The country of Lavell was green and bountiful. Whereas large portions of Sarkana’s landscape consisted of hills, plateaus and highlands, Lavell seemed to be made of endless rolling plains, little rivers and valleys. It was easy to see why the Lavellan population outnumbered the Sarkanian by two-to-one, with so much ample ground fit for farms and livestock. That wasn’t to say that life in Sarkana was significantly more difficult, but rewards came only with greater toil and its people were a little hardier because of it.

The Sarkanians had always been a warrior people and over ten thousand of them now marched through the fields of Lavell, a great river of steel that shone and glistened in the light of a sun that had only recently pierced rain-blackened clouds. For nearly five days their progress had been slowed by storms and with summer still young the men whispered that they were of unnatural origins, that the enemy conjured magic against them. Caden didn’t believe them; the court of Lavell had no sorcerers and no hovel-dwelling witch in the woods could cast such a curse. “There’s no magic in the southern realms, lad,” Harik Wulfsurd had once told him. Magic did not belong in the southlands, nor could anything be found there that was interesting enough to attract a practitioner.

No, it was just bad luck. It had left the ground so sodden that it tore when men walked through it, leaving a road of mud and dirt in their wake. It had left men cold and shivering in the night, then mentally and physically fatigued during the next day’s march. Many had been taken ill with chills and rendered incapacitated on overloaded medical wagons, but as the sun’s light returned its warmth it seemed that finally their luck was changing.

They kept marching, the day growing warmer as it approached midday. By the mid-afternoon it was so hot that the men lucky enough to have space for their baggage began to remove pieces of their armour and King Valen ordered the army to halt its march so that they could rest. Caden, himself sweltering under his plate, dismounted his horse and found a large rock to sit on. He groaned in relief, removing his helmet and setting it down by his side, then lay back to gaze up at the sky.

“If that is how much it rains in Lavell, I’m starting to wonder why we didn’t turn around and march to Kedora instead,” a gruff voice said, followed by a clunking of armour as a figure sat down on the rock besides Caden.

Caden looked over to find Sir Anselm sat there, re-strapping his greaves and eyeing the hundreds of knights and horses around them. “So you ARE still here,” Caden said, a slight grin creeping on his face. “I was starting to think my father had you executed.”

“Me? Of course not, sire. I was merely following the command of my prince, as a loyal knight and subject of house Sarka should,” Anselm replied. Caden nodded in acquiescence, then let his eyelids fall to a close. “Besides,” the older knight continued, “that entire mess was your fault.”

Caden’s eyes opened again and he set them upon the knight with a glare, who upon seeing the look given to him began to howl with laughter. Caden felt the pain of wounded pride but hid it behind a monotone expression, disassociating himself from the brash prince who had done wrong – at least until Anselm calmed himself and went back to redoing his straps. “Have you seen my brother?” He eventually asked.

“Aye, I have,” Anselm answered. “Arian rides with Lord Wulfsurd. It seems the young prince is eager for the days ahead and asked the king if he could join the vanguard. They’re riding ahead to find suitable ground for tonight’s camp.”

“The vanguard?” Caden questioned, clearly unhappy with the news. “I would trust Lord Wulfsurd with my life, but with my younger brother’s? No, that’s unfair. Wulfsurd would give his life before he let Arian come to harm, which itself worries me, but what worries me more is that Arian will do something so brash and foolish that he would not get a chance.”

“Aye, he reminds me of his father,” Anselm said. “And his older brother.”

Caden couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

“You should spend less time worrying about your brother, Caden,” Anselm suggested, his suddenly sincere tone taking Caden by surprise. “Aye, perhaps he’s never seen a real battle, but I’ve seen him train with many a sword instructor. For someone his age his skill is truly impeccable, and I would worry about the foe unlucky enough to come against him far more than I would worry about him.”

Caden sighed. “You’re right, Sir Anselm. He’ll be a great warrior someday, but that day isn’t yet. In fact, he might even be a great warrior king. A much greater one than I would be.”

Anselm looked across at the prince, a slight smirk on his face. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. You might not be able to match him with a sword, but you have qualities of your own.”

“Perhaps,” Caden answered, looking down the column of knights, soldiers and their steeds. He saw the king in the distance, speaking to several of the high-ranking lords of the realm, and considered for a moment if he should go and join them. No, he decided. Not out of malice, or discomfort, but out of a rare feeling of satisfaction. Caden was happy to sit there on his rock and rest, and as the business of their campaign continued, he found his thoughts drifting away to things that didn’t matter.

-

“Hya!”

The eight hundred mounted men of the vanguard rode along a small dirt track they had discovered and watched as a wide, green hill grew above the distant woodlands. A large man with red hair led them, the stubble on his face now long enough to be considered the beginning of a beard. “Keep your eyes out!” Harik Wulfsurd called out to those around him. “Armand’s scouts could be near!”

A young knight rode near Wulfsurd, with short, sand-coloured hair and the royal griffin on his breast. Prince Arian, only eighteen, was significantly younger than the rest of the knights of the vanguard, but even so he kept up with them and managed to look the part of a warrior. “You really think they could be near?” Arian asked him, his hands gripping the reins of his steed tightly.

“If Armand has been marching in our direction, it’s a significant possibility,” Wulfsurd replied. “Especially if he missed the storm that we’ve battled these past few days.”

“I’m sure we would beat him if he appeared,” Arian said proudly. “Armand and his army couldn’t even beat us with the might of Kedora on their side and now they stand alone. Do you not think so, Harik?”

Harik grinned as he rode. “I’m never too sure about anything. We can only do our best and hope we’re looked upon kindly by whoever decides the result. Let me give you some advice, young Arian. ‘tis advice you’ve surely heard before but let me assure you now that it is true: a man is at his most dangerous when lying in defeat.”

“Because a cornered dog can still bite through your throat?”

“What? Oh, yes, that too. But mostly because a warrior isn’t taught how to fight a man on his back, only one on his feet.”

Arian didn’t reply. He knew that Wulfsurd had a wisdom to him that men seldom had, that there would be a truth to what he said he did not yet see. In the most basic sense, he knew Wulfsurd was right; a man on the ground was a much different and more tricky target if one didn’t know how to fight those in that position, but there was something else. Was it that a desperate man would go to any lengths to survive? Or perhaps that even those who had victory could lose everything if they did not move wisely?

The vanguard rode onwards, following a road that ran along a river that turned from east to north, then over a stone bridge and into livestock field that were on the outskirts of a small farming village. They rode wide around the village, avoiding the sheep and cattle and the peasant farmers who tended to them who looked upon the passing parade with either scorn or indifference. On the other side of the village a hill rose to the east, sloping gently upwards to a summit almost fifty meters higher than the river.

When they got to the top the men of the vanguard came to realize that it wasn’t a hill, but a wide plateau, and that the far edge sloped down into a wide grass-filled valley about a kilometre across. On the far east of the valley floor, the terrain sloped up again to another hill or ridge, lower than their own but covered in trees. To the north the river they saw from before curved eastward again to block that exit of the valley, while the southern end opened to yet more fields.

“We should camp here,” Wulfsurd said, then ordered a fast rider to his position. It was mid-afternoon by that point and Wulfsurd knew that they would find no ground better suited for tonight’s camp before darkness fell.

“What can I do for you, Lord Wulfsurd?” The rider asked him.

“Take twenty men and ride back to find the king. Tell him we have discovered suitable ground for tonight’s camp and lead them here quickly.”

The rider gave an affirmative salute, then left to follow his orders. At that same moment Arian rode up, left arm resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Harik, there are men on the other side of the valley,” Arian said.

Wulfsurd turned, surprised, to question the prince. “What do you mean? Men? Where?”

Arian turned his horse to face across the valley, then pointed to the hill on the far side. “In those trees, there. Riders.”

Wulfsurd squinted to follow Arian’s finger, then swore silently under his breath. The prince was right – two mounted men were in the trees, well concealed but clearly not trying to hide. “Sir Roydon,” he called out, then another knight wielding a spear approached him with several of his own men in tow.

“Yes, Lord?” Sir Roydon asked.

“Spread the word. I want the men formed up into two groups. I want you to take two hundred and conceal yourselves out of sight on this hill’s western slope, and I want the rest to form up here with me,” Wulfsurd commanded. “The enemy is on the other side of that valley, so we’ll make them think our entire army is here already. It will buy us time, but just in case, your men are to stay in reserve. If they do attack us, wait until you hear my horn, then sweep around and hit them in the flank. Do you understand my command?”

“I do, Lord,” said Roydon.

“Then go and be swift.”

The men of the vanguard carried out Wulfsurd’s orders. Two hundred men took their horses to hide behind the hill, while the remaining six hundred formed along the plateau’s eastern side. The armoured knights, roughly half the vanguard’s number, took the centre; while the remaining men-at-arms filled in at the flanks. Across the line flags and standards were planted at the hill’s edge to show Sarkana’s pride and Wulfsurd watched as the men across the valley turned and rode uphill and out of sight.

“I smell blood in the air,” Wulfsurd commented.

“Blood? I smell none,” replied Arian, who sat mounted by his side.

“Phantom blood. Blood not yet spilled, but whose time will come to flow soon enough.”

“You really think they’ll attack us here? We’ve got the high ground, and we’re all on horseback.”

“And there aren’t enough of us to properly defend it. If the enemy realizes this, or even sends men to test it, we’ll be bloody soon enough.”

“Then we’ll make the enemy bloody enough to regret it.”

“We will, but you’ll be out of harm’s way while we do it. I won’t risk the king’s son to defend a hill we don’t yet need. If there’s battle, you’ll stay back and not get involved unless you must defend yourself.”

Arian sighed at Wulfsurd’s order but had far too much respect for the commander to disobey him. “Very well, Harik. I’ll do as you ask.”

The two sat there, watching and waiting, until finally voices broke the tension that held in the air like smog.

“Enemy to the south!” A man cried.

“Enemy to the south!” A second repeated, and it was repeated again by a third until the men turned to their right to see for themselves.

“Lavellan knights climbing the southern face of the hill!” A knight shouted, riding towards Wulfsurd from that direction.

“Reform the line! Wheel southwards and face them!” Wulfsurd roared, and six hundred mounted men rotated their entire formation until they faced the southern end of the plateau. By the time they had finished, a front-line of armoured horsemen had finished climbing and formed up on the flat ground.

There must have been a thousand of them, all waving standards embellished with the white stag of Lavell. Arian saw how they had their weapons drawn, from spears to swords, and wore their helmets with visors down. His heart jumped in his chest but as the men around him drew their own weapons he swallowed his panic and unsheathed a shining virgin blade, knocking down the visor of his plate helmet until his eyes were granted only a slit to see through. The Lavellan knights began to move their line closer, until taunting cries and hollers rolled over them. The Sarkanians responded in kind, but it was cut short when Wulfsurd roared out, “get on them, Sarkanians! Show them how real warriors fight!”

Arian’s horse was spurred into action alongside hundreds of his fellows, and the yet even greater hundreds of their enemy. The sound of charging hooves rolled across the hill like thunder, but the truly deafening sound came from the cries of war emitted around him. Angry, prideful, scared; the yells of men seemed to merge into the roar of a single great beast, louder and more terrifying than anything Arian had ever known.

They grew closer now. Arian remembered Wulfsurd’s orders but he was right at the front and couldn’t risk slowing with so many behind him, and suddenly he felt a terror overtake him. He was trapped – any loss in his momentum could kill him, but the inevitable clash with that opposite wall of steel could just as easily do him harm. He didn’t know what to do, where to turn, so he held out his sword and kept riding.

The two sides met with a momentous crash - a cascade of steel, mud and horses. Men were flipped over, knocked to the floor, or immediately impaled by spears. Their steeds met a similar fate, their cries filling the air. Arian felt something slam into his steel cuirass, the armour protecting him from harm but making him feel as though a horse had kicked him direct in the chest. It didn’t slow him, so he kept pushing forward, swinging his sword into something made of steel, then again into wood, then again into flesh. He heard a cry, but so many men and horses were packed so closely around him he couldn’t tell whether he was the cause or just unlucky enough to be near it.

His horse tried to manoeuvre away from danger, but there was no solid ground to stand on. Hooves cracked and splintered through something, but Arian couldn’t look, and the horse had no room to turn. The field had become chaos personified and as Arian looked around him, he noticed that mounted men on both sides were not aiming for flesh, but for colours, for they were the only true means of identifying friend from foe.

“Push them back! Kill the bastards!” Roared a man that Arian recognized to be Wulfsurd, though he wasn’t in sight. Another voice came in reply, but it was foreign – the enemy’s retort, the encouragement of their would-be murderers. Arian was surrounded by living bodies, but never had he felt lonelier, or more vulnerable. Weapons smacked helplessly against his armour, just as he swung helplessly against the armour of others.

A spear struck him in the helm, the point almost reaching through the slit in his visor. He turned his head and the tip slid helplessly away, so he forced his sword forward towards the man who had tried to strike him and caught him cleanly in the shoulder with a thrust. The blade broke the man’s chainmail and when Arian withdrew it, he saw red at the end and the man twist backwards and drop from his horse to escape. Arian suddenly felt numb and angry; the fear drained away by the presence of adrenaline, and suddenly a desire to survive put an end to his panic.

He pressed on, fighting harder, more ferociously. He might have been inexperienced, but he was well-trained and strong and even as fatigue grew he was able to parry the blows of the enemy, or redirect them to the strongest parts of his armour where they became harmless. As time went on the closely packed mass of men and horses began to open up, giving those in it chance to move and breathe. Knights and men-at-arms both turned and went back to where lines had formed in the battle, then moved after each other again in wanton bloodlust. Men were fighting on the ground now and Arian began having to mind them as much as those still battling on horseback.

“Kill them all! For King Armand!” Cried one Lavellan knight, his accent thick and disgusting to Arian’s ears. Arian pressed on towards him, but a sudden blow came from his blindside and knocked him from his horse. He hit the mud near-winded and had to use a body to push himself up again, grabbing his sword from the grass nearby and standing quickly with the help of some other men who hauled him to his feet. Arian’s horse was gone now, running from the field, and with no hope of remounting his steed he decided to stay with the others who were fighting on foot.

“You there. Sarkanian knight, fight me here!” A Lavellan voice called from a gap in the battle. It didn’t take long for Arian to realize the voice was calling for him and when his gaze found the challenger, he saw a knight in armour as full as his own, with a white stag painted on a blue cuirass.

How did he pick me out? Arian thought, eyeing the knight’s slender, spike-tipped battle-hammer. A moment later Arian realized that it was because of his own armour; painted black with a red griffin, the opposite of the other Sarkanian knights. Arian caught his breath and gulped, then stepped forward towards the Lavellan with his sword gripped tightly in the mid-stance. “Come then!” Arian replied, trying to hide the obvious youthfulness of his voice.

The Lavellan yelled a war cry then charged, and swung his hammer with both hands towards Arian’s left side. Arian quickly moved his left hand down to grip near the end of his sword, then rotated and braced it against the hammer’s blow with a grunt.

Arian pushed then, the Lavellan moving his hammer away before he could be forced off-balance and swinging it around again to strike the prince from the opposite side. Arian followed its movements, blocking the second strike and then quickly stepping forward to within where the hammer’s range was ineffectual. He was met with an immediate headbutt and forced back, having to plant a foot in the ground behind him to stop him from stumbling.

There was no respite for either of them. As soon as Arian’s footing was secure he thrust his sword forward, the hammerer knocking it away to the side only for the prince to turn his wrists over and sent the blood-stained end of his sword clanging against the top of the knight’s steel helmet. A mostly worthless hit, but a hit none-the-less.

The Lavellan stepped back, but Arian pressed onwards and made to cut him. The blade was parried, but Arian was on the push now and followed through with his momentum, striking again and again as his foe was forced backwards. Eventually his strategy worked and the Lavellan tripped on an arm, falling to the ground with a blunted clang. Arian moved closer but found his leg kicked out from under him by the downed warrior and within an instant he joined him in the dirt.

They were scrounging now, racing to get to their feet, to pick up the weapons they had dropped in their fall. The Lavellan reached his first, then crawled over to where Arian struggled and cast his hammer’s spike down, fiercely, towards the prince’s visor. Arian managed to roll to the side just in time, then as the hammer was raised for a second strike Arian rolled back again, thrusting his sword up under the plate of the Lavellan’s helmet and through the chainmail that protected his neck. The Lavellan stopped, shocked, and Arian looked up at him in frustration. He let out a fierce cry then, bestial in its anger, and thrust the sword as hard as he could until the blade went all the way through the knight’s neck and out into the air of the other side.

The Sarkanians around them who had paused their efforts to see the duel suddenly released a yell of victory, cheering Arian’s name into the battle as their foes kept silent in defeat. Arian stood and removed his bloodied blade from his foe’s corpse, then raised his visor for air and clarity. He didn’t know what to think, what to feel – he could do neither, and he simply stood there in that small clearing between the fighting and watched his enemy without a thought for his continued safety.

“Arian!” A yell came, and suddenly the prince felt hands grasping his shoulders and pulling him back behind the Sarkanian men-at-arms. Mounted men moved forward to cover them and Arian turned to see that it had been Wulfsurd himself who had dragged him away from the fighting.

“Harik – “ Arian began, but Wulfsurd cut him off.

“Don’t talk, Prince Arian,” Harik said, then took a horn from his belt and with a large breath blew into it as loudly as he could. The horn’s sound carried over the field and a few minutes later, Arian and Harik watched as Roydon and two hundred riders charged from the western side of the hill and into the flank of the Lavellan force.

Arian did no more fighting that day, but the battle did not end for several more hours. Whereas the Lavellan had at first pushed the Sarkanians back, the appearance of Roydon and his men caught them by surprise and soon the field was equalized. Men of both sides kept fighting but their fatigue grew as much as their casualties, with so much blood soaking into the mud that the ground began to stink of iron.

As dusk approached the sound of horns and trumpets carried across the fighting lines and more Sarkanian standards were raised by fresh mounted men that appeared on the hill from the west. King Valen II led them, his son Caden with him, and they charged into the remaining Lavellan and forced them from the hill and into full retreat. Almost as quickly as they had arrived the fighting ended, and the commanders set about organizing the clearing of the field. Prince Arian roamed about the remains, lost and covered in the grime of battle, until finally his older brother appeared to meet him. The two embraced fiercely and finally Arian allowed himself break.

“I’m sorry, my brother,” Caden told him. “Next time I’ll fight for you.”