Mataria didn't meet Haron with respect, grace, and banners, but riders, steel, and bodies.

On a warm, humid morning, a patient Haron glimpsed a growing shield wall outside the town. They were speckled in many colours. Different insignias were emblazoned on their uniforms. "I don't know if this is a good idea," Ormradros reasoned. "They're levies. Are they not men you seek?"

Haron took a swig of water from his flask. "I'm not looking for men; I'm looking for help. They're obstacles, and any in our way will be crushed sure with fate." He took a few steps forward and peered down his own line, the center formation.

Though Daggersarry met them with a patchwork army, they still outnumbered Haron's. Their shield wall seemed thicker, their swordsmen seemed stronger, their cavalry seemed more prepared.

In comparison, Haron's crew bore a marrow of women and foreigners, hunters, farmers, and elves. Many of them had been digging deep, narrow ditches in the nights since they arrived, so they were filthy and lightly armoured.

"Fire well!" Those were the only instructions he taught many of them. They had good arms, trained as much as he could give them, but they wouldn't last if the enemy breached their melee. Omradros, who had been tasked with the left regiment, could not stay his shaking hand. If the Mabradat broke, the numbers could rout Haron's campaign before it even started. There was no point in marching on Ardalsalam if Daggersarry, of all places, stopped him.

Ormradros tried to keep his eyes on the field. Keep them on the fields, he told himself. Stay focused, think of the site, keep in mind the ditches hidden between the stalks, think of the film of plume oil seeping into the compost. Had he chosen the wrong side? Did he side with the wrong person? No! Stay focused! Enemy barons and their flags dotted the town's edge, puffs of black dust kicked up by mounted knights. Shield pounding filled the air, and its deep rumbling shook the ground. Did he make a mistake?

"I'll leave the ground to you, Ormradros." Haron patted him on the back. "Make sure you and your captains hold the line; use my men if need be. I've women and children to watch over."

Women and children, that's what he called them.

"How long do you need me to hold?" Thousands of women here, bows clenched, formation shifting, lopsided. The only girls in armour had been stamped with golden leaves and wore gauntlets of fire. Everyone else had been geared for weather at best—a coat army of aketons and cheap gambesons.

"As long as you can give me." Haron scanned the enemy line but cursed under his breath. "Well, they see the stakes. Get to your stations. They're planning on engaging." He hopped off his chariot and rushed over to a wooden structure, a tower that looked like the base of a giant trebuchet. When he reached the top, Haron took a closer look and witnessed the fields around him. Spearmen in the center, cavalry on the flanks. A few archers, though if there were more, they were likely hidden in the town.

Good. He had the archers. He proudly looked at the tides at his back: a massive contingent of bows, wicks readied, quivers full, spikes set deep into the ground over the long, cold night. In the center were his spearmen, unprotected, maintaining a man-to-man wall. They were packed together, six men deep, shields readied.

The enemy cavalry would be the problem. If he could shuffle them into the center, they'd have a shot.

He blew his warhorn with much as his tiny lungs could muster. Come on, traitors. Come on. See it - see it! A matter of Bull-Knights rumbled from behind his archers, stripping their Milochs of harnesses and strapped on saddles for war. They'd wrapped the horns in barbs, razor-sharp, jutting like the roses of a thorn. No more than thirty, that's all he could muster.

Twenty Medicalers had come with him, all on horseback, geared in boiled leather with bows and shields on their horses.

Surveyors - a whole company of them, looked through the scopes and calculated the perfect distances to set down the blast-bosses.

Nothing yet; the enemy merely rustled into formation, and a few of his army began to sway in awkward anticipation.

The morning was peppered with the sound of melodic chanting: elves sang odd dirges through veils of incense, hands raised to the sun. Ormradros look at Haron from his platform. The latter slid down to get a closer look. At the sight of elves, he gestured for Athos at his side, the boy wrapped in chainmail too loose for his Serah frame. Human men and women stared wild-eyed and jaws-twitching at the sight. The Mabradat, though flummoxed, kept their grips on their spears, eyes darting from the humans to the elves.

"What are they praying to?" Ormradros asked Haron, who didn't even bother to look. "Their God?"

"Good fortune and ancestors," Athos explained. Haron's nose twitched at the acrid stench of the incense. "They worship their kin before them, deep in the roots of Wraithwood."

"In the direction of the sun?" Ormradros took a few steps closer, though not by much.

Athos shook his head. "I don't know, ser."

Haron grumbled. "Boy doesn't have all the answers, Ormradros. We ain't seen elven faith much out in the plains. Who knows, mayhap they're praying for our loss." Athos opened his mouth to protest, but Haron's raised claw stopped him. "But if they're going to be freemen, then by any faith or force that'll give me good soldiers, that's all I care about."

Ormradros frowned at those words. "I'm sorry, Haron, but I have to ask. You keep saying you want soldiers, good soldiers, good men, good women, for good soldiers, but...what do you plan on doing with them? What'll you do when you have them?"

"You come here to ask me that? At the edge of the realm? On the eve of battle while my army, wracked by disease, has forced me to work with militia at best?" Haron kept walking. "I want good soldiers, that's it."

Ormradros wouldn't have it. "But tell me, Haron!" He shouted. "What are they bleeding for? What are we bleeding for?"

Haron sighed and let his spear lax. "What have you been bleeding for?"

"What?"

"You're no child, no unproven blade. Come, be reasonable, Ormradros. You ask me what you're bleeding for, but I ask you, what have you bled for?"

"For home, country, glory, nobility -"

"And where has that gotten you? Rising to the ranks of a middle-lord, taking orders from a rat no larger than a man's child? A snarling beast who now marches upon your own countrymen with powder at his heels and blood on his banners? Come to reason, Ormradros, you didn't ask me this at the Buckler. Why are you asking me this here? To catch me off guard, to send a bit of fear in mine own ranks?"

"You seem to have that rant prepared." He whispered.

"I expected you might've asked me something that stupid."

"I just wanted to know, on the eve of battle, what reasons will I be fighting for? I didn't expect a witch hunt."

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the timing, or the fact that Ormradros tried so hard, so desperately hard, to intimidate tiny Haron with his own massive frame, but the ground quaked with the angry thumping of the Vermite's tail. "Oh, you mongrel, you stupid mongrel! You're fighting for their right to pray." He pointed at the elves. "And I assume they fight for your right to do the same."

"I don't pray, not to God, neither mine nor theirs." Ormradros fired back. "You asked us to give up a lot for this, and I need to know that risking blade and arrow for this pauper's army is worth it."

Haron leaned his head, one ear pointed at Ormradros. "It ain't no pauper's army, Ormradros, it's a proper army, these men and women are willing to bleed and die for this, and that's an army good enough right now. No, instead, I wonder why you take this opportunity, here, now, to question it? Hadn't you sworn fealty to our cause at my castle? Is this a mutiny? Defection? Are you questioning my orders, Ormradros?"

"I am not questioning your orders, Commandant," he snarled through gritted teeth, "but tell me, why are we risking our lives?"

"What do you want me to say? A just world? A free world? A new world? I've said that, and you clearly don't believe me." Haron lowered his glaive and let the light bounce off his blade, hitting Ormradros in the eye. "This isn't my first fight, Ormradros, and I don't intend on this to be my last, hear?"

"Is this your rat's sophistry?"

"You...you stubborn fool! You might not believe in my vision the way I do, but I do - those elves do, everyone here does. And if you think that less of a reason to bleed than any noble spat you've bled for before, then go and bleed no further, Wailing Ward, for I've bled plenty, and my army has bled even more. Leave. I don't need people questioning their willingness to bleed for little when I'm willing to die for more."

Ormradros recoiled at the words. Haron let him have the last word, but everything around them fell into an awkward silence. "I didn't; I didn't mean to-"

"It doesn't matter what you meant," Haron continued his patrol, "what matters is what you do, and I need you to fight. Do your job. I made you a commander, do your commander's duty."

A rider galloped to the field, alone, bag in hand in the midst of the preparations. Haron met him on his chariot, pointing to the roads. The boy was sallow-faced, sweaty, his hair messy and short. His thin eyes squinted heavily against the morning sun, which rose from Haron's direction. "Avalas, Marshall." He bowed to Haron. "I come on behalf of Percival Sarry with hopes that you can pull back and relinquish your claim over the Daggerlanes."

"Mataria sends out a rider without coming herself? Is she too scared to even parley on the field of battle?" Haron was alone, but he gripped that glaive so hard it seemed like he'd break it.

"Lady Mataria is not part of these negotiations; the conversation is strictly between you and I, proxy for Lord Sarry."

"Oh, come now, Avalas, you're smarter than that." Haron leaned forward with a wicked grin. "You tellin' me that boy, not even a man, is going to be making decisions? Even with you as his proxy, what's he going to do without Mataria whispering in his ear?" He looked around at the fields, much trampled with the two armies facing each other. "It'd be a shame that my ballistae would burn this entire town to the ground."

Avalas' lip quivered, his frown flitting into a grimace. "If you use palepowder against townsfolk, you'll be giving up any claims to this freemen realm you're creating, know that."

"The realm - my realm - will do what it takes to defend our borders against the enemy, and at the moment, you're the enemy. I've a stock, significant, and I brought it with me."

"Marshall, please, we can parley this fool's lock and come to an agreement."

"And what? So she can surrender to that witch out of Ardalsalam? Is that what she wants?" Haron leaned close enough for a whisper, "Is that what you want? Tell me about yourself, Avalas, envoy of Mataria."

"I am the envoy of Percival, Marshall Haron, not Lady Mataria!"

"I hadn't remembered calling her Lady Mataria." Haron laughed. "You must be a noble's son, but which son? I hadn't heard your last name, and the courts move fast when I'm watching them. How long have you served her to call her so dutifully a lady as you ignore her charge?"

"Surrender your claim, Marshall, march back home with your men, and you'll never hear from the Daggerlanes again." Avalas pointed to the army behind him. "Do you not see the force assembled here before you? A great host, larger, brimming with steel and ready for war. You don't have the support you think you do, Marshall, so I say again, stand down, go home."

Haron leaned back. "I have a deal, and I think you might find it fair."

"I am listening, speak."

"You've a host of nobles here, and Mataria is locked up with her prize in the manor. Tell your men this: have the nobles relinquish their claim to their land, return it to the people, and have Mataria before me in chains. Percival will not be harmed, for I want the true leader of the Daggerlanes!"

"No lord will agree to that."

"Oh, but what of your men? All I ask, Avalas, are the lives of a few fat knights in exchange for the lives of thousands of men and women. How much fairer of a trade can I give?"

"I could ask the same of you; relinquish your nobility, and come with -"

"Relinquish?! Relinquish my nobility?" He turned back to his army and then shot a scornful glare at Avalas. "There's nothing to give up, idiot envoy. I've relinquished it long ago when Radan melted into bile and bone in the Sunlit Chamber. You can take all my titles, I've none, and the titles of my men."

"A land without titles, without noble protection, men-at-arms? A gaggle of hedge knights and vagabonds does not make an army."

"Then show me how poor my army is. Teach me your noble's insight. I've grown up in a cage, Avalas, wreathed by war and fire, and I will not go back to it, and I'm certain my soldiers will not as well. So, show me. Show me why my bondage and the suffering of my people is the right way, the true way. Show me folly with noble steel, let them plunge deep into my men, women, and children, before my palepowder burns your town to the ground, never to rise again!"

"Women and children, obscene," Avalas snarled, "My benefactors will not be so kind as I or my men; their soldiers will break your army and your women. Marshall, I respect you, but this is madness; pull back your men, go home, and let not a single person perish."

Haron shook his head. "More will perish if I pull back now. No, no, no, Avalas, I'm saving my people, even if I need to burn this town to the ground. The demands are the same: the nobles in front of me, Mataria in front of me, all in bondage. Or else, by noon, I'll fire." With that, Haron rushed off.

Avalas didn't have the opportunity to say anything. Head down, he trotted back and didn't even get to open the package.

Disgusted and dejected, he threw the envoy's head into the field and galloped back to his masters.

Daggersarry

"The Marshall's gotten cocky, thinking he can take us on with so few knights and mages." The Baron of Ambergrale spat through his bushy, brushy beard. "The rat's getting delusional. Our scouts see that force: we hold out for the week, and the regiment folds."

"Not even a week, I surmise." The Baron of Dervag, a wasting man with a dull, milky eye, leaned forward on his shaky cane. "A few charges will smash into their lines. You see how few he's got? Any shield line at this length will buckle, no matter the location. No, no." He pointed to their war table in the center of their tented pavilion and took a glance at the tower that poked out from above the hill's crest. "That trebuchet he's building is the problem. He's planning a full siege on the town, and I think he has a stronger force elsewhere."

"We can't rule out trickery," Dervag's head Medicaler stressed, his hand on Dervag's shoulder. "Haron may be crazed, but he's no fool, and he's got the backing of Marshall of Sindaros on his side. We expect reinforcements, but it might not be for us."

An agreed harrumph fluttered through their ranks. The Baron of the Shivering River, a younger, scarred and beautiful man, eyes thick and black with makeup, took an askance stare at the field. He couldn't see much of the army from this distance, but he noticed that Haron's pikes were undulating, shifting like a messy tide. "I'm worried we might not be facing a shield wall. His Mabradat are swaying, and they've never swayed like that."

"The Ban-Mabradat is known to be untouchable ten men deep, and he can't field -"

"I understand, my Lord Dervag, but if they adopt a-a-a ring or a cluster, then they'll be ten men deep, and we'll be hard-pressed to -"

"And they'll leave their archers vulnerable." None of them heard Mataria enter, the Sarry crown half-hanging on her aged head, a goblet of wine perched between her fingers and robes of foreign finery dragging behind her. "Barons, you and your loyal lot, your bannermen and captains, when found to be victorious on the dawn of our week's end, will be greatly rewarded." She smiled.

The Barons cocked their heads, confused and uncertain, grappling with her words. The Lord Shivering River, nervously, nodded. "I appreciate, greatly, Seneschal Mataria-"

"Lady, I will be soon be wed!" She flashed a bangle around her neck.

"Congratulations, my Lady Mataria." Lord Ambergrale deeply bowed. "May you reign justly over the Daggerlanes."

Lord Shivering River frowned, though he was quick to stop. Reign justly? His thumb ran along the ring on his finger. This woman's marrying a child, not yet old enough to even conceive! But he knew that if he wanted to live through this day, he needed to play nice. "Congratulations, many fine years for you and your husband, Lady Sarry."

Mataria graciously bowed to his gentle praise. "But my marriage is not the subject at hand, of course. The subject lies just over the field, perched upon that hill, ready to march."

Dervag shook his head. "Will they march? They seem dug in, and if they've enough powder, they might be content to burn the town from afar. Haron's got a legion of surveyors, and they could easily find the right time to set off the powder."

"He can't have brought that much powder, lest he expects, truly, that he'll be going to war." Shivering River's thumb tapped the nut-shaped pommel of his sword.

"If he did, then the envoy was no more a sacrifice that he planned for us to spit in his face. D'you think that's what he wanted?" Dervag asked.

"What do you think he wants?"

"I think he wants us to surrender, no doubt, but for what reasons, I'm not sure." Lord Ambergrale beckoned a catamite to bring him more wine. "There isn't enough of a force to challenge us, and his levies aren't strong enough to handle ours."

They heard the faintest click of a twitching jaw from Shivering River. "I don't know if they're levies." He looked to Mataria. "My Lady, up there, in your tower, did you see anything else? Something more insidious?"

Mataria took a chair at the war council, leaning back and calm. "Nothing of note; his banners, fires, camps and the shine of armour like a sea of metal, but nothing strange. He's fielded a sea of brown with speckles of black steel, but it's difficult to see from that distance, even with the scope."

"A sea of brown with speckles of black steel. Armour like a sea of metal." Lord Dervag snarled. "Flowery words, I might send a scout and do it myself!"

"You send a scout to my chambers, and I send back a eunuch, Dervag." Mataria hissed. "This is my manor, and your men will not have the run of it."

"With the quality of your report, Haron's men might have the run of it soon!"

"And women." Ambergrale chuckled. "The rat thinks that because he's small, the smallness of women will win over men, no doubt."

"Unless they're all mages." Dervag's face was utterly serious. His Medicaler aide nodded thoughtfully.

Ambergrale's smile vanished at once.

Shivering River wanted to sigh instead. What was Haron planning? Everybody in the Vsil knew how much Magepox ran through the Buckler: mages dead left and right, Medicalers holed up in his gardens, people festering with lesions and popped skin, and now this? His Mabradat, once mighty and formidable, are now few, and his own companion cavalry have dwindled in numbers to a mere matter of bulls. He knew - he knew - that Haron came in with a regiment of bog-boys, but there weren't enough to break the charge of a good, fat cataphract charge. The only thing that made sense was a trap by Vera. "Have we seen any news of the Crow Lords?"

"Only crow's the ones on the Milochs." Ambergrale downed another goblet of wine. "Can we not intercept them?"

"Not Siralian crows. They're much hardier than the Ardalian pigeons. These birds are fierce and with wit abundance." Lord Shivering River responded.

"You speak as if you know them."

"I've known them ripping apart my birds long enough to know not to underestimate swamp ravens."

"I think, truly think, that Haron came here hoping to catch us off guard." Mataria had a small wand, a metal stick of Burite wrapped in a sheet of soft, red pine. When she pressed it deeply into the map on the war table, a blood-red sap poured from its tip, leaving behind a deep, inky trail. "The forests are on either side, no paths. The only engagement is open, and we've no walls to handle Medicalers. He'll likely want to save his mages, so they'll likely be in reserve." Lips pursed, with a conductor's sway, Mataria circled the field as if she had been doing it for years. "I think the archers will funnel the cavalry, and he'll force them to handle Medicalers and Mabradat."

"I agree with Lady Mataria." Lord Dervag was stirring a cup of good, southern tea. "Haron has always chosen to value his good men highest. The women and levies, while deplorable to think about, are the lesser values. They're distractions. Archers can't pierce good armour at that range, and not from a woman's arm. They'll be there for suppressing fire to break the formation and let the Mabradat move in."

"Cavalary suppression is still a problem. Can we redirect them into the woods and buck around for a charge?" Lord Shivering River took a piece of biscuit.

"Not possible." Ambergrale tapped his finger on the map. "If he's got Milochs and bog-boys in the forest, no charge is possible. He knows the Siralian counter-charge, and besides, I don't want to risk galloping horses in untrained forests. I've seen more than my share of roots and ditches breaking mares before they even get in sight."

Counter-charge: Ardalian horses were hardly the strongest, but they were still trained for a good charge. Yet against Milochs in the deep forests, a single bull could handle the wild bucking of a few steeds with ease. Horses were frightened sick of the bulls. Even if their cavalry outnumbered Haron's Milochs, it might still be enough to stifle the power of a good charge. They all knew what they could and couldn't do, and a Revenant team in the forests (of which Haron had a noticeable few) - would negate the cavalry advantage.

That, unfortunately, left them with few options, save for an open engagement. "But if we don't send men into the forests, they'll have access to high ground and cover with impunity." Lord Dervag was resting his chin in his hands. "We have to risk a small team keep the bulls locked down so they can't come onto the field.

"But the rest...we can't send in men; otherwise they'll get picked by a volley, and we can't send in arrows because Haron's camped uphill and has the range advantage. And if Haron's serious, the trebuchet can take us down, especially if it's brimming with powder. I think the knights will lead-"

"Stakes! Stakes! They're using stakes!" Before Ambergrale could finish his words, a red-faced scout burst into the tent, two guards by his side. Everyone turned to him. "My Lords, the enemy army is planting stakes, halfway, deep and thick. In the grass."

Lord Shivering River jumped up. Mataria looked at him with a quizzical stare. "So?" She asked as the other three shuffled out at once. She followed, trying to get them to stop. "What's going on?"

"If they set up stakes, we can't charge on the fields, not without dealing with a great number of losses of cataphracts." Lord Shivering River and Dervag pulled out their scopes as they peered at the hills from the opening in the war tent.

It was as the scout reported: a good complement of women carried stakes, Mabradat behind them beginning to rank up. "See? Girls aren't there to fight." Ambergrale chuckled. "The rat can't work miracles; he can't make an army of soldiers on such a short time, and of women, too." He handed it over to Dervag, who agreed after a glance. "But there's something we do agree on, and that's that we need to strike now before he mars the entire fields in stakes."

It truly was a siege. What worth was a peasant, a woman, a child, a farmer, before a knight, good and true, raised to seek glory? This wasn't Haron's true army, not really; there was an army elsewhere, ready to march, and he was clearly buying time. Vera, likely. Perhaps she was stuck in Iril, mobilizing her own.

It all came together now. They saw the beginning of a siege.

"Then let's do it now, let's force a scramble with our knights and then move in with soldiers and archers. Are you and your knights prepared to charge?"

"I'm the one charging? Are you mad? Most of my men are in our wall. The Riders all come from your lot." Shivering River widened his eyes at Ambergrale's sudden orders.

"I'll send word for my riders to obey your commands. You send word to your men to obey mine. We'll follow the charge."

Shivering River shook his head and bit his lip but eventually relented. "Fine, let's have a good war."

The First Stage: Shivering River

Shivering River stared at the women fleeing from the fields as the riders from the coalition gathered at the bottom of the hill. Ambergrale's high captain was accompanying him, one Aros, a balding man with sunken eyes and a fat patch of skin-rot on his left cheek. Though he was much older than Shivering River, he bowed with deep respect at first meeting. "I've served Lord Ambergrale in war, and I'll serve you." He deigned.

"Captain Aros, I appreciate your good nature." Shivering River looked back at Ambergrale, whose shouting could be heard even when the tents were spots away. Ambergrale would handle the left flank, Dervag the right. Their captains, none as experienced as Aros, would manage the archers.

Shivering River cursed at his misfortune. "We get to try and break the rat-general's formation." He laughed at the sight forming before him, a thin line of tower shields dug deep into the earth, patches of spikes jutting from tall grass and half-bent stalks. "We can't even ride like this; so much can be hidden in the grass."

Aros placed his hand on Shivering River's shoulder. He then took it off and laughed. "I was gonna say something encouragin', but I don't know if you're the type to want it, milord."

Shivering River shook his head. "There has to be something else." He whispered. "Haron isn't a fool. So many women, not enough spears. Stakes to stop some charges, but not all. He can't possibly think the Mabradat can handle it all."

"Desperate minds breed foolish minds." Aros reasoned. "The rat-general's lost his men because of the pox. He can't field an army like before so quickly."

Yes, but was he desperate?

Shivering River cast the thought out of his mind. He led Aros to the front to handle the center wedge, and he would take a small complement as his companion cavalry to the right wing. At the edge of the forest, he dismounted and pulled out a small wooden totem, carved from beckwood with his personal, ceremonial knife. Eyes closed, he prayed, then he kissed and buried it. He took deep breaths, something he rarely did but felt was important now.

"Let's see this rat fight." Shivering River mounted his warhorse, his sword unsheathed. He raised his blade to Aros, who waved a banner back.

The rumbling began. At first, a trot, but then the clopping of a few hundred rolled into thunder. The line rushed forwards, soil and dust kicked high into the air. Soon the formation melted into a wedge, the gleam of Aros' bright yellow armour shining like gold.

Shivering River followed them along the edges of the forest, keeping an eye on Aros' wave, waiting for the moment when the Mabradat, uphill and four men deep, awaited them. Wait, four men deep?

He only got a few strides into the shadow of the forest before screaming filled his ears, coming from the plains. "Oil! They've got oil!" He heard them say.

The blast of Dervag's war horn signalled the next move. The thumping of boots in a war march.

Go!

He and his horsemen rushed through the glades. Treacherous roots and sudden cliffs were everywhere.

Soon, they reached what they thought was a clearing. The moment a hoof kissed the warm mulch, Milochs flooded out from the bushes. Revenants! "Evade!" Shivering River yelled. "Don't engage the bog-boys!"

With a swing of its horns, one narrowly gored Shivering River's warhorse. Screeching roars filled their ears—the bulls were bucking and the horses were panicking. One man screamed as he fell, his arm smashed by the stampeding of a bull.

A few others weren't so lucky. Blood splattered on his lips, a bull frantically shaking its head as it tried to sling one of his gored men off its horn. "Keep going!" Shivering River yelled.

Another squad smashed into a few more of his cavalry. Arrows whizzed by his ears. "Ack!" He yelled.

"Two men on a bull, two men on a bull! " He screamed.

No, they were elves. Small and light, thin, good with witch's sinew and clasping a recurve. The revenants, in front, thrust with spears as elves fired at their horses.

One clipped his left ear and dug a barb into the lobe. He kept going. More roaring.

He hadn't even gotten to swing his sword yet - halberds were everywhere. Flashes of light pricked his eyes.

Faster, faster! He whispered to his horse. Faster! They crossed a brook. First sixty, but now not even half. Tired and shaking, Shivering River closed his eyes, wondering if they could even do anything with this number.

Then, there was another horn.

The First Stage: Dervag

When Dervag watched Shivering River glide into the forest with knights he didn't know, he felt a pang of guilt. He left his fellow Lord, a fellow man-at-arms, to the devices of the rat-general and his bulls. But someone, he reasoned, had to handle the interception force by the Milochs. Who better than the youngest of them all, whip-fast and clever?

Dervag, on the other hand, handled the right formation, six men deep, with a good number of archers following behind. He had none of Ambergrale's or Mataria's delusions: despite their superior numbers, it was literally an uphill battle. Though not too steep, he knew better than to give Haron advantages, no matter how tiny.

And he heard of the Mabradat. The Vsil wasn't called the Southern Shield for nothing; it was precisely because of these spearmen, unshakeable and undefeated, loyal to the glaive-king. Rumours had it that Haron personally trained them all, that they were, in fact, a slave army, their loyalty bought with pilfering and rape. Dervag shook the ill-thought from his head.

Ten men deep. That was the magic number of the Mabradat. His heart was light at the news: four, five at most. They could break, and in this situation, here, he'd make history. To break the unbreakable wall! What a glorious thought it'd be!

He watched Aros' charge, premature indeed, though time was against them: they needed to stop them from finishing the stake barrier, otherwise there'd be no charge at all, and Haron would have the palepowder advantage.

The dust picked up, the gallop shifted into a full stride, and with tears in his eyes, a proud Dervag watched as many of his knights, some who he'd known since birth, rushed into the fields with lances of gilded steel and coats of glassy silver.

It seems Haron had dug ditches in the middle of the night, as hidden between the stalks was loose earth, leading to a few horses falling. Dervag saw Aros split the wedge, knowing that too tight of a formation could be broken easily by too many traps. Smart man.

Then, the enemy fired their first volley. A wave of fire lit up the fields, and the oil beneath their feet drenched them in the sticky heat. "Oil! They've got oil!" They screamed. The first line, confused and bogged down, broke the charge and hurried to regroup.

Then, they heard it behind Haron's lines, loud as thunder and clear as river-water: "Scorpions! Surveyors, at stations!"

Dervag knew what was coming. As the knights rushed back into formation, Dervag pulled out his war horn, and with whatever air his old lungs could muster, he bellowed two great blasts. The knights needed to retreat, and they couldn't lose here.

By then, it was too late. A small, black object slid through the smoke and spat a fog of chalky dust, settling downhill and falling towards the knights. Palepowder. They knew what it was and did not want to risk running through it as it clung to the stalks. However, going back downhill in full gallop was much too difficult, and too many knights had forgotten the ditches long-hidden between the corn tassels.

Dervag rushed to the field, and his men, confused about the signal, followed. "No, go back, go back!" He yelled to his captains, but it was too late. The men were already marching onwards, and with six men deep, the spear wall took time to turn back without the people behind.

It didn't matter: black shapes whizzed through the air and burst behind them. Palepowder was behind them! The fucking rat burst palepowder behind them! "Don't let it cling to you!" Dervag yelled, trying to get his men to go back.

They pushed on. There was a death cloud at their back.

They went deeper into the fields; some stuck in hidden ditches.

A volley of arrows, sloppy but hard, pummelled his formation. They held their shields up and crawled through the corn.

Another blast of palepowder, this time from the front, falling in their direction. "Don't breathe it!" Dervag shouted.

But what was going on? Longbows, Haron's brought longbows! How'd he field so many longbows? Most of them didn't hit, but that didn't matter: his men were pinned down by relentless arrow fire.

"Fall back!" Dervag yelled. As the spearmen retreated, the volley's target changed. A cloud of arrows blanketed the retreating knights. "Damn it!"

He rushed to Ambergrale, whose left flank was still and frightened at the panic. "Tell Mataria to order the surrender of the town, and now, before he chokes us all in powder!" Dervag yelled to Ambergrale. "We can't hold out against this if we're on open field. We need to retreat!"

Ambergrale, witnessing the growing plumes, rushed to the manor.

The Second Stage: Ormradros

Haron put Ormradros in control of the left formation. Haron took the center, and one of his captains took the right. However, even on the left, Ormradros saw everything.

Surrounded by hushed knights, they watched the slow march of the enemy cavalry turn to an elegant charge, only to be caught by hidden stakes and ditches full of plume oil. The first volley of fire arrows, shot by inaccurate archeresses under the watchful gazes of surveyors, drenched the stalks in fire. And then, there was the palepowder, gowning the field in white smoke.

He and a complement of Mabradat were there to hold the line and defend against knights from the forests, but it seemed that the bulls had kept the enemies at bay.

But the women! Ormradros hadn't understood the use of women in his field, but he understood now: strong women, arms cocked back, fired with good accuracy and power. And then, he understood it: they were huntresses as well, warriors of their own villages, too ringed in muscle and trained with eagle eyes, but not yet given a chance to flex their might. Most women in the military were mages, but here, there was no need for magic.

It was clear what Haron wanted, what he needed. It wasn't swords but firepower, and it was in the wives and huntresses of the realm that he'd find his new army.

Ormradros' grip on his blade weakened. A few days prior, Haron spoke to him about a world in which magic was no longer needed. What a strange fancy, it seemed: a world without magic from one of the mightiest mages! It seemed the ironic banter of the privileged, a warmonger too comfortable with war yet wished for none of it. It reeked of hypocrisy.

Yet now, seeing the embers dance, he realized that the rat was underplaying it. Knights clamoured to their horses, attempting to retreat, but the oil stuck to their horses and the powder seeped into the crevices in their plates. Those felled tried to take off their armour as lamellar links and steel plates were so hot it stuck to their skin. Those lucky enough to cast off their armour found themselves prey to swarms of arrows.

And the arrows. Haron never let the arrows go: the moment a group stepped into his range, he ordered his archeresses to let loose their volley. It didn't matter if they lacked the skill of professional longbowmen; what mattered was their punch, and the punch of an inexperienced huntress hit as hard as any levy.

And then, deep in the forests, eyes peered out from the shadows. Salah, boastful of their recurves and elven-twine, picking at enemies from their perches.

It wouldn't be long before the foe would respond in turn: a regiment grouped around a few ballistae, the glimmer of a few smoke-knights surveying the distance. "Counterattack!" Ormradros yelled to his captain, who relayed the orders to Haron.

Haron didn't care. He bade the women continue firing, expelling every possible arrow into the heart of every mounted knight stuck in the fields. Over and over and over again, the arrows left the battlefield a gleaming mess.

Before the enemy could even fire their first lot of meagre palepowder, Haron ordered his men to slink into the forests and his women back behind the hills. Haron raised his hand to Ormradros, nodding gently, and then gave the signal.

It was time to charge. Skirting the forests' edge, Ormradros and his horsemen, lances ready, raced with as much speed as they could muster towards the enemy.

The enemy's right formation greeted them, the shield wall up, pikes out. With a good, hard punch of his lance, Ormradros burst through. "Don't stop!" He yelled. "Don't stop one second!" His men followed suit. Elvish arrows fired from the trees, aiming at the besieged surveyors around the ballista as soldiers tried to form walls around them. "Pick them off!" He yelled before he was dismounted.

Ormradros got up and drew his sword and shield, swinging the blade into an archer's neck. Beside him, near the heart of the enemy surveyors, a missile of palepowder smashed into the ground and kicked up hot soot.

Screaming followed as smoke danced around him. "Get back!" He yelled to his men. They retreated.

The enemy did as well.

Their formation grew tighter, backs against the walls. "Give an out!" He yelled.

By the time the Mabradat emerged out of the forest, spears readied, a rout was beginning to form. Enemy footmen were retreating from the back but were trampled by friendly frontliners.

The Second Stage: Ambergrale

"Move!" His horse galloped right into the courtyard of the manor. At the foot of Percival's tower, Ambergrale pushed the iron doors aside and rushed up the winding steps to Mataria's study.

At the top floor, he swung the door aside, finding both Mataria and Percival in each others' arms, eyes fixated on the swell which covered their crops in flame. Tears streamed from Percival's frightened eyes, and the two of them shook at the sight. "Lord Ambergrale, how is the battle?"

Ambergrale was sweaty, dirt-caked, and gripping his sword handle. "Was." He snarled. "Where were you?"

"I've no military experience."

"And yet you sat, comfortably, on the meeting. Where were you when it all unfolded?"

She cast her eyes aside. "What's happening?"

"Happened." He snarled again. "Bereth and old man Dervag are missing, and we're lucky if they get away or with ransom, but if the rat is true to his 'no nobles' creed, then I...I shudder to think of what will happen." He knelt and looked at Percival. Percival dared not to look into Ambergrale's gaze. It took a good grasp, firm, to force the boy back. "Surrender the city, Lord Sarry." He whispered.

"We can't, Ambergrale. We can't surrender-"

"Daggersarry is useless, Mataria!" He yelled. "We've no knights, no horses. This town has no walls, and now, thanks to all the smoke-knight dust, no fields! We've been played for fools, Mataria. This was never a siege, that was never a trebuchet, those spikes were lined long ago." He strode to the window, hearing the screams as he got closer. "Listen to them, Mataria, listen to your people." He buried his face in his hands. "Get it through your idiot's head. He doesn't want your title or your people; he wants your town, and if he doesn't get it, he'll burn it down!"

Mataria closed her eyes, let the screams surround her, and then nodded. Her hands let go of Percival, and she stood up. "I'll surrender the town and the lands, but let me drink at least some good wine before he strips me of my land." She wiped her tears away. "Will you join me in this last pleasure, Lord Ambergrale?"

He sighed and then relented. It might be a long time before he'd drink wine again. "I'd be honoured to."

Second Stage: Haron

"I never liked the way the fire burns," Haron told Athos, whose aketons were far too large for the both of them.

Athos, whose long and unruly hair became a clean-cut trim, watched the fields smoulder. It seemed all too familiar to him, the sights of Ardalian magic ravaging the lands, their spears raised high and mighty, and the clanging of their cold steel crashing against their victims. But here, now, it was so striking and vivid: a tidal wave of yellow and orange, hot air swirling, the sky peeling away in patches of snow-white and char-black.

"Don't be so sullen, boy, tell me," Haron asked, "what do you think of the battle?"

"Is it over?" He looked at Haron with pleading eyes and a soft heart.

The rat's eyes narrowed, his fangs bared. "The moment you think it's over, that's the moment you lose. Relentless, undaunted, uncaring. Those are the simple mantras I live by and will continue to live by. All this," a tiny claw swept by the flames, "can be rebuilt. What matters is having it, holding it."

"But...how you fight. They didn't do anything."

"They couldn't do anything." Haron laughed. "And that's the point, my good apprentice. You see, there is no such thing as a good battle. Battles are engagements where two forces must come to blows, and the consequences weaken both sides. Battles should be unwanted and only committed when you have one of two things - you should write this down."

"...I can't write."

"Agh, neither can I. Not well, at least. I'll have someone teach you. But remember this, my elf-child: the two things you want to keep in mind for the battles ahead: avoid them if necessary, and commit if you're certain you understand your foe. The smashing of two bodies of equal force gives good honour and dignity, oh yes, good storytelling, but what is that? What value is that? It's nothing more than the fantasies of drooling idiots, I say, and let them rot with their dreams. I am here, alive and now, and I don't plan on dying anytime soon. I am not a storyteller; I will not let my blade sing or the horn of war sound and speak for me. No, not when I have good powder and arrows."

Athos dared not to mention the strange rants he already had to listen from Haron, of the world without classes, without distinction, with nothing but freemen and freewomen. Was that not a dream? Or was there something else? Did he misunderstand Haron's vision as the fanciful ramblings of a tiny thing with big goals? It didn't matter. What mattered was in front of them both: poisonous ash, burnt stalks, face-down bodies, melted horses, battered steel, flesh clung to prickled shields and everything smelling like good meat. This was Haron's vision. "Are we going to do this in every battle?"

"Haven't you heard anything I said?" He grabbed Athos by the ear and then slapped him on the head. "Pay attention, my little elf-boy. A battle must be avoided at all costs, and only should we commit during an engagement with surety."

"I did." He whispered, eyes down.

"Hmm." Haron turned his sights back to the fires, which were starting to recede. Past the smoke, Ormradros could be seen galloping towards them, riding someone else's horse. He looked quite ill-fitted, bigger than the poor pony forced to bear his great frame.

He dismounted with speed and pointed both arms at the flames. "You maniac! You absolutely maniac, what are you doing?!" He had half a mind to wring Haron's neck, though stayed himself at the last second. "Do you know the problems facing the plains if Daggersarry's lost? The people displaced here? Where'd they go, now that you burnt their fields?"

"They'll have a choice; go to me, or go to Ardalsalam. They come to me and our realm, or they go to the Regent, and it taxes that witch's city further."

"Do you seriously think a couple hundred souls would tax the city of Ardalsalam? Or its farms? You're willing to force people to up and leave for your madness?"

"You need to think, Ormradros, with your mind, not your emblem. The third stage of the battle is just beginning."

Athos looked on with confusion. "The occupation?"

"No, no occupation." Haron shook his head. "Let this town burn for all I care. The only thing that matters are its people." He lifted his claw and pointed at the horizon to the roads to the heart of the empire. "And where they go."

"It's only a couple hundred souls, Haron. Tell me you've got spies to make that number count."

Haron smiled. "...a couple hundred souls taxed the Vsil when Burrowreek ripped through our ranks."

"Then what is your goal, exactly? I could've died, your men could've died, your knights could've died. What was the point in this if you hadn't planned on taking the city? Were you not intent on taking its people, bending them into our realm?"

"What use are the feeble-minded, unwilling to join the realm of their own volition?" Haron got off his chariot, and with the throngs of archers by his side, cackled loudly and proudly. "These are my people, Ormradros. Those willing to bleed for freedom are worthy of it, and everyone here has faced death and suffering for a mere chance at freedom. Don't you see?" He pointed at the town. "That spot of human waste has no such redeemers."

"Because they don't bow at your behest, they're human waste?!"

"Aye," Haron growled. "What do you want me to say, that I believe that they can change their minds? That they'll be redeemed by blade and fire? For what reasons do you plunge your sword into a peasant's heart, Ormradros? For what reasons have you plunged your sword? What do they become after they see your war's grimace in their eyes?"

"They died for their beliefs, Haron. And they deserve to be given a chance at dying with dignity, for God's sake!"

"And what of the dignity of my people? Have you ever thought about that, Ormradros of the Night Wail?" While Ormradros never got the chance to grab and wring Haron by the neck, Haron was able to grab Ormradros' hand, and he regretted letting the rat-general do so. Haron's claw, though it seemed as dainty as a child's palm, was rough and callused with decades of war, and his grip unmatched by anyone Ormradros had come across.

"Look at the people here." A tail crawled up to Ormradros' face, guiding him to the archers before him. Quiet, dirty, sweaty, small. Like Athos and Haron, wrapped in aketons too big. Wide-eyed, young. Women. Elves. The tuft of dog fur here and there. Once, spoils of war by the rot of magic and nobility. A good knight's purchase. A good man's prize.

But now, they were armed to the teeth, eyes hungry for more.

And the truth was undeniable. Here, today, they had the opportunity to fell proper knights. They did. After all, a child with a blade may still bare blades, and today, many blades were bared.