Malcolm rubbed his leg, massaging away the ache that had begun to form. It had been two weeks since the injury, but it still was not entirely healed. I should’ve asked Oswald for some of his balm, he realized, remembering the cool paste. Beside him, Sven slowly loaded a slingshot, test firing it into the distant fields.

Malcolm shuffled, trying to ease his aching leg. He glanced down, cautiously eyeing the ground below. They stood upon Bullhaven’s wall, a stone’s throw from the main gate. Made of sturdy pine logs with sharpened tips, the fortifications encircled all of Bullhaven. A tiny wooden walkway had been build just below the top along the inside edge, allowing for a high vantage point.

The pain in his leg subsided, Malcolm stared out at the camp and fields below him, trying to count all the men. A vast expanse of shining helmets and armor surrounded the camp, encircling most of Bullhaven. It has to be a couple thousand by now. He tried to remember how many men had arrived in the last week. It seemed that every day a new group arrived, hailing from some far flung corner of the kingdom.

The men shifted impatiently in their rows, muttering to each other anxiously. Messengers ran back and forth, carrying instructions and orders. They darted between the lines, narrowly colliding with out of place soldiers.

Above every tenth man, a blue and gold flag snapped in the wind, proudly displaying the royal crest; a golden tree. The early morning light flickered off the gold, periodically reflecting into Malcolm’s eyes.

To make more room for men, the sleeping tents had been taken down, save for Oswald’s medical ones. Long boards covered the ditch surrounding the camp, allowing for easy access to the fields around Bullhaven.

Malcolm glanced down the wall to his right. A dozen yards away, Queen Estrellia sat on her throne overlooking the field. Beside her, advisers whispered among themselves, arguing over parchment rolls and maps. Tall shield barriers stood to one side, waiting to form a protective wall around their leader.

A faint melody of horns drifted over the field, wavering in the air. Immediately, the men straightened up, sending the clink of armor cascading through the line. They’re almost here.

Grabbing a bow from the ground beside him, Malcolm checked the string tension, gently picking the tight cord. A full quiver of goose feather arrows leaned against his left leg, their iron tips clinking every time he moved. Satisfied with the bow, Malcolm drew his sword, running a finger down the edge. Demisatious had presented it to him the day before, along with a brief lesson in defense. The blade was plain and unornamented; simple, but effective.

“Are you ready?” he asked Sven. The Goblin held his haunting mask, untangling the straps.

“Almost,” The Goblin replied. He tied the mask around his head, adjusting the eyeholes. Drawing the slingshot, he aimed out, checking the visibility. “I can’t be usin’ this thing!” he grumbled, shoving it into a belt loop. “Toe Goblins shouldn’t be hidin’ behind stones like a cowardly human! It’s…”

“It’s a direct order from the Queen.” Malcolm interrupted, lowering his voice so the monarch would not hear. “Her orders were clear. We stay away from the fighting at all costs.”

Sven grumbled, tossing a stone from hand to hand. Frustrated, he hurled it over the wall, chuckling as it bounced off someone’s helmet.

The far away horns blew again, pulsing every few seconds. Moments later, a thin black line appeared over the horizon, creeping over a far away hill. The Tribes, Malcolm realized. His heart raced. He took a deep breath, trying to relax. By the time he had finished, the line had transformed into a dark blanket over the far away hills, slowly rippling like a horde of ants.

Below the wall, horns blew from within the ranks, directing movements and formations. The sea of helmets twisted and turned as groups merged and split. Much of the left flank move towards the center, forming an outwards facing wedge behind the front line. Archers took their positions at the back, hiding under a chest high barrier. They plucked their strings nervously, quivers rustling.

Malcolm tried to spot Demisatious. After a few minutes, he was able to locate the General’s green banner, fluttering behind a white steed. He rode before the lines of men, pausing to give orders.

A triple horn blast rang across the field. Time for the archers, Malcolm remembered, reaching for his bow. Before he could draw an arrow, a volley flew out from beneath the wall, the shafts flying high over the head of the rest of the troops.

The arrows disappeared into the approaching mass, momentarily poking holes in the ranks. The individual tribesmen were just visible, bobbing up and down in imperfect rows. The ground rumbled as they marched towards Bullhaven, feet tramping on the soft meadow dirt. Their thick leather armor was silent. Only their weapons made a faint clinking.

Suddenly, a deep drum began to beat within the approaching army. With a deafening bellow, they ran across the hills, sprinting towards their foes.

The clash of armor filled the air as the two lines collided, hacking furiously at anything and everything. Horns bleated on either side, directing movements across the field. Every few seconds, the sky darkened as both sides sent volleys of arrows.

Overwhelmed by the chaos, Malcolm frantically fired his arrows at the Tribes, hoping they would find a mark. He lost sight of the shafts as soon as they left the string, joining the deadly chaos below. By the tenth shot, the skin of his fingers stung, cut by the bowstring. Beside him, Sven fired his slingshot; laughing as the rocks bounced off heads and helmets alike. “This be rather enjoyable!” he shouted, loading another rock. “But still be wishin’ I was down there!”

The Tribes slowly retreated, their front line shattered. Tall shield barriers took position in the front, forming a near-impenetrable wall of wood and leather. Is that all? Malcolm wondered, glancing at the battlefield before him. Led by General Demisatious and his stallion, the soldiers had formed a long wedge, pushing the Tribes back.

As the Tribes retreated, a red flag cut through horde, fluttering high above the battle. A golden tree glinted in the light. Armedious! Malcolm realized, recognizing the former prince’s banner. He could just make out the traitor upon a brown horse, his long blonde hair fluttering under his helmet.

Queen Estrellia’s voice echoed down the wall. Her words were lost in the wind, but Malcolm could feel the pain in her cry.

Armedious slowly waded through the retreating mass until he stood at the head of his army, facing down his former allies. He stared at the wall, raising his sword in warning.

General Demisatious rode from his line, as his green banner flicked and snapped in the wind. He stopped opposite the Prince, sword drawn. The two armies stopped their advance and retreat, watching their leaders anxiously. After a brief exchange of words, the two men began to circle each other, horses snorting and pawing at the dirt. With shouts, they charged, swords clanking in the still air.

The two forces followed their leaders, crashing together with renewed ferocity. The cacophony of battle swelled again as swords collided, arrows whizzed, shields cracked, armor clinked, and men cried.

Demisatious and Armedious wheeled around each other, periodically closing in for a brief exchange of blows. Their tall steeds waded through the chaos, stepping over the living and the dead. They slowly inched to the left size of the field, where the combat was sparsest.

Sven tugged on Malcolm shirt. “We should be goin’ after them,” he muttered, pointing to Armedious. “The General will be needin’ all the help he can.”

“But the Queen said…” Malcolm protested, sneaking a look back at Estrellia.

“The Queen won’t be carin’ as long as we be catchin’ the nasty boy!”

Malcolm grumbled an agreement, setting down his bow and quiver. They were almost useless at close range, and would only be a hindrance down there. Malcolm followed Sven down the ladder, glancing quickly to see if Queen Estrellia had noticed. She was fully absorbed in a conversation with advisers and kept anxiously glancing at the battle before her.

It was not long before they had reached the leftmost border of combat. Pairs of Tribesmen and soldiers fought hard, neither side willing to give ground. Malcolm ducked under a stray arrow, breathing a sigh of relief as it imbedded deep within the wall behind him.

As he ran, Sven fired stones at the Tribes. The rocks found their mark with deadly accuracy, puncturing leather armor and stunning foes.

At the edge of the woods, the General and the Prince fought, their horses so close they touched flanks. They clashed wordlessly, swords ringing loud with every blow.

Armedious wore dark steel armor, etched with thin gold spirals. Deep scratches marred the breastplate, along with a dent on the left shoulder. His helmet lay discarded on the ground, the visor dented in. The tattered remains of his banner draped on the saddle, tangling in the straps and buckles.

Demisatious hadn’t fared much better. Also helmet-less, he swayed in the saddle, almost teetering off at turns. Thin dribbles of blood ran from a puncture in the left forearm, pooling in a deep dent on the same thigh. His banner flapped in shreds behind him, catching the wind every time the horse turned.

Malcolm stopped a safe distance away, watching the fight with interest. Beside him, Sven drew back his slingshot, preparing to fire upon Armedious.

“Wait,” Malcolm said, putting his hand in front of the sling. “Give the General a chance.” Sven hesitantly lowered the slingshot, but kept the rock loaded.

Demisatious galloped past the former prince, slamming the hilt of his sword into his nephew’s leg. The armor crumpled under the blow with a loud clang, tearing loose a thread of gold etching. Clutching his thigh, Armedious dug his spurs deep, getting space away from his uncle. Roaring, he ripped the dented plate loose, tossing it to the ground.

His horse’s hooves thundered as he charged the General, blade raised high. At the last second, he flicked his sword to his right hand, cutting under his uncle’s guard. The sword sliced through the leather straps of the saddle, toppling the older man to the ground.

Demisatious struggled in the saddle, finally getting his feet from the stirrups. Kicking it aside, he grabbed his sword from where it had fallen, carefully taking a defensive stance. His horse galloped away, disappearing in the mess of combat.

Armedious jumped from the saddle, hacking at his uncle’s defense. The General crumpled under the blows, slowly retreating with every step. He frantically parried Armedious’s sword, abandoning any offense.

We have to help him. Malcolm realized, running ideas through his head. He tapped Sven on the shoulder. “Hit him now.”

A rock whizzed through the air, cracking Armedious in the shoulder. The Prince looked up, taking a step back. A large dent had appeared on his neck guard. “You?” he snarled, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Back for another defeat?”

While his foe was distracted, Demisatious rushed forward, sword raised high for a killing blow. In a split second, Armedious leveled his blade, plunging it into the General’s stomach. Demisatious fell limp, dropping his sword with a clatter. Metal screeched as Armedious ripped his blade loose, kicking his uncle to the side.

“Until we meet again!” the former prince shouted, mounting his steed. With a flick of the reins, he galloped off, rejoining the rest of the battle.

Demisatious lay crumpled on the ground, his breastplate punctured. The loose end of chain mail jingled as he tried to sit up, hand pressed tight to his stomach. A thin dribble of blood seeped though his gauntlet, staining the grass below. Chest heaving, he fell back down, coughing up blood.

“Get Oswald!” Malcolm shouted, pointing to the camp. Sven nodded gravely, taking off towards the wall.

Malcolm ran over, gently holding Demisatious’s head. The General tore at the wound with his gauntlet, trying to plug the hole.

“How…bad?” he mumbled.

Malcolm glanced at the wound. “Bad. Just stay awake. Sven’s gone for Oswald.”

The General chuckled. “I had to go sometime. Shame the Goblin won’t be here for it. How does he…” the General coughed, hacking up a glob of spit,“…like the mask?”

“He loves it,” Malcolm muttered weakly, ripping strips from his tunic. “If you lay still, I might be able to bind the wound and…” he could feel himself beginning to choke up.

“Listen,” Demisatious ordered, pulling him close. “Promise me you’ll get him.”

“Who?” Malcolm asked, immediately regretting the question.

“Armedious.” The General mumbled. “He did this, and you and that Goblin better give ‘em hell for it,” he gazed weakly at the town. “Tell my niece something for me,” Malcolm leaned in closer, putting his ear to the General’s lips. The older man shuttered, voice weak. “Long Live the Queen.”

With a final smirk, he fell limp.

“No, no, no….” Malcolm muttered, frantically trying to bind the general’s wound. His head pounded. Thoughts were difficult. Not again… Not again… he repeated. Images of the King’s body, slain by the same hand, flashed through his mind.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, clutching the General’s stomach. Before him, the battle began to sputter out as the Tribes lost foot after foot. Unaware of the loss they had just suffered, the soldiers plunged onwards, forcing back their foes with bitter intensity.

Malcolm halfheartedly scanned the battle for Armedious. The Prince had disappeared again.

The next half hour was a blur. Sven arrived with Oswald and a dozen soldiers. The General was brought to town on a stretcher, his body covered by a white cloth sheet.

The Queen met them at the gate, her face wet with tears. “Who was it?” She asked Malcolm quietly.

“Armedious.”