While it was true that Varis’s army was occupied defending the capital, its police force still roamed the countryside. The men of the Varisian mounted police, who normally responded to bandit attacks or simply escorted travelers to their destinations now did their part to perform harassing actions against Estinian troops wherever they could, performing hit-and-run style guerrilla warfare, made possible by their quick and nimble courser horses. The mounted police would enter Estinian scouting camps in the forest, kill as many men as they could, and then leave before they could suffer a single casualty of their own.

One such force, the Arborvale County Gendarmerie, under the command of Lieutenant Lucerne Foseman, had arrived on the outskirts of the forest were ARO and the Long Whisper regulars were surrounded.

The police had followed the trail of Estinian bodies that their allies had left in their wake to this section of the wood. Lieutenant Foseman had every intention of joining up with them. This was before he saw a regiment sized group of Estinian troops close in on the area and surround it. His men had to wait until nightfall to attempt to break the encirclement. Now that the moon was up, they would not allow their comrades to suffer any longer.

A group of sixty policemen stalked through a poorly lit forest trail in the undergrowth with their horses, riding as quietly as they could towards the trapped army of Long Whisper. The trail was straight and narrow, flanked by thick ferns on either side. What little moonlight the men had trickled through the thick forest canopy.

The men kept their mounts calm and silent by stroking their manes and whispering in their ears as they walked. All it would take for them to lose their advantage of surprise was a single Estinian lookout.

“Sir,” said one of the men, "I hear the sound of a bowstring stretching.”

“There are all kinds of trees here, Ferenc,” whispered Lieutenant Foseman in reply, “I’m sure it’s a branch or something.”

In the back of his mind, Foseman agreed with Ferenc – that was a bowstring. But he desperately wanted to be wrong. There was very little he could do to react to an ambush in this darkness anyway. The men were following sounds – foreign voices in the darkness. Under the low visibility of the moonlight, the horses were leading the men down the forest trail just as the men steered the horses.

Another stretching creak came from the treetops.

“There it is again,” Ferenc mumbled.

Foseman said nothing in reply. He just wished that the archers – if they were truly there at all – second guessed themselves and believed that there was nothing to shoot at. If he could perfectly mimic a deer or an elk to throw them off, he would. He could almost feel the eyes staring at him from the trees, but the feeling of helplessness was very real.

A quick whistle cut through the air, ending in a loud thud.

“I’m hit! Sir, I’m hit!” cried a voice from the middle of the formation.

The horses began to neigh and rear – no smooth caresses or gentle whispers could calm them now.

Without a second thought, Lieutenant Foseman wheeled his mount around and galloped towards his screaming companion. As he did this, more whistles came down from the tree tops – there was not enough moonlight to see where they came from.

“Shields up, men!” Foseman bellowed as he saw to the first man that was hit. He felt around in the darkness on the injured man’s body, checking for the protrustion of the arrow or the stickiness of blood.

“What’s this? What are you screaming for?” Foseman said as he grabbed the shaft of the arrow and broke it off, “You’re fine, you idiot! Your armor saved you!”

The policeman let out a nervous laugh and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted as an arrow struck him through the top of his unprotected head.

More arrows rained down from the forest canopy. The men now joined their horses in panicked screaming as arrows struck the men’s shields and the ground around them. Foseman himself grabbed his small buckler and raised it over his head, just in time to stop an arrow.

“Damn it! Troop – on me! We’re getting the hell out of this kill zone!”

The men did not wait for another word – with loud shouts, the mounted police sped through the forest at full gallop, with branches and leaves smacking the faces of riders as their horses raced towards anywhere-but-there.

“Stay in formation, men!” Foseman yelled as he spurred his horse to catch up with the broken troop, “Regroup on me! We have to rescue the Lost Dawn contingent!”

It was no use. The horses were scattering in the darkness. Arrows pierced thighs, heads, and hands. A lifeless policeman clung to his still fleeing horse with an arrow sticking out of his neck that pinned him to the animal.

Foseman could say nothing more than “Go!” as he rode as fast as he could to get out of the woods.

He could see a clearing just a few meters ahead. If he could reach it in time, his men could regroup and form a counter-charge. There was hope for a moment.

Then it was gone – an arrow struck Foseman’s horse and threw them both to the forest floor. As he landed, he heard the sound of a bone breaking – his leg refused to obey him. Mustering up what strength he could, he crawled towards his horse, which lay thrashing and screaming on the earth.

“Ember!” he said as he cradled the animal’s head in his arms. The horse had been with him for years, and had saved him from countless enemies. Now it was time for him to rest, “There’s no need to suffer anymore.”

As the rest of his men who were still mounted galloped aimlessly around him in a rout, Lieutenant Foseman pulled out a dagger and stabbed his horse in the throat. The creature’s pitiful crying ceased, and Foseman allowed himself to cry before an arrow struck him in the side of the head.