into the woods. She slowly followed the deer as it was grazing in the distance, making sure the wind was in her favour before she stalked to the side of it and notched an arrow. She aimed for where the heart would be and said a quick prayer before letting the arrow fly.

As soon as the arrow left the bow she was already working on a second arrow which was let loose not too long after the first impacted and the deer had started to stagger away. Her second arrow hit near her first arrow, making the beast fall over. It was still not dead though she noticed as she came close to it. She bent down and gently stroked the deer before sinking her dagger into it, finishing it off.

She slowly withdrew the arrows and made a quick carrier from some branches and a few strands of string that she had with her. It was too dangerous to skin the animal out here her gut was telling her and she started to drag the animal back to the camp. If anyone gave her any looks, she did not care and made her way over to where their encampment was. She started skinning the animal when Stein 'asked' her to make a fire.

Grumpily she obliged and gathered some branches and a few logs before making her way back and dumped it into the fire pit. She would not set it on fire yet though as she went back to skinning the animal, cutting off some animal fat while she was at it. With the gathered fat she slowly started to grease the firewood and then started working on getting the flames going. It took a while but eventually they had a fire and she went back to skinning as she was listening in on the conversations around her. Once the deer was skinned, she started cooking it over the fire as Stein returned with some news apparently.

As she heard that they had been picked for vanguard, she just sighed. "They're all going to die, aren't they?" she thought to herself as she was slowly roasting the deer. "Idiots all of them," she looked around to take in the faces. Half would probably be gone by tomorrow she figured. Once the meat was done she would share it with the others, salting whatever was left. Would give her some provisions in case that they lost the battle and she would return home again. Home, to her children, and her husband. After the meal she made her way back up to her tree where she slept like a baby the entire night.

As they marched towards the battle she was calm. She did not intend to die, nor to fight in the vanguard. She knew her task in this battle, no matter if Stein approved of it or not. She was going to target the commanders of the enemy. Victory was her only concern, not what anyone thought about it. As the question was asked she did not look up at him. "The north has been what the north always has been. The south however has been lacking after the loss of your father. A man which I respect more than any other, him, and his values," she said and walked further up the line, not waiting for an answer.

Eira joined up with the other scouts in the front. Some were veterans of previous encounters, some were not. She found other northerners here as well, most of them seemed to be from her tribal federation and she greeted them in a fitting fashion. They greeted her back, acknowledging her noble status but she did not care for it. "Follow me after we report back, we have a special job to do," was her only words to them as they scouted the enemy lines.

After reporting back and getting their equipment ready she noticed her fellow northmen slowly trickle in, following what she had said. She nodded approvingly at them as they stalked the treeline to the left of the army. They would fight like a norse did. As the main bulk started to charge and the archers rained down arrows into the camp the norse picked their targets based on Eira's commands.

All of them at once would loose their arrows into a single commander, felling him as they did. Even if the commander did not die, he would be put out of action. They would shoot their arrows then fade back into the woods and circle the forces and take more potshots. Their goal was to sow confusion and fear, and take out any skilled commanders that they might have.

Genseric sat at the campfire, his sword, which was held inside its sheath, held against his chest. He would occasionally hold his hand towards the fire, warming himself, and look up towards his other companions who surrounded the campfire. It was quiet and somber.

Haesteinn came out from his tent, seemingly having finally stiched that wounds of his.

“Brothers, I have news. Scouts report that they've found the Cherwinian army. Approximately 150 soldiers in camp. Not more than two hours from here, much closer to the Cherwinian border than expected,” Haesteinn began. “Besides that.. I've been selected as one of the sergeants to lead the vanguard. That means you've been selected for the vanguard. We'll be the first one into the fray. Congratulations.”

Genseric had looked up at him, and he listened. Haesteinn soon returned back to his tent, and Genseric was absorbed in his thoughts. So they would be the first to engage in combat, and against a force so much larger than themselves. Genseric hoped dearly they would be victorious, and he briefly eyed around his companions. He wondered which one of those around him would no longer be with them tomorrow.

He looked at his companions, who did not break the silence. All Genseric could hear was the cackling of fire. For some reason it brought Genseric comfort, although it could not ease his mind. Eventually, Genseric went to his tent. Even if his mind could not rest, he needed to get some rest.

---

Genseric awoke in his tent, not being able to recall any dreams. It seemed to him that he had none. He was not exactly well-rested, but now it was time to get up. He could hear Haesteinn’s voicing rousing up others, and Genseric saw that as the queue to get up. He rubbed his eyes as he got up, as if to toss the morning out of his eyes. Piece by piece, he assembled his armor together, until he had a full set of armor. He had never done it without an aide before, although it helped Genseric feel lower than he was, as if he truly was but only a knight.

Genseric thanked Ellinor for the meal. She would be left behind in the coming battle for her own safety. Now Genseric was marching alongside Haesteinn, both of them mounted among their respective steeds. The less fortunate did not ride along a horse, and that consisted of most of the other fighters. Haesteinn asked both he and Jahan why he joined the Black Shields.

“I’ve come to prove myself, to myself distinguished,” Genseric said. “It may seem odd, yet among my family that is how it goes, and how it always has been among the nobles.”

Yet even Genseric felt unconvinced by this answer. Could it perhaps be that he did not truly know why he had joined the Black Shields. Certainly he had intended to prove himself in battle in the manner of his fathers, testing him in ways in which he would later be tested in his service to the King when he was Count of Rossex. Still, Genseric could not organize his thoughts.

---

Soon, there was no room for frivolous thoughts of why he was here in Genseric’s mind. He was here, and he would remain here. That would have to be enough, and for Genseric it was enough. Genseric stood mostly among militiamen, most of whom seemed like they had never once served in battle. Genseric had served in combat, however. They reminded Genseric of men who he had once seen. The smell of smoldering ruins and burning corpses once again came back to Genseric. He suspected that many of these men here had seen their last sunrise, and families had lost their sons and daughters.

Haesteinn’s shout came, signaling the time for attack. Genseric would not have given the enemy such a signal, but it mattered not now, as it had already been done.

Stone-faced as always he told the men around him quietly, “Don’t think of those piercing, negative thoughts that run through your mind. You shall be victorious here, and victory is already in your grasp.”

Then Genseric ran forward, his steed taking him forward, and the militiamen following close behind him. He took a path separate from the one Jahan took, his steed rushing towards them. His steed trampled over one Cherwinian soldier, and Genseric rose his sword and then brought it down upon another one, cutting through his neck in a blow that would prove fatal in but a few moments. Yet as all seemed to be going well, an arrow struck Genseric’s steed. His horse fell to the ground, and flung Genseric off.

Genseric was disoriented, yet he knew he had to recover quickly. He shook his head, recovering some of his focus, and equipped the iron shield he had held on his back. He saw a blow come from his right from a Cherwinian soldier, and block it with his shield. He parried with his own strike, stabbing him through the chest. Then Genseric dislodged his sword from his opponent chest, and then turned to face his next opponent to his left. Although it was far from the first that Genseric had killed, this was the first time Genseric had fought in this manner. Fighting as the vanguard was truly a new experience.

Genseric turned his next opponent. He stabbed her in the neck before she had a true chance to react. Genseric briefly wondered what her father, her mother, her possible lover could possibly think of him, but he had not long to ponder on it. A man with a halberd came up to Genseric, smashing his heavy weapon down upon him. Genseric was able to block with his iron shield, yet the power of the attack was quite cumbersome and taxing on his left arm. Genseric’s shield took several more hits as the Cherwinian hammered away at Genseric. Then Genseric ran forward, blocking the halberd before it had a chance to gain proper momentum, and his enemy was taken off their balance. Then Genseric’s sword went through his neck and up through his head.

Genseric withdrew his sword from his enemy’s head, and the Cherwinian fell to the ground, his body now but a corpse. Genseric glanced upwards quick enough to see the next enemy coming towards him, a member of the cavalry armed with a lance. Genseric felt intense pain, the feeling of what it felt like to have a lance pierce his plate armor. He fell to the ground, and he felt his consciousness fading.

Yet he was alive.

As Haesteinn signalled the charge he thundered forwards, on foot as the rest. There were a select few that rode on horses, such as Genseric, but Genseric seemed to immediately realize why that would be a bad idea for anyone in a small force. Before Haesteinn and the rest even reached the camp, Genseric was upon them. To Haesteinns left he noticed Eira, skulking the forest like a true northerner, while Keys was somewhat close to Haesteinn as well, as well as Jahan. During the brief moment that Haestein looked around, Genseric faded from his view. When Haesteinn looked back he noticed Genseric's horse had been felled. Precisely the reason why Haesteinn left his horse in the forest.

Once more Haesteinn lifted his sword, using his shield in front of him to block an incoming arrow. “FORWARDS!” From the rest of the ranks a deadly warcry erupted before they entered the camp. Within moments Haesteinn had lost track of Jahan. Haesteinn ran through the camp, splitting between the tents, encountering only militiamen and dead enemies. For now the confusion was in their favour.

Keys stayed close to Haesteinn, a wise idea. Together they ran, occasionally stopping to help a militiaman or so, but their goal laid more at the center of the camp, where most Cherwinians would retreat to. The path seemed clear until a heavily armored knight with a warhammer suddenly stood in their way. Not taking the time to stop, Haesteinn chased forwards, Keys shortly behind him. With raised shield he rammed into the knight, who stumbled backwards and was nearly sent onto his behind. Keys closed in to deliver a killing-blow, but was promptly struck in the shoulder by an arrow from a loose archer further ahead.

Keys stumbled on, almost falling but dedicated to the knight who was busy straightening himself out. The archer let another arrow fly and with a thud it landed in Keys' chest. Keys fell, slowly, in front of Haesteinn, for whom everything seemed to be in slow motion. In this moment of chaos, Haesteinn looked to his right and noticed Jahan on the ground, bleeding from his shoulder. A heavy man was set upon him, but was struck down by Elis. A saviour certainly. Jahan was saved - for now, but even from his position, Haesteinn could see that the wound was a devastating wound.

Glancing back to his front, the armored knight had now raised his warhammer high above him, before sending the hammer down onto Keys already unmoving body. With a crash it clashed with Keys' body, ensuring that his final breath would be released before dying. Haesteinn was unmoved by it, having seen death before, but something about it angered him. He charged forwards and swung his sword from right to left, catching the knight between the armor on his legs, and his hips. Pulling the sword back Haesteinn cut deep into the mans leg, causing him to fall onto one knee. Before he had a chance to react to the cut, Haesteinn had pulled his sword back and thrusted it into the mans open visor.

Pulling his sword back, a lifeless body of a Cherwinian nobleman was left behind. Haesteinn moved onwards, getting close to the center now. Upon arrival there he noticed that the Cherwinians had put together a shieldwall already. They were forming a unified front, and more and more men were arriving to join this wall of men. From behind there were archers, releasing accurate volleys into the charging masses of militia. Haesteinn put his sword into the sky and held his shield high, shouting to those Broacienians nearby, “To me!” If they wished to have any chance of winning this battle, they'd need to hold out until the flanking forces would arrive to crash into them from the side or behind.

“TO ME, MEN!” he shouted again. To his side were now several militiamen, holding up their shields to form a shieldwall like the Cherwinians did. Some of them were wounded. Some of them were covered in blood that wasn't theirs. Haesteinn, too, was covered in blood that wasn't his. His hair hung in strands, thick with blood. For a moment he considered a retreat, before realizing that that, too, would result in certain death. There was no other option now.

Ellinor woke to the seagull-like cackle of women around her. She was in the caretakers’ tent, sometime in the evening. She recalled little of their drudge home, other than being convinced that they were all walking ghosts and were being led away from Valhalla by the giant. There must have been something in those mushrooms. She lifted her head and looked over to them in their corner, smelling strongly of perfumes.

’Is he really that small??’
’I didn’t feel a thing,’
Another blizzard of giggles.

Ellinor sat up from her cot and began collecting herself, putting on her apron to begin prepping for the next day.

’Well, he might as well be dead tomorrow so you did a good thing for him,' an overly peppy voice pointed out flatly. She turned to see the three sitting in a corner, fixing each other's hair.

‘Who is dead?’ Ellinor asked as she stood in the doorway, all three turning.

‘Oh, you’re awake!'
’Come on, she’s messed up her hair already,'
Ellinor felt around her head confusedly, then asked again, ‘Who is dead??’
’Just one of the warriors, calm down,’
’Yeah because that big battle tomorrow,'
’It’s what they came here for you know,’

Ellinor let out a sigh of relief. She was, in fact, wrong about them all being dead. It was puzzling how all of these girls could laugh when there was to be a war the next day. She asked them about what they knew and got as vague of answers as she could. Other than it being a ‘Big battle’ against a ‘Lot of people’ that were the ‘Bad guys’ she assumed they found a fleet of Cherwinian soldiers. She bid them goodbye despite their whining to fix her hair and headed toward the mess tent.

There were a few drunkards lazing about and snacking on breads. She shooed a nibbler out of her stashes of vegetables. If there was to be a battle, she was behind already on preparation. She lifted potatoes out of a barrel and put them in a sack until she got to the bottom and fetched a wooden crate. She put it out on her work station and cracked open the sides. Her collected herbs, with varying uses and degrees of strength had been untouched for the most part. She was now glad that she had taken a nap, as she would likely be up all night making various pastes, salves, powders and prayers.

She did not sleep, even after the last man or woman lay in their sack, she was pulverizing seeds into a pulp, pulling strips of sacks and whatever else she could find to make gauze. She found arm and leg-length sticks and made three pouches of smelling salts - enough for her and two helpers. Lastly, she pulled out the salted chunks of ham. The meat she had been holding out from them all, as she hoped it would give them an extra boost to have a salty, fatty meal before their first real battle. Alongside potatoes and a sauce made of the fat runoff, they’d be singing their way to death.

Morning came early. Shouting and rustling and running about. Some came in politely, getting extra potions and being gracious as always. Some came by and grabbed a handful of meat and a nod. Some didn’t even have time to eat as they pulled their boots on as they made their way to march. The poor saps would die without a morsel in their bellies, and possibly a hangover to boot.

They made their way through the dewy grass. Ellinor was soaked to the knee even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She had a pack on her back and all of her extra supplies with her helpers. She decided to leave most of the sticks behind, perhaps she over-prepared. It was not a long way away, surprisingly. Had they not attacked first it would be sure that the others would take their advantage. Although it was within days of arrival and no time to settle in, she was glad. The warriors would become restless soon otherwise anyway.

A shout to the air. Stomping through the dirt. Hooves galloping away. It took just seconds for them to go from marching to war. She watched, looking for treatable injuries. It was a bit difficult to tell which were her responsibility and which were the enemy, let alone a severed head from an injured leg. She spotted a calvary doubling back and taking out a small bundle, a man with a limp arm in front. Ellinor was on her feet with her salves to her chest before the shouts reached her ears.

The man blacked out. She recognised him from their journey just the day before. She slapped his cheeks a few times before ignoring it and getting to work. The leather was already severed by an axe, giving her room to expose the skin. Before she could put a piece of cloth between the soldier’s teeth there was a hot axe blade on the wound. She scrunched her nose at the terrible scent of burned flesh.

Her ears were getting accustomed to the sounds around her. The difference between a confident step toward war and a slumping sound of a limp body. She looked up to inspect if there were any more to help, delegating those around her to tend to the still living. She went back down to her patient and slapped his cheeks again, ‘Come on, I’m not carrying you. You can’t fight any more today,’ she shouted above the clanging all around her. As she spoke, she put a salve on the burn, probably feeling like fire ants climbing up and down his arm. It was still connected at the bottom, but they would have to worry about amputation later.

The sounds made their way further toward the enemy, the injured staying behind. This made her job much easier. She took the man’s good hand and made him hold his limp arm ‘Hold it still. Might be able to save it,’ she said before sprinting to her next patient.

‘Alright pretty boy,’ she said, having another blackouter at her hands, ‘Put this in your mouth,’ she put gauze in his hand to keep him occupied. He probably had a concussion from how hard he fell, but the obvious wound was under steel plate. She needed to plug the hole and there was no comfortable way of going about that.

They couldn’t burn the wound right now, so she took a wad of gauze and covered it in a green paste. ‘In. The. Mouth.’ She helped him get it between his teeth before shoving the gauze into the plate and packed it into place with her thumb. She put more on top of it into the hole until it stayed in place. She looked up and directed one of her stronger helpers to direct Jahan back. She just might get to do a little surgery today.

The Cherwinians had finally assembled some kind of proper defense against them. It would be certain suicide to run at them again on horse. They would need to hold out for relief from the main force when it flanked. Elis pulled in behind and their own shield wall that began coalescing from what men were left. He dismounted next to an injured soldier behind their shield line and helped the man up shouting to him over the chaos, “Take my horse and ride back to the field medics.” He assisted the man in climbing onto his horse before taking his staff, bow and arrows and turning his attention back to the action. He took position directly behind Haesteinn and jammed his staff in the soft earth, ready to be used should the enemy get close enough.

The organized enemy was now sending volleys of arrows down on them, but few of them did little more than bounce off the shield wall. Still, with the Cherwinian’s newfound coordination, it made it difficult for their own archers to come up from behind their shield wall long enough to get off shots and not receive one themselves for the effort. The enemy archers were still far enough away that there was at least a little time to observe the arrows as they travelled and get in cover before they struck their target, but not much. Elis waited patiently for his chances, popped out to fire two or three back at their archer line before ducking back behind Haesteinn and the shield wall. An arrow would occasionally hit its mark, an archer who hadn’t properly covered behind their own shield line. Most of his shots were rendered ineffective as they bounced uselessly off the shield wall.

He could see the Cherwinians slowly pushing their wall forward. This would end in a bitter melee between the two walls soon enough. Their own wall was holding, sure enough, but with each passing moment another enemy arrow would find a target. Most were the less experienced archers, not fully aware or out of position and too far behind the wall for it to offer any real protection to them. Some of the archers seemed to have given up trying to fire back altogether and simply cowered behind the shield wall, afraid to even attempt retaliation. Elis lifted one of the cowering archers up, still well under the shield wall and looked him in the eye. He shouted at him and gazed at the few others nearby who had similarly lost their resolve, “The Monarch does not shine his light on those who are cowards! Those who chose to hide themselves like rats in sewers. Pick up your bows. Show these Cherwinians what kind of men you really are, secure your place in The Monarch’s eternal kingdom, or be content to wallow in Hell!”

Some of the archers seemed to take it to heart and stood from their cowering. Elis nodded to them and waited as the enemies’ volley lulled. He rose fully and released an arrow. Other archers around him followed suit, lifting up and releasing their own volley into the enemy troops. “Down!” Elis shouted as another wave of arrows rained on them. Their archers ducked under the shield wall and the enemies’ arrows bounced off the wall or sailed over their heads. It became a rhythm, dodging and returning volley after volley of arrows. What few archers in the vanguard were left had now all joined in and were starting to move closer to one cohesive unit. So long as the shield wall held, they would have their archers behind them.

Genseric awoke. He took a look around him, and it all seemed very familiar. Genseric had opened his eyes, and he saw that he was once again back in his tent. There was the tannish brown color that Genseric had thought was both alarming and unappetizing of which he could have done without, the marks of sewn leather evident to the naked eye. He saw next to him the small table next to him that held that book he had been reading, and even the candle was lit. On his other side was his shelf that held the rest of his belongings. It was clearly his wooden bed, its vaguely white sheet and tendency to creak, that he was laying on.

The last he remembered, he was dead. At least, Genseric thought that he had been dead. He remembered the lance plunging through his chest. He remembered what he felt during that moment. Not the pain, of there truly had been no equal in the entirety of his life. Rather, he meant how when he saw that the lance was coming for him, and there was no way out, no possibility that he could move out of the way in time, he had such an intense feeling of dread. Was it, unlike what he had thought before, that he had a fear of death? It never occurred to him that that was a possibility. After all, what did he have to live for anyway?

Genseric now had had time to clear his head. He supposed someone must have been heard, else who could have lit the candle? Genseric began to get up, and he soon realized that it was a struggle. He tried to lift himself up, and felt an intense pain. He looked down, and saw that his chest was wrapped in bandages.

“Best not to get up, master,” a familiar voice said.

He knew that voice. That was the voice of Asger, the man who had long attended to him as his servant. He looked up and saw the old man there, his tanned bald head and his grey beard there just as he remembered. He seemed to have traded his slightly regal clothes, as he had garnered a high rank among the servants, for a brown robe.

“Asger?” Genseric said.

“Yes indeed, master,” Asger said.

“What are you doing here?” Genseric said.

“I thought that you might need a bit of help,” Asger said. “I was deeply surprised to arrive and see you were without an aid.”

“I’ve done fine without it,” Genseric said.

“I think not, master,” Asger said. “Since you’ve been a babe, you’ve been raised in the life of regality. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, master, but it is so. I would safely say that were I not here, you would not long function.”

“If you insist,” Genseric said. “But Asger, you must that this is a camp of fire.”

“Well worry not, master,” Asger said. “Recall that your father was not alone when he fought his many battles.”

“I see,” Genseric said.

“As short with your words as ever, master,” Asger said. “I will let you be for now. But if you need anything, I shall always be at hand.”

Genseric waited for Asger to leave. He felt sleep once again coming on to him. He closed his eyes, and soon returned to the darkness.