Durakel assigned two pairs of his men and Murago and a farmer to raze the biggest farms surrounding the town while Durakel, Rogden and Rogden’s bodyguards set out to burn the village hall. He split the remainders in half between the stone hideaway and the treeline, telling the group the fire squads would take a winding route and make two trails leading back to the rocks for the eventual revenge party to follow.

As the raiders passed the fields skirting Eaglecreek, Durakel instructed them to wait to burn the fields until the smoke rose above the town. The first two squads peeled off and as they passed the third farmstead, Murago began to slink away before Durakel grabbed his shoulder and hugged his cousin, whispering a brief assurance to Murago before slapping his back and sending him along. Approaching Eaglecreek, Durakel and Rogden withdrew the alchemic firestarters provided by Lord Ironhand and crawled on their bellies towards an unfenced region on the side of the town away from the river.

The two lordlings yanked the strings on the incendiary packages after placing them on the barracks before racing toward Rogden’s bodyguards on the edge of the town. They hollered and cheered as they left, ensuring the attention of a handful of inebriated guards patrolling the quiet town. The four warriors raced towards the river, grinning after a half hour as they saw smoke rising all across the starlit night from the farms supplying West River with the violet water lilies.

Drawing near the river and exuberant, Durakel slowed as he caught up with the other three fire squads, kissing each man on the cheek and promising a full cask of Ironhill’s finest when they returned from the raid. Ruddy cheeks and gleeful smiles spread across the group as they took two separate paths down to the river, Durakel instructing the other squads to make their trail obvious to give the pursuers some pause.

The warband reunited on the other side and hiked a circuitous route back towards the stone shelter erected by Agarn. Durakel announced himself before descending to the riverbed, his hidden warriors breathing a sigh of relief as they caught sight of their allies. Instructing half of the fire squad to head up to the treeline where the rest of the warband hid, Durakel grabbed Rogden and Murago and hunkered down on his stomach among the stones.

The hours slipped by in terse silence as the warband’s adrenaline kept them awake; heavy breathing the only sound leaking into the night. Just before dawn, the gentle rushing of the river parted as several bodies pushed into the flow and crossed the water. Durakel’s dozen ambushers hugged the riverbank as a heavily armed and armored slew of men forded the West River.

A few whispers danced across the silent air before the retaliating guards broke away from the riverbank and began stealing up the hillside towards the warband waiting in the woods. Zipping through the air, a flight of arrows flew into the men, three of them lodging in the chain armor donned by the guards.

Swearing, the eight scouts ducked down and retreated towards the river in time for another barrage of arrows to crash into them. Two of the men fell down as the arrows struck their backs and the Eaglecreek war party darted towards them to drag their companions to safety. As they reached their fallen, Durakel roared and stormed to his feet, marshalling his troops and rushing towards their pursuers.

He grinned as he drew close enough to see the wide eyes of his enemies, unprepared to face a dozen warriors racing towards them in the middle of the night. Engaging the group, Durakel reveled in watching the whites of his foes’ eyes blanch as his warriors carved through them. The melee ended after a few minutes, Durakel’s band ripping through the surprised Eaglecreek guards.

Taking stock of the battle, Durakel let an elated smile breakout as he viewed the lack of injuries. His men had hungry smiles, chattering to one another as the hours of bated breath crescendoed into an overwhelming slaughter of their enemies. The rest of the party stalked down out of the treeline and clasped their brethren to celebrate.

Agarn strolled through the warriors eyeing them to check for injuries and Rogden began collaring men and turning their attention to the war chief. Grabbing a small cloth and cleaning his blade, Durakel sheathed it and stared at every one of his warriors, nodding at each in turn.

“The night is not over. They will send more men when these scouts don’t return. We can’t afford the luxury of sleep or of celebration yet. Bagrad, pass out the coffee rations. Relad, have the men keep their blood pumping. More will be here soon.”

Two hours later, the Eaglecreek warriors proved him correct. Fifteen well armed men forded the river at dawn, stopping at a raised fist from the first warrior to cross. He knelt down to eye the disturbed river bank before gathering his warriors on the opposite side of the stones from Ironhill’s fidgeting warriors.

Slow steps brought the Eaglecreek warband past their ambushers' hideaway and towards the hillside beneath the woods scattered across the Ironhill side of the river. The platoon of soldiers approached the woods before stopping short as their captain crouched down to inspect the dirt where his predecessors had begun to flee the arrows pouring out of the trees.

He rose to his feet in time for a volley to descend upon his troops. A pair of men fell to their knees before wobbling back up as the Eaglecreek warriors roared and started climbing up to the woods. Another volley landed in their midst, striking another pair of warriors as the rest picked up speed. Crunching sand echoed across the river bank as Ironhill’s finest slithered out of their rocky defenses and rushed up the slope, catching their stalled prey from behind during a futile search for the archers in the woods.

Screaming, the back row of warriors dropped as their ambushers' blades found necks and hamstrings. The men of Eaglecreek turned to face their opponents and their numbers and unison threatened to turn the tide for a brief moment before Kinsa and the troops hiding in the woods slammed into the rear of the group, surrounding the warriors. The battle featured almost even numbers, but Durakel’s twin ambush enabled the Ironhill warband to slaughter several warriors before they had a chance to retaliate.

A pitched battle still ensued -- Eaglecreek’s professional soldiers having a small edge over the warband -- until Durakel’s troops surged forward after watching their warchief decapitate the enemy captain. Roaring, the victorious lord lurched forward and his warband followed him and dismantled the rest of the opposition. He panted and let his arms fall, gasping for breath and waving Relad over to begin hiding the bodies. The lieutenant jumped into action, sending a dozen men to begin digging shallow graves in the treeline and having the rest start dragging the bodies up to the trees.

As the men finished working, Agarn wound through the exhausted troops and placed his hand on each man’s shoulders, singing a deep throated lullaby. The quickness of the battle allowed almost all of the warriors to escape with only flesh wounds, and the shaman ended his inspection with Vuk, one of Murago’s farmhands.

Blood coated his legguards, seeping out of a wide rent in the right hip of the leather. Leading him off to the side of the camp for privacy, Agarn helped the farmer escape his torn armor and poured a waterskin on the man’s hip and used gentle hands to scrub off the gore. Uncorking another skin, the shaman poured a clear liquid onto the wound, snorting when Vuk hissed and jerked his leg away with a moan.

After cleaning the wound, he placed one hand on the loamy forest floor and one on his patient and bowed his head, "Domavi, this man has served his people and defended their lands from those who would do great harm; I ask that you lend him life and seal his wounds.”

The grass surrounding Agarn’s hand lost its color and a withered circle spread from his palm, killing the grass and every other plant for a few feet around the pair. Hissing again, Vuk looked down and watched his flesh close and a ruddy pink color blossom again on his hip as the blood renewed flowing.

Returning to the group, they found the deceased buried and the warriors sitting on tree trunks breaking bread and receiving their ale rations from Bagrad. The chief stood off to the side, talking to Shegara, Kinsa, and Rogden, setting up a rotating watch for the rest of the day. Breaking off, Durakel strode over to Agarn and clutched the man’s hand, offering profuse thanks before turning to the rest of the warband.

“Warriors of Ironhill, we have won a tremendous victory for our people today. We have dismantled two parties of seasoned soldiers with no injuries to show. We have dealt a massive blow to the West River assholes threatening to take our lands.”

He paused to let the cheers die down and tapped his own flagon against the warriors standing nearest to him.

“The battle and even the day are not over. There is yet glory to be won. We will steal some sleep this morning before setting up again this afternoon for the inevitable return of our enemies.”

The next several hours passed without noise as the warband nursed their flagons of ale and mugs of coffee, stealing sleep when they could, covering their faces with blankets to avoid the midday sun. Durakel tasked the men, with help from Agarn, to drag boulders up the hill to roll into the enemy formation. After the trap had been set and the sun began falling, Shegara came running back into the camp and took a moment to catch her breath before shaking Durakel awake.

“They’re coming.”

He cursed and began rousing the men, sending Bagrad with coffee to get the warband awake. They split, with half the men staying in the trees and half racing down to the riverside hideaway. A tense hour passed, the warband awaiting a larger, fresher force to answer their violet summons. Subtle thuds of dozens of booted feet hitting the ground drifted across the river and to the men crouched behind the boulders.

Durakel signalled for his men to prepare themselves and the warband held their breath as they watched thirty odd men dressed in the liveries of Eaglecreek ford the river and stall, eyeing the fresh turned dirt and bloodied grass of the hillside leading to the forest above. He cursed in his mind, panicking at the carefulness displayed by the new patrol’s leader.

The Eaglecreek captain held his fist up, turning to consult his second before having the party turn and crouch against the other side of Durakel’s stony barricade. After several minutes, the scouting party stalked out of their shelter against the boulders and skirted the hillside to avoid rushing straight up into the trees. Passing in front of the gap Durakel hid behind, the Eaglecreek warriors kept their eyes forward and on the trees as they searched for a more protected path up the hill.

They continued creeping along the rocky riverbed for a hundred yards before beginning to snake their way up the hillside, hugging various shrubs and rocky furrows as they sought to avoid the bloody rush of their predecessors. Arriving halfway up the ridge, a flight of arrows peppered the avenging party, causing them to hunker down amidst a bevy of shields and curses.

Another flight of arrows followed and the party roared before charging uphill into a series of waist high boulders rolling into them. At the head of the group, the Eaglecreek captain found himself no space to evade the first boulder and got crushed into the two men behind him. His second began rallying the men, running parallel to the treeline to escape the rolling stones.

As the boulders ran into the river, Durakel and his warriors slid out of their snare and hurried up the crest on a diagonal course to harry the men too slow to evade the rockslide. Arrows continued to fall into the raiders as they recovered from the boulders. They snaked back the other way to rush up the hill towards the archers that had emerged from the treeline. Plowing into the spread out string of Eaglecreek warriors that had separated from their party, Durakel’s men tore through the stragglers on their way to engage the lieutenant trying to tie together a desperate formation.

Durakel’s dozen men hammered into the enemy body and stalled, confronted with the disciplined and trained mass of soldiers. Once again, Shegara and the other third of Durakel’s band descended from the trees to strike at the backline of their enemies. Down half of their men, the Eaglecreek company set into their ambushers with frenzy, seeking to avenge their numerous dead. Several combatants start dropping as the hillside devolves into carnage, mud splattering through the air from boots churning the blood-slicked dirt.

Matched with a bearded man sporting several scars on his face, Durakel faltered, taking several glancing blows before his foe’s sword snuck into his abdomen, sliding on his chainmail, but tearing the flesh underneath. Swearing, Durakel paced to the side, almost falling in the mud, and raised his gauntlet to block the next blow. He smacked aside the strike, feeling his palm tear, and threw his shoulder into his opponent before lunging into the man’s armpit with his blade.

He caught the man before he fell, left palm smarting as it bore the weight, and lugged the corpse into a warrior next to him, bowling him over and enabling Shegara to finish the man off. Eyes stinging with sweat, Durakel gazed around the battlefield, seeing Murago facing off against two enemies. He watched as they struck Murago, knocking his cousin down. Durakel raced over to skewer one of the men from behind. Leveraging the surprise, Shegara whirled and her blade bit into the other man’s side.

Grouping with his lieutenant, Durakel south out another of his charges that seemed overwhelmed. Durakel and Shegara bounced from fight to fight, relieving his men and cutting through the Eaglecreek warriors. They turned the tide, freeing Rogden and his surviving guard, and storming through the battle, felling the stiff opposition. The last man dropped and half of Durakel’s men did as well, falling to their knees or rear, depleted. Relad descended upon the rest, sending teams to begin digging graves along the riverbank and tasking others to conceal the shallow graves with the boulders used to break the enemy formation.

Agarn meandered through the stalled warriors, establishing a triage priority and having Rogden drag the low priority cases off to address himself. Walking among his wounded, Durakel clasped each of his men in as much of a hug as they could bear and chatted to each of them and kept them company while they waited for Agarn’s touch to assuage their anguish. Coming to the last warrior in line, Durakel failed to stifle tears as he saw Bagrad’s pale face and blood soaked hand as the quartermaster clutched his side with tight lips.

He ripped off his own armor and tore his shirt into a rag, shoving it into Bagrad’s side and holding tight as the quartermaster passed out. Durakel remained with the injured man until an exhausted Agarn stumbled over and barked at Durakel.

“Get his armor off unless you want him to bleed out, you dumbass!”

Fumbling with the clasp, Durakel shed Bagrad’s armor exposing the gash along his rib cage for the healer. The bearded shaman had a gaunt look on his face, biting his lip and pointing at Durakel’s water sin.

“Find me a clean and smooth rock.”

Agarn scrubbed the blood and torn flesh away from the wound and drew a bone knife and cut into Bagrad’s side, widening the gash. He mumbled a few words under his breath, poured water on his hand and stuck it into the wound, eeling around for a moment before retrieving a finger length segment of the man’s rib. Durakel had to fight to keep his stomach intact when he returned with a palm sized flat rock. Agarn snatched it from his hand and rubbed water into it before clasping it in both hands and squeezing, molding the stone into a shape reminiscent of the broken rib.

Digging his right hand into the bloody hillside, Agarn used his left to insert the stone into Bagrad and then poured water over the wound. He placed his left palm onto the gash and closed his eyes, grunting in exertion as the tattoos around his neck glowed a dull green. Durakel spied similar flowing runes through a tear in Agarn’s leather gauntlets and watched as they seemed to pulse as Bagrad’s flank knit itself back together.

The shaman drove Durakel off, waving over a healthier looking warrior to finish cleaning Bagrad up and to find a more comfortable position for the troop’s quartermaster. Durakel stalked off in a haze, busying himself with helping his men drag bodies down to the hillside to finish hiding the corpses. It took hours, every man falling silent as their tired bodies carried out the grisly work.