Vaskir marched alongside Pravin, Cradow leading the way. He was guiding them towards the southern entrance of the bandit camp, and Vaskir still held that small hope that this was all a mistake, that Cradow would turn around, unable to hide his mirth, and reveal the big joke.

‘We’re here,’ Cradow said, crouching. The others followed suit.

‘Those don’t look like bandits,’ Pravin muttered, doing his best to hide behind the dense shrubbery; if the environment was any less lush they would have spotted him immediately. But he was right, the “bandits” were too organised.

The camp was open and looked much like their own. In fact, it was almost identical. The same grey tents had been erected haphazardly around the camp, an obvious indicator that they didn’t plan to settle for long. A single large command tent sat in the middle, two alert guards on either side of the flap. The southern section of the camp, which they were closest to, seemed by far the most heavily guarded. The guards were a mismatched bunch, Vaskir saw upwards of 30 archers milling about their business, next there were spearmen (some wearing what looked like chainmail), axe users, and a wide variety of swordsmen, most wearing open-cloth overalls. Vaskir looked behind him and saw the 5 other teams they were merged with. Thirty men for the south flank against 50. ‘We need to do this slow,’ Pravin said, eyes wide as he examined the defences much like Vaskir.

‘We charge,’ Cradow said, offhand.

‘What?’ Vaskir whispered, knowing that he had not misheard him.

‘We charge. Monver wants us to cause a distraction,’ he cracked his knuckles, ‘we’ll cause a big one.’ Cradow had been promoted to an unofficial 30-man commander. Both Vaskir and Pravin had looked on in horror as Monver gave the promotion himself after explaining the assault plan.

‘There’s 30m of knee-deep mud between us and them,’ Vaskir said, locking eyes with Cradow. ‘Those archers will cut us down before we even reach the camp.’ Cradow smiled, all teeth.

‘Well then, you’d better hope their aim is terrible,’ he said and looked towards the camp.

There was no escape from this, the steel teeth of this trap had snapped shut the second he signed the retrieval contract. Port Royal was too far to make it back alone or with Pravin, they would either starve or get hunted by the local predators. In front of him was a camp of around 150 men and behind him was the inside of a Dusk Stalker’s stomach.

‘What fun,’ Vaskir thought and drew his longsword. The sound of iron dragging against the wood of his scabbard relaxed him for what was to come.

‘We doing this?’ Pravin asked, looking to Vaskir for confirmation.

‘We’re doing this,’ Both Cradow and Vaskir said simultaneously. Before Vaskir could comment, Cradow burst into action, sprinting towards the enemy camp, not giving any orders of action and leaving a confused group of men in his wake. Vaskir looked back, there wasn’t a single shield amongst them.

‘Follow the commander!’ Vaskir bellowed, standing. ‘And don’t group up!’ He charged as well, followed quickly by Pravin, lugging his greatsword. The other men were spurred into action and followed. A weak war cry echoed through the jungle.

Vaskir felt the moment adrenaline began to course through him. He focused on Cradow just as the man reached the mud field. It would be a gruelling slog through the mud, but with some luck the enemy camp wouldn’t realise what was happening before they could cross, avoiding most of the arrow fire. An arrow whizzed by Vaskir’s head, and his eyes widened. There was already a group of 5 archers forming a firing line, aiming their first barrage straight at Cradow, perhaps to create a warning for everyone behind him. Cradow took a step into the mud field and Vaskir grimaced in sympathetic pain, he would have had a better chance dodging the first volley on dry ground. Vaskir’s thinking was debunked as Cradow’s step didn’t sink into the mud but instead found purchase above it as he swiftly sprinted over the top of the mud field as easily as if it were dry. ‘An Ascendant!’ Vaskir thought, watching the man blitz towards the archers. They fired their first volley and a single arrow found purchase; the rest was nimbly dodged with a few horizontal steps. Cradow ripped the arrow out and in another 3 seconds was on top of the archer group, causing havoc. Vaskir smiled and felt a surge of morale at his back, the rest of the men had witnessed the spectacle as well.

But a single man could only do so much. As Cradow delivered devastating blow after blow to the first archer group Vaskir watched in horror as another 10 bowmen formed up, and a group of 5 melee warriors entered the fray against Cradow. Vaskir reached the mud field and made it 5ft before the first volley was fired. Once again the archers aimed at the man at the front of the pack—Vaskir. The mud was deeper than he had originally thought, and he was up to his hips as the arrows released. He lunged to the side, falling sideways into the mud in an attempt to dodge and minimise the area they could hit. Most of the arrows flew by, yet Vaskir heard a few grunts of pain behind him. A single archer, on the other hand, had used his head and had waited for Vaskir to finish his lunge. He fired as Vaskir was realigning himself and it was only through dumb luck that the arrow hit his blade, sending a reverberation down his arm as he watched the arrow wobble mid-air before falling into the mud.

Vaskir continued pushing through the thick sludge, his eyes trained on the archers. One of the archers stepped forward and shouted something, the ones behind him aimed high, no longer focusing on a single target now that there were a plethora of would-be pincushions to choose from. Another volley was fired as Vaskir reached the 20m line, ahead of the pack by a few metres. He was now up to his shoulders but could feel the beginning of an incline underfoot. A flash of inspiration hit him.

‘Dive!’ he shouted, going under the mud. He didn’t know if the others had listened and resurfaced 2 seconds later, wiping the mud from his eyes and casting a glance back. His fellow sellswords sprouted out of the mud like angry saplings. He grinned and turned back only to see the rest of the archers join the firing line, and Cradow was still preoccupied with wiping out the remnants of the previous group. Vaskir grimaced, gritting his teeth as he surged through the rest of the mud. He shouted another order as the archers fired once again, this time aiming over Vaskir’s head. ‘Dive!’ He heard wet slapping sounds as 25 warriors submerged themselves behind him. He didn’t turn to check if the arrows had missed.

He was clear of the mud field now. Twenty archers stood before him, maybe 15m away. Logic dictated that he should wait, at least for Pravin, so he had someone who could watch his back, but this had not been a very logical day, and strangely, as the adrenaline spiked, Vaskir liked his chances. He readied his blade and charged, the three archers closest to him had to drop their bows and scramble for the short swords on their hips. Only one managed to draw and make ready before Vaskir was upon them.

The middle archer jabbed out with his sword, trying to buy time for the others to surround him and cut him down through superior numbers. Vaskir used the flat of his blade to knock the attack downwards, then he stepped over it, trusting his mud-soaked leathers to protect him against any glancing blows. Vaskir struck downwards, cutting through the archer’s collarbone and lodging his sword inside what he guessed was one of his ribs. The archer died with a desperate, high-pitched, scream. Vaskir tugged on the blood-slick handle and pulled with his bodyweight to extract the blade. Just in time to meet the two other archers as they surged towards him. There was less than a metre between them and Vaskir felt his stomach churn and bile rise as he realised that 6 of the archers behind the 2 attackers had drawn their blades and were moving to flank him. Vaskir sliced the air in front of him, his longer blade achieving what the first archer tried but failed; the two attackers nervously backstepped to avoid the blow. The 6 others, three on each side, had finished surrounding him and Vaskir cursed his impatience. Vaskir turned to the left, making the attackers wary of an attack, then he turned right, achieving the same effect. This continued for another 3 seconds before one of the two archers he had originally charged grew tired of the charade and screamed, slicing out haphazardly. This invigorated the others and as Vaskir parried the first archer’s blow the others stepped in and struck. Vaskir’s mind reeled with the inevitability of death and in a final gambit he leapt on the archer that had triggered the barrage of blows. He felt a terrible pain slice down his back as one of the archers behind him scored a deep cut. He crashed into the archer and sprawled out behind him as the man kicked him off almost immediately. Vaskir looked up to see 8 archers charge him, all intent on ending this farce. The one he had tackled lunged forwards after getting to his knees, aiming for Vaskir’s throat. He tried to raise his blade to deflect but the cut on his back flared in pain and he actually lolled forwards, shortening the distance for the archer to strike.

Cradow’s fist slammed into the side of the archer's head, caving it in. Next, he stepped forwards and unleashed a high kick to the next closest, sending him flying into his allies. Relief flooded Vaskir as Cradow entered the fray. A loud cry rose up from the right of him and he turned in time to see 20 of his comrades rise out of the mud fields and charge the archers, led by a muck-covered, greatsword wielding Pravin. The whites of Pravin’s eyes and grinning teeth stood out starkly against the brown, which gave him a mad air. The group slammed into the archers, initiating a quick and dirty slaughter.

‘Well done,’ Cradow said, picking Vaskir up. ‘You are an excellent distraction!’

‘Thanks,’ Vaskir said, flexing his back; the cut was deep, he would need medical assistance once this was over, but it wouldn’t kill him quickly. Pravin sidled up to Vaskir, worry in his eyes.

‘We got the archers, mores coming,’ he gently placed a hand on Vaskir’s bicep and squeezed, a silent offer of support. Vaskir nodded and looked towards the inner camp. The south entrance guards were far more alert than the men deeper into the camp. Alarms were shouted but everyone was rushing haphazardly.

‘Hell of a distraction,’ Vaskir muttered. Cradow punched his shoulder, smiling.

‘Let’s go deeper!’

The remaining men formed a tightly packed group and moved inwards, killing the odd stragglers that came too close. Vaskir was in the centre of the pack, trying to recuperate before the next fight broke out. He wouldn’t get the chance. A group of 20 spearmen, led by what looked to be one of the armoured spearmen Vaskir had spotted earlier, rounded the corner. The two groups were maybe 10m apart with two tents, one on the left and right, forming a straight gully between the groups; ideal for the spearmen.

‘Vaskir,’ Cradow shouted over his shoulder, ‘you have the men.’ He rushed the group of spearmen. Vaskir shook his head, the man was, truly, insane. Still, he had bought them a moment to think.

‘Pravin!’ Vaskir called and the huge man made his way over. Vaskir explained his newly formed plan to him and Pravin nodded, worry in his eyes. ‘And take our axes,’ Vaskir finished. Pravin called all 5 axemen to his side and moved to the back of the group. Vaskir looked at the expectant faces of the 15 swordsmen before him. They had heard the plan and knew their role. The swordsmen looked to be veterans; most were older than Vaskir, grizzled, faces determined and eyes bright, searching for the orders that would let them see an end to today’s battle. Vaskir would not disappoint. ‘Form a line of 10, don’t strike out, just keep them at bay.’ The men moved to action.

Cradow was causing mayhem in the spearmen’s group, and yet, Vaskir only saw a single dead foe. Cradow, being a pugilist, was having trouble getting past the superior range of the spear wall before him. Vaskir took his place in front of the newly formed line and drew his longsword, calling up what strength his wound had left him. ‘Challenge!’ he shouted, pointing the tip of his blade to the spearman commander. The man looked away from Cradow and towards Vaskir. Challenges are used by Ascendants to gain glory and renown, showing their prowess by defeating an opponent in single combat. The practice is called duelling if the fight is taking place in a city; an official moderator would also have to be present. Here, on a battlefield, is where the practice is most prominent. There are many reasons to accept a challenge, especially if there is history between you and the challenger, and many reasons not to. Vaskir watched as the spearman commander’s back straightened and he neatly raised his spear.

‘I,’ the man shouted, ’Balfred Gleomer, 30-man commander, accept!’ Vaskir nodded politely, then responded.

‘I, Vaskir Freyfa, swordsman of the Monver expedition, wish you luck!’ Vaskir walked halfway between his group and Balfreds. Balfred did the same. They met, a few metres separating them. Balfred looked annoyed, most likely having thought that he was facing another 30-man commander.

‘You’ll pay for this trick, swordsman,’ he said, entering his stance. Vaskir did the same, not responding. Cradow was still fighting, but the lines did not clash, leaving the two men to settle their fight.

‘So far, so good,’ Vaskir thought, warily circling his opponent. ‘Now, just keep your eyes on me.’