The General and his horse both sniffed at the early morning air. More poetic men might have detected a hint of doom in the air, somehow the scent of the fog foreshadowing the impending bloodshed. Some might even find the presunrise gloom a ominous omen. But Laurent West was no such man. The days of consulting oracles and seers were long over, a general now had to trust his own skill and that of his men over the hopes for divine intervention. That being said Laurent was not about to give up on ancient traditions and silently prayed to any higher power that would listen for a swift victory. Depending on how badly the Baskar were defeated today it might be the last time the General would have to raise his lance in combat. At least against the natives.

The question was not who would prevail in the conflict, a well equipped army would have no trouble with surprised civilians, but the degree of victory. Depending on how well the Baskar followed his plan they would be crushed between a wave of cavalry, pushed into a wall of infantry, or brought down by a hail of arrows. The plan was simple really, as most competent plans were. A simple plan could be changed on the fly, improvisation not endangering the outcome of the campaign. And with the Baskar plans needed plenty of room for improvisation. Few Baskar were really civilians, even some women were competent with basic weapons. His men would have to be vigilante and harder yet confident with their actions. What ever mercy they showed would not be reciprocated by the Baskar. Fighting the barbarians for years had taught him that.

This knowledge made his job all the more easier. When he was younger and more naive he might have felt guilt or remorse for what he was about to do. He might even have protested the attack order. But luckily for the king his military career had taught the General two important things. How to follow orders and how to wag war. Sitting on his horse, minutes away from beginning the charge the General could only hope he had been successful in teaching those two lessons to the men under his command. Of course the decisiveness of the battle had been preached by the General to his men and to him by the king. The flip side being of course that if for some unseen reason the Baskar were able to counterattack and beat the Thiasians then the war would be all but over. Nearly all his experienced men were with him and most of the green recruits too. Not to mention most of his officers and a significant chunk of the nobility who made up the cavalry. Without its defenders or leaders Thiasa wouldn't need the natives to tear it apart, they would do it by themselves. Of course the natives, who would be full of righteous fury at the idea of their ceremony being disrupted, would certainly help in the defeat of the newly born kingdom.

Instead of focusing on what was at stake in the long run for incomprehensible amounts people Laurent focused his mind on the present, running over the plan once again in his head. The Cavalry would sweep down in two different flanks into the Baskar gathering, some infantry following behind to deal with groups of resistance. Hopefully none of the natives would be awake until it was too late. The natives would either fight or flee. If they fought soon they would be overwhelmed and forced to flee. The easiest and quickest escape route would be in actuality be a trap. The remainder of the infantry would be laying in wait for the barbarians to try and pass and would spring up around them. The whole time rangers and outriders would make a loose circle around the area, stopping anyone from escaping and hindering any attempted assistance.

"Now" was all the General had to say and riders moved from his position at the crest of the wave of cavalry to the far reaches of the line. In a few seconds his men would be primed and ready to go. The general waited patiently as only a few could until he counted off the time in his mind. "Charge" There was no roar from the general, or from any of his men. They simply quietly swept down toward the encampment. At least as quietly as thousands of horses could be. Flag signals alerted the other flank of cavalry and soon the plan months in the making was beginning to be carried out.

Kincade had his ear to the ground, listening for the tell-tale thundering of hooves. Right now all was still, but it was merely the quiet before the storm.

When he'd been issues orders to prepare his troop for battle, he'd met them with mixed feelings. One had been frustration – they weren't ready! Half the lads could barely tell a pike from a hoe. Give him another month or two and he'd have them kicked into shape, but right now...

The other feeling though, had been glee. He'd been off the battlefield too long. War was his drug. His love. His calling. Already the adrenaline was coursing through his veins like liquid fire.

He glanced back at his men. Crouched against the ground, they waited for the ambush, most of them so covered with leaves, dirt, and earthen debris, they'd be hard-pressed to tell one another from the savages they'd been sent to fight. A few unfortunate fools had attempted to win approval by polishing their armor to a mirror finish, only to have Kincade tear into them and make them rub mud into their helmets and breastplates. The shining, glorified ranks of the battles they'd heard of as children were a thing of the past. They were relying on stealth and intelligence here, and gleaming like a beacon was the equivalent of painting a target on oneself. No, this was might not be dignified and glorious, but it would work.

And hopefully, it would keep some of them alive.

Kincade wasn't like Tremaine – he didn't think of his soldiers as 'his boys.' But they were his men, and he had a certain degree of responsibility for them. It was his job to train them to either stay alive, or bring as many of the enemy down with them when they died. He fingered one of the lucky charms he wore on his neck and murmured a prayer to God to keep them alive and see them through this battle. Then he sent off a few more silent prayers to any other deities who might be listening. Just in case.

Then it came. The thundering of hooves. No shouts, no whoops, no battle cries – just the sweeping tide of the Thiasan cavalry, ready to ram into the Baskari warriors and bowl them right into the infantry's waiting arms.

Kincade nodded to the two front rows of pikemen, and to the sword and ax fighters lined up behind them. "Get ready to earn yer keep, lassies," he growled, a feral grin creeping across his face.

It was starting.

Thomas was fidgeting. It wasn't the thought of battle that was making his heart race; he had seen battle before and he knew he could handle it well enough. Kill or be killed, that was the way of it, and as long as things were fair it was fine. Fighting was fine. What was making his gut twist was knowing that somewhere in the waiting Baskar camp, his sister was some man's toy. She was probably dreaming of a rescue, and instead....

He swallowed. Renna who had never had the heart to kill a spider might die on the sword today, and no one would know differently. Kincade was too far away to warn; and he hadn't known far enough in advance what exactly was going on here to try speaking with a higher officer. At this point it was too late to warn anyone; the calvalry was sweeping down to the waiting camp and any noise would mean death for them all.

The farm lad had to bite his lip, and he barely heard his Sergeant's words. Kincade had taught him so much already-he was fairly confident that with God's will he would survive this battle. He was not so certain about his sister, and even a boy uneducated in numbers could guess at the odds a soldier had of finding one woman in the masses of Baskar and Thiasans. Especially when he could be hung for going against orders and placing her before the needs of his country and his king.

Although, looking out at the battlefield, Tom had another twisting of unease. There would not just be men down there, but women too. And children. Even if the latter two were Baskar, he had no quarrel with them...

His eyes fell to his sword, and he offered up a silent prayer that God would keep the blade from any of the innocent. Orders were one thing, but morals were another and at this point in time they were certainly more important. Besides, surely no one could complain if he left the women alone. They posed no threat, and he would be more than happy to kill the warriors. Surely that would make up for it.

He could only hope.

Izotz awoke early, uncurling from around his wife. It was still a little shocking that Renna was his wife, a full Zerui--and it was still the reason why he had been unable to sleep well at nights. His tribe didn't like it. Some of them even liked her. Some of them even liked him. But none of them thought it right that the first and only wife of their beleaguered tribe's chief was an interloper. He'd even heard ridiculous accusations, such as the one that he was bewitched. That his treatment of Oihana, after she'd killed his father, was due to such foreign magic. That she was barren (a ridiculous but benign assumption after only a few months) and had cursed the Izotzi tribe to wither and die. Several young women, in fact, had been expeditiously married into other tribes.

Maybe the Izotzi would die out, or fragment. At least Izotz's conscience was approaching something like cleanliness...

Of course, more sinister were the retrospective rumblings about Hibai himself. It is always a danger, after a leader is fallen, that he may be more revered in death than he was in life. That was Izotz's fear.

He shook his head and started off for the stream, to splash water over his face and make his morning prayer. Passing along the rows of tents, he was struck by the almost eerie quiet. When he knelt by the stream, his knees against the soft earth of the bank, he frowned. Vibration. The sound of horses moving. They'd gathered all of the Baskari horses in the fields surrounding the dual encampment; sometimes there were stampedes, if a predator was in the area to frighten them, but he'd seen no danger the night before...

Standing, Izotz hurried crashed through the vibrating water of the stream and was running full-out by the time he got to the fields. The horses were indeed running, scattering all across the plains--but there was a reason.

Behind the running, snorting beasts, he caught sight of the gleam of metal. Interlopers.

Izotz felt his chest tighten with panic, but fought it down. Instead he gave a muted, owlish whistle; his horse Aska swerved away from the panicking herd, soothed by the nearness of one of his masters, and Izotz swung easily aboard. He flattened himself to the animal's neck as they splashed back across the stream and into camp.

Only then did he let himself speak. "Interlopers! Interlopers!" He streaked across the rows of east-facing Zerui tents and then made for the Endikai side, spreading the alarm. They all knew what to do. The fighting men would head for the forests to lie in wait. The women and children would run for the caves at Eguzki's mouth and take refuge there, where they kept foodstuffs and a ready supply of water (of course). But what about Renna? She wouldn't know what to do.

Satisfied that someone would sound the alert now that he'd set thing in motion, Izotz wheeled his horse and set off, past the press of awakening Baskar, back to his wife.

It was early, indicated by the crisp air that flowed about Gergori's skin as he moved fluidly through his forms. Ever since his defeat at Izotz' hands Gergori had examined his fighting style, angry at every trainer who had ever told him he was an efficient fighter. In the blind warrior's mind, even one such defeat meant he was inefficient, ineffective. Every morning he had journeyed out alone, systematically stripping away every move he found more flashy than effective, taking away high kicks, flips, and all manner of showy attacks. Instead he replaced it with raw power, strengthening his punches and low kicks, striking at trees until his nerves were dead, lifting any heavy object he could until his muscles burned. Today started no different, with Gergori warming up by shadow boxing, feeling scarred fists cut through air. It was when he began to to strike at the trees however, that he heard the call.

"Interlopers!" Came the cry, a male voice. Gergori's stomach turned in knots, not out of nerves but out of anticipation. Could this really be it? A real culmination of his skills, open air combat? He grinned wildly, like a lion spotting its prey. He practically sprinted back to his tent, flinging aside belongings to get to his most prized possession of all. Though he had never truly seen it, Gergori knew the axe he held was beautiful. A thick, hard wood shaft that culminated in a copper head, an edged wedge of metal in the style the Interlopers called "bearded." In the small raids and skirmishes he had been in, Gergori carried a short sword, this was different though. He didn't just want to kill his opponents, he wanted to be showered in their blood. His physical wounds had faded but his pride was still scarred, he thirsted for vengeance and only open combat could quench it.

He could feel the ground shake ever so slightly. Horses, lots of them.

Gergori's breath caught in excitement, still, plans had to be followed. He relaxed his muscles then howled out into the camp. "Interlopers!" Gergori yelled, his voice carrying easily. He gripped the axe fimly and set off for the woods. Oh, the Interlopers would regret ever arriving once Gergori got a hold of them.

Yanamari was usually a calm sleeper. She would flop into her blankets and sleep still till the morning. Once in a while, however, she would have fidgeting fits. These nights were usually bad for Zurine, as she would have a little fist smack her in the face or a foot kick her in the stomach. The morning following such nights, Zurine was particularly sluggish and woke up earlier than usual.

She stepped out of the tent and blinked at the waxing light. There wasn't anyone around yet, but there was still a feeling of activity. Zurine tied her hair back with a strip of leather and looked up into the sky. The sun hadn't even crested the horizon yet. Perhaps she could put in some archery practice, or interrupt Su's sleep and get him to spar with her. He might already be up, he tended to rise early.

With her mind made up to disturb her brother, she began to walk in the direction of his tent. She was interrupted by a distant shout. Her steps slowed as she turned around to listen better. The shout repeated, growing closer, until Zurine could understand the word. Interlopers.

For several moments Zurine was confused. Interlopers? Here? They were coming? She stared in the direction of the shout, her eyes scanning the woods. She saw a couple of people - men - gathering up their weapons and scattering into the forest. It was...time for war? So suddenly? They were being attacked, just like that? Weren't they supposed to have a...warning or something?

Other people were appearing out of their tents. It wasn't long before Zurine's stupor was interrupted by a heavy hand on her shoulder. She turned around and saw her brother Su staring at her.

"They're here," she mumbled.

"I know. It's time to go, jaun."

Zurine winced and looked away from him, then pushed his hand off her shoulder and strode back to her tent. Artea was standing at the entrance, looking with worry toward the woods. She looked at Zurine with fear and confusion in her eyes.

"Take Yanamari and go to the caves," Zurine ordered, pushing past the girl to go inside. Yana was still sleeping on her pile of furs, but Zurine didn't have the strength of will to wake her. Instead she went about pulling on clothes and gathering weapons.

"They're really here?" Artea squeaked, her hand gripping the cloth that covered their doorway. "The interlopers...they're coming?"

"Yes," Zurine grunted. "Take Yana and go." She spared a glare for Artea as she picked up her axe, and then walked out of the tent before her daughter woke up. She forced the glare to stay on her face as she turned toward the woods with everyone else. Soon enough Su joined her.

"I can't do this," she whispered. "I'm not ready."

"You can and you must," Su replied in a murmur, urging her on by increasing their pace. "If for no other reason than to give Yanamari a future. If the interlopers take her, she'll only be a servant to them, or worse. For the rest of her life."

Zurine felt a surge of motherly protection ignite within her blood. She had never killed anyone before, never wanted to, and still didn't want to fight. But if it came down to protecting her daughter, she would kill anyone she had to. Or so she hoped.

It was a good day for fighting. Of course, to Tius, every day was more or less the same when it came to fighting. It was all he really knew how to do. But still--he'd polished his armor, then, somewhat ruefully, plumped for mail. In this climate, it was the only sensible choice, and it wouldn't glint--that was a problem, he knew. Oh, some knights would give them away, for sure. Those who insisted on helmets, those who didn't understand the concept of stealth... it was new to him, too, frankly.

The barracks were crowded, but no worse than Roma's at the best of times. All in all, he thought, their job was actually somewhat easier than putting down a barony rebellion or the king's armies. And God was on their side.

Tius didn't believe in praying before battle, at least not for victory. Instead, he faced the iron sky calmly, and spread his arms. Walk through the valley of shadow, he felt in his bones, and be not afraid, for He is with you. He didn't embrace death, but, he thought, he no longer feared it. This was not to say, in the heat of battle, he would not do his best to speed other souls on to their eternal rest. But as for his soul--for him there was peace, blessed peace amidst chaos, as there had not always been.

When they swung aboard their horses, he turned to his men only to give them a nod. Amongst the arrayed Papal armies, added to Thiasa's troops, his regiment of fifty knights seemed insignificant, but he knew them to be some of the best, tightly-knit. Varius, an infantry lieutenant, was nowhere to be seen. Good, Tius thought grimly. The brothers fought best apart, as if trying to prove something to an invisible watcher--and of course they were: the departed Marcus.

They moved out, and Tius checked his horse for a moment as the animal tried to surge ahead. This wasn't an out-and-out attack. They would try to catch their quarry by stealth, boxing them in and descending. He had a bow, he had an axe, and he had his sword--more than enough against the bronze weapons of the pagan barbarians. They thundered down a rise, then around the base of a hill, and he caught the sparkle off a pool of water before he saw their herds of horses; then an idea hit him in a flash.

"Follow me!" he called out, peeling off from the rest of the column. His regiment followed, and Colonel Renatus let him go, though the column drove on toward the thin trails of smoke that marked the barbarian encampment. His plan was obvious--stampede their horses, and the barbarians would be deprived of one of their major strengths. Tius bore down on them, scattering the animals, and sent them dashing back the way the Thiasan army had come. He smelled their dung, lost himself in the roll of their panicked eyes--it was that time just before a battle when all sensations heightened. He felt amazingly alive, alive in a way that people only were when they knew that very soon they could be dead. He drove onward, splashing through a stream with his men behind him, the horses still scattering in their wake, and they were at the encampment.

And it was quiet. Tius wheeled his horse uneasily, sweeping the surrounding area with his gaze. No one. Instinct told him the tents were empty. The first rays of the rising sun caught his eye and blinded him for a moment, and his horse bunched his muscles and pranced uneasily in place. Tius backed up, taking his men with him. They'd fled. Damn them! Somehow they'd got warning--well, they couldn't be far, and not all of them could have made it away so quickly. Fires still smoked between the rows of their primitive tents.

"Stay with me," he barked, and urged his horse forward, leaning down to peer in through the entrance of each dwelling they passed. The skin on the back of his neck crawled.

The faint whistle of an arrow was his only warning. Cursing under his breath, Tius flung himself sideways off his horse; behind him, he heard the squealing shriek that meant one of his men's mounts had been shot out from under him.

"Cover and shoot back!" he roared, sliding to the ground, heart pounding a mile a minute, the taste of metal in his mouth--he'd bitten through his tongue. "Bows!" Trying to calm his breathing, he searched the skies--the trees. Another arrow--from there. And were there still barbarians in the camp?

Iñaki woke up to shouts. He rose silently, leaving Esti still asleep amongst their furs, and peered through the flap of his east-facing tent--to see chaos surrounding the rising face of Eguzki. He made out a faint cry:

Interlopers.

"Esti! Esti!" He shook his arreba-emazte awake and helped her to her feet. "Listen to me. You have to get out of here. Go to the caves--go with your ama--" He refused to meet her eyes, but instead strode to the corner and gathered up his archery things, strapping the quiver to his back with economical motions, his sword to his side, his axe to the other. In his present state he would be useless with both--but not with arrows. Since Gergori's attack he had practiced every day, and the wiry muscles in his arms had come back ropy and strong, his eye--the one he had, Iñaki thought grimly--had returned, and he had hate in his heart for anyone who might hurt his wife or child.

"Here--" He grabbed a leather cloak and slung it over Esti's shoulders. "It'll help shield you." The leather was thick, and might even protect against arrows. But surely no interloper could ever hurt a young pregnant woman? He'd take no chances as to their honor. His heart began to beat fast, like a rabbit's. This was revenge--revenge for the skirmish that had taken his eye and one of their men. Revenge at the edges of iron swords. "Come on." He grabbed her hand and tugged her after him.

Esti was woken by shaking and shouts she had heard distantly, in her sleep. Firm, bony hands were pulling her from the furs, helping her to her feet; she was frightened, until she saw the familiar face of her husband, and then she smiled. Had she imagined all the shouts, the vibration of the ground under her as she slept, as though thousands of feet pounded it?

But one look at Iñaki, even though her eyes never met his, and the smile dissolved. Interlopers? Here?

Although Esti knew she should have panicked -- and, for a moment, she did, internally, where no one could see but her and the baby -- a clear, cold calm fell over her just as the cloak fell over her shoulders. She watched as Iñaki gathered his weapons: bow, arrows, sword, hatchet. She looked around the tent for anything she could use, snatched her small cooking knives and longer hunting knives and the blanket she had woven for their wedding, and tucked the knives into a fold of fabric.

Just before they both left the tent they shared, Esti stopped, pulled Iñaki down for a fierce kiss, and whispered, "I love you. Take more than just their eyes, and don't worry about me. I'll take care of things." And he pulled her out into the chaos that was their camp.

For what seemed like hours, Esti stood among the screams and pounding earth and felt overwhelming fear and despair. And then, she saw a group of children cowering, waiting to run to the caves, and took one by the hand.

"Anyone not able to shoot a bow, come with me!"

Iñaki shut his eyes for the merest second when Esti drew him to her for a kiss. He tasted the sweetness of her lips and knew that it could easily be the last time he ever did. It was only after a few seconds too long that his eye seemed capable of focusing again, and he watched her small figure retreat determinedly, and he himself took a running start, heading for the woods.

"Come on!" he shouted, tugging at sleeves, at tent-flaps, at any scrap of attention in the melee. "Archers! To the woods! Archers!" Peru fell in with him, and Iñaki shot him a hint of a smile, just a tuck upward at the corner of his mouth. When Peru's mouth opened quizzically, he knew what he was going to ask: where was Mikel? But that was the last thing Iñaki cared about. He only shook his head and kept running, early-morning wind whipping through his hair. The world had that curiously clean smell one only smelled just around sunrise, but now, with it, he caught the tang of smoke and blood.

They hit the treeline and melted away, at least to the interlopers' eyes.

Iñaki found purchase at the trunk of an oak and tucked his body into a neat package, reaching for each new branch and swinging his way up. That was one benefit to his spare, gymnastic frame--he could contort himself into any number of shapes, and he was an expert climber. He stopped only when his head brushed the leafy crown of the oak. Its leaves were curiously peaceful, rustling only slightly. Iñaki found himself transfixed by the sight of one droplet as it collected on the green of a leaf, and then he shook his head and tugged his bow free from over his shoulder. An arrow from his quiver went to the string, and he squinted through the leafy covering, his one eye narrowed in concentration, the bow drawn back taut.

He loosed an arrow, and hit one of the interloper horses, which went over with an almighty crash of that silly metal the interlopers liked to cover themselves in. Another, and he hit a man in the chest. Another. His fingers were moving in a blur, and around him, more archers squirmed to their places in the trees, and their arrows joined his.

Today was the day. It sounded cliche as he rolled it over in his head ,but it was the truth. Today was his great debut. The end result of slaving in a lab for far longer then others would have deemed healthy. Today he planned on using a few of the crowning inventions. He'd decked himself out with an array of weaponry that ranged from a rapier ,too a dirk ,too a mess of Scalian made pistols and even another new invention. A few grooves in a musket gave it better accuracy ,but took him around two minutes to reload. But it couldn't be helped considering the horrible aiming that came with a musket. When practicing with one of the pistols he'd hit a bird in flight. This was less impressive considering that he was aiming at a tree branch twenty feet below it.

Such refined things were difficult to make in the current stage. A bit of royal funding could make all the future difference ,but the crude worked fine at the moment. A perfect example of the crude could be found in the five clay jars that lay roughly fifty feet before the infantry. The normal plan for them involved tripwires but Deora had wanted more control and instead held five thick cords. Each one corresponded with one of the jars.

Inside each jar were such things as gunpowder ,bullets and metal shards that created a delightful explosion that coupled nicely with the horrific shrapnel. Most of the Baskar warrior would be in battle and he had no illusions that the incoming natives wouldn't be women and children. Some fools hid behind delusions of honor but no such things affected him. A Baskar woman was capable of fighting and creating more warriors. The children would grow to be warriors with hatred towards the killers of their fathers. Of course the importance of the future paled to the issues of the present. He grinned contently and flexed the cords.

Xanti’s search for both father and brother had provide futile, true he hadn’t searched long, afraid of the confrontation, yet where he had looked for them they remained elusive. Perhaps that was best, for little did they know a battle was to come mere hours from then, no doubt they would have argued and cussed the night away. However he had come across one being to which he was glad, Edorta, sweet beloved Edo, with worry in his eyes he’d questioned Xanti’s motives. To which he had replied a petty excuse he could no longer remember, something along the lines of his people having the right to know he lived. An encounter he now longed to lengthen for he had remained in the company of the Endikai shaman for meagre minutes before limping on to find his kin. The night previous to now had Xanti sleeping fitfully among children, yet he would be sleeping elsewhere had it not been for Arrosa, a once beautiful old woman who had helped raise the warrior as a child. Yet Xanti had found comfort in his mother’s old friend and the wonder the younger generations gazed at him with, they questioned him mightily about his disappearance and although he was sketchy on details they still remained in awe and seemed pleased with the answers they received.

The young man awoke to a child’s whimpering; groggily he opened his eyes to see a young boy of around fourteen winters rocking slowly with his head down. Slowly he crept toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder he was about to question the young male when shouts cut his short. Frowning he strained to here what the people of both Zerui and Endikai were so ardently warning them of, yet he could guess and with that his blood ran cold, his heart all but ceased its beating. interlopers. Ordering the young male to help him rouse the other children he quickly with efficient skill attached his two bronze shorts words to either hip, cursing their ill fate he was dismayed to see none older than the boy to who had been crying surrounding him, and his mothers friend. ”Arrosa, is there not weapons here in case things are to go awry?” his words were urgent as he listened to the approaching thunder of hooves, although frightened the elder woman went about digging under numerous furs. Within moments she had a small collection of daggers, groaning inwardly Xanti handed out the weapons to the eldest of the children before slowly and deliberately leaving the tent.

With a heavy heart the warrior fell into a hunters crouch, yet no interlopers had yet penetrated the camp, ushering the young toward Arrosa Xanti precariously led the way to what he hoped would be safety. With swift feet they travelled almost silently among the large encampment, save for the quiet crying of those to who longed for their parents. Arrosa had been clever in positioning the place of rest near the edge of the Zerui encampment; compared to others they were fairly close to the cave where hopefully they would be safe. That was when the screams cut through the pounding of hooves, war cries were called out and blood curdling bellows shook the very cores of the children he lead. With haste he urged them into a run, although laden with a limp he was still fast yet those with younger years had smaller legs, they lagged behind. Without bow or spear Xanti and his juvenile companions were at a higher risk, cursing Xanti fell behind the group and with wary eyes watched the scenes around them. Refusing to allow himself the fear others felt for both the children, he, his people, and Edorta Xanti hardened himself and moved on.

Hearing a familiar voice he searched for the body it belonged too, dread catching in his throat he was dismayed to see a pregnant Esti leading yet more children. Calling to her he and his rabble approached, now with both swords in hand he with apprehension watched over them, unsure of what to say he merely took lead once more, realising now that if they were attacked it would be but he a few adolescent boys and a pregnant women to protect the children. A thousand thoughts whirled within his mind and almost immediately he quickly turned to his sister, ”Here, if I must leave you I leave you with a decent sword, one you will be able to kill with despite lacking skill.” Eyeing the moving group he rounded on a broad shouldered boy old enough now to be a man, ”You, take my other, I leave these women and children in your care. Prove yourself a man.”. It was not only hard to part with the under guarded group but his well crafted and able swords, confident they’d get to the cave which was not far from where they stood Xanti bade them farewell before rushing to aid his fellow warriors.

Adrenaline made the pain of his shoulder lessen and the stiffness of his ankle subside, within moments he had grabbed a bow clearly to strong for its owner along with numerous amounts of arrows. Latching an axe to his belt he flung the bow across his back while hefting up a short sword not unlike his own two. Death was already about him and for that alone he cursed the white men, if men they could be called, with efficient skill he like many others of the Baskar slunk into the shadows of the forests around them. Despite the lack of pain Xanti knew his healed injuries would not allow him to scale a tree, he still had a limp and his shoulder was not what it once was. A call from above warned the warrior a foe was fast approaching, turning he hacked his way through the body before it fell at his feet. Sweating profusely his naked chest heaved, whipping the moisture from his hands unto his trousers he knocked arrow after arrow into his bow. Cutting those off before they reached within many feet of were the women and children sat dormant within the cave.

His thoughts kept flashing back to the children, to Edorta, what if the Baskar numbers where not enough? What if the cave was infiltrated? If he could be spared he’d take more men and defend it, however as arrow after arrow flew he knew that would not be for a while.

Gergori listened to the nearby shouts and screams, interspersed with the light swish of arrows and the wet death rattles that represented another fallen Interloper. The blind warrior hadn't made it to the forest, he had heard the approaching hoof beats and ducked into a nearby tent. As far as he could tell, the rest of the camp was deserted, and Gergori felt a mild fear at finding himself separated from the rest of the Baskar. He pushed the feelings away, they were pointless and merely detracted from his ability to fight, instead he gripped the handle of his axe tightly and stepped out of the tent. Staggering footsteps approached him, the sharp smell of blood hit his nostrils, a wounded Interloper. He could actually hear the sound of a sword being drawn and laughed aloud. He twisted his entire torso to move the axe, letting momentum carry its head into the Interloper's chest. Metal shrieked against metal and Gergori knew the attack had slid off armor, still, the victim had fallen backwards, knocked off balance by the force of the blow. Methodically, Gergori collapsed his knees, driving them into the fallen man, so that he came to rest over the victim. Gergori grinned wildly and grasped for the Interlopers throat, fingers wrapping around a steel gorget. With a grunt Gergori tore the neck guard away, feeling buckles break away from the Interloper's neck.

"Baskar dog!" The interloper wheezed out in his own language. Gergori merely tossed his axe to the side and lashed out at the throat. The Interloper tried to fend him off with one weak arm, his other presumably useless due to injury, but Gergori brushed the hand away with ease. His hand wrapped about the man's throat and squeezed, it was an odd sensation, like crushing flimsy metal. There was a crackle, a gurgle and then the Interloper went limp. Gergori pushed himself off his prey, grabbing his axe in the process. The kill had done little to stave his desire, it had been too easy, he wanted the visceral sensation of an axe in flesh.

All around him arrows whizzed by, Interlopers scattered for cover. Gergori felt frustrated here, he couldn't fight here, not with the threat of being shot by his own people looming over him. He hefted his axe over one shoulder and continued on his way for the forest, someone would have to protect the archers once the Interlopers broke through.

When Xanti had told him he was going, Edorta had remained strong. He'd stood tall, his dark eyes trained upon the warrior that he had given his souls to, the one man that he knew would never be replaced by another and had bade him farewell. He'd watched as his back retreated, fists clenched at his side, his eyes burning and throat too tight to speak, to say anything else. No confessions of love, no asking of returning. All he knew was that he was faced now with his own empty bed. No more than two minutes after Xanti had hit the trees the young two-spirit had broken down, his mother there to hold him as he cried out his fury and hurt, of his knowing that Xanti wasn't coming back to him. He would never care so strongly again. When he'd told his mother these things through his broken sobs she had held him tighter, telling her son the truth. She bade no ill will toward Xanti. She told him that he had to tell Xanti to come back.

So, four hours after Xanti had left, the sun in the middle of the sky, Edorta threw on his favorite clothes, the loose women's garment was a pale, flowing to his knees and covering his chest as it flowed down, forcing a more androgynous look to him. His mother pulled his hair back and equipped him with his father's sword for protection. He was a warrior, trained since he was a lad, like the other boys. He had been fairly skilled with the arrows, although he had been better with the short swords, small and fast, pretty enough to distract.

But the day was too beautiful. Nothing could happen on a day like today, when the sun was in the sky and the birds sang their songs of joy and life. There would be no need for the sword but, because she insisted, he obliged, taking the bronze weapon from her without protest. With some supper of dried meat he set out, trailing after the warrior he loved.

The day faded into nothing as he walked hoping that, at any moment, he'd run into his warrior. He could feel him all around him, as if he were the air that he breathed, as if he were the very keeper of his souls. His mother had already given him permission to love the Zerui warrior and heir, but he didn't need her consent for what he wanted. His heart had flown to the Zerui while he wasn't looking and he held it in his strong hands, Edorta unsure if those hands were capable.

As he drew nearer to the Zerui camp he grew nervous, his hands twining, turning his dark knuckles pale with the force. But voices stopped him, a hand grabbing his wrist. A soft scream escaped him at the white hand upon his wrist, his dark eyes narrowing. Something was said, Edorta didn't understand, but it translated to 'She's a pretty one!'
"Release me!" Edorta hissed in his androgynous voice, trying to pull back. When the man refused to release him the warrior in Edorta took over, his free hand flying out to jerk the white man's hair. A disgusting pop was heard and he was free.

The Endikai ran quickly, slamming into a hard chest. In a panic he pushed back, looking up to see Xanti's face. "Xanti!" he cried, glancing at all the weapons that adorned him. "You... aren't going to fight..." he asked seriously. Biting his lip the young man closed his eyes tight, "I'll help you." he said surely, bravery shining inside of his dark eyes. "I swear I will!"

[OOC: Edorta is dressed as a woman and due to his feminine form he appears to be a female.]

As the rag-tag group had rushed through the camp, Esti's little escape party seemed to grow with every passing second. There were women and children of every age, some of the teen-aged girls and fleeing women carrying children that weren't theirs, babies and toddlers that had been literally flung at them as their mothers went off with bows and arrows to fight.

The children were frightened, and stayed close together. They tugged at Esti's cloak and the skirts and tunics of the other women, asking to stop walking, asking where their mothers and fathers were, and if they were going to be hurt. Esti couldn't answer. She choked on her own emotion for a moment, pressing a hand to the swell of her stomach before pressing on despite the grasping hands of the little children. Ironic -- she could see the light of battle in the older boys' eyes, the desire to go and help fight, and some of the girls too. But in the little ones' she saw nothing but fear and wondered if this was what her child would endure, someday.

As she paused to convinve an elderly man and his wife to join them, talking to them in gentle but quick, clipped tones, Esti heard a familiar voice. She turned, and --

Xanti.

He handed her a sword, which she clutched numbly in one hand, barely hearing the words he had said. He gave the other one to a boy not far from manhood himself, and then with a few quick words of farewell, disappeared back into the chaos.

Xanti.

He's alive.

The old man touched her on the shoulder with a new purpose in his eyes, and he and his wife gathered their bows and arrows, and a short brass sword, and set off ahead of Esti. She was still staring, dumbfounded, at the sword in her hand; a glance around at the children, the number of which had nearly doubled -- Xanti must have brought them -- oh, Eguzki, Xanti, alive -- and began to move again, calling the children with her.

As the sound of battle began to move closer, she circled to the back of the children and drove the crowd of them toward the caves, just at their heels. A little one fell in her path and she didn't flinch, just picked up the little crying girl and set her on her hip. Esti paused to look back, saw the smoke and the flashes of fire and the cries of battle and pain and death, and the little girl reaching for the camp where their men were dying for them, and she wanted to run back too, or fall to the ground and cry. But she couldn't.

This was the only way she could help them now.

So she put the hood up on the leather cloak, and tucked the girl's face into the shadow beside her cheek. "What's your name, dear one?" she asked as she walked, keeping pace with the children as they reached the caves at last. "Austine," the little one sniffed. "Well, Austine," Esti said, smiling at the tear and ash-streaked little girl, "In a little while, we're going to find your ama and aita, but first, I need you to help me take care of these children. Can you do that?"

The little girl nodded, and well inside the cave Esti set her down, giving her careful instructions as to where the blankets were if anyone got cold, and to keep the other children occupied as best she could. She assigned other children to help, and soon all the children were gathered in different small groups, playing games, singing songs, some even just sitting with their arms around the ones that cried. Esti went to the front of the cave with the rest of the adults, guarding the mouth and watching the smoke rise from their home.

It had been a rude awakening.

Renna hadn't stirred even when Izotz untangled himself from her body and left their tent; she was well used to him waking a littler earlier than she and no longer paid it any mind. What she couldn't ignore was her husband bolting back in some undeterminate time later and pulling her to her feet with his hand around her arm. For a moment she could only struggle as her heart seized in panic, all too aware of the bad memories that came with that particular touch. But then memory returned and she could only stare at her Ema, barely able to make out the words he was saying.

Interlopers. Interlopers, here...

The weaver listened in mute confusion. Her people? Here? Had another tribe raided and taken more captives?

Something about his expression indicated that 'captives' was far from the correct idea, and Renna felt her heart clutch again. She sat dumb as Izotz ran through the Baskari procedure in these cases, and in truth did not even pay too much attention. Her own people. Here. Attacking.

He was telling her to run, but how could she run; not when she already knew that some of them would blame this on her. Whoever lost a loved one today would need someone to blame, and who more perfect than the interloper concubine with the green eyes who bewitched a chief into taking her to wife? It was so perfect she had to laugh, one coughing hiccup of a giggle that was quickly stifled as she looked into Izotz's eyes.

There was a moment of silence, and then she was moving as swiftly as she knew how and throwing on her clothes. In a flash she was dressed and thrusting a knife into her belt, although she knew as well as anyone that she would never be able to use it. Still, Renna moved to help arm her husband, every motion far more sure than she was feeling. "MY people here. Oh, God." She turned her head to look at him, then found that she couldn't in her shame. The interloper soldiers would not spare women and children; not enough of them anyway. History had proved it over and over. Renna stared at her hands then, and bent her head to him. "Perhaps I can make them stop. Perhaps I can..."

She could already feel his worry, and pulled him to her breast for a close embrace and kiss. "Whatever happens today, forgive me for it. Stay safe, be careful, and remember how..."

Ah. There was the thunder of horses and men and war, coming closer every second. There was no time to be afraid. "Remember how I love you." Another kiss. "I'll run to the women, don't worry. Here..." She twisted her hair back up over her head, and held it with her comb. "Even if I can't outrun the horses, they won't kill me. They can see what I am, and if they take me..." She smiled awkwardly. "Maybe I can persuade. Eguzki bless."

Renna couldn't help it. Looking at him and wondering if it was the last time she would see him, she had to pull him down for a final kiss, one to be savored in the brief time they had. Then she was shoving him away, and bursting out to stretch her legs in a run that was surprising even her. The interloper women knew that if she didn't flee as fast and far as she could in the proper direction, her feet would take her back to the interloper army. Even at this speed, every footstep was singing 'home'.

Perspiration clung to his brow yet his breath came evenly, unlike some of the more frantic young archers that swung high from the leafy canopies above Xanti had longed since calmed himself from those younger days. Instead of risking both his father’s own warriors and those of the Endikai, Xanti aimed precisely and carefully, picking off his targets with a practised ease, grinding his teeth against the pain that throbbed within his shoulder. From his vantage point behind a large oak tree Xanti didn’t really have the chance to fire off arrow after arrow, he had a limited amount and was at a greater risk for firing from the ground. Despite that constant fear Xanti remained cool and breezy, he had too less become a nervous wreck, and if he did so become one then he’d be no help to the Baskar. Leaning unto his right foot to spare the twanging pain of his left the warrior tried fervently to block off all thoughts of Edorta and the children within the cave. Who knew where the white men’s morals lay, they could have no problem in slaughtering innocent youths and mothers, yet if one child die then ten interloper dogs would perish at the cost, that Xanti vowed and knew by Eguzki every other man of his people would too.

High Lord Eguzki, aid us now, we your loyal Baskar. I will be not be selfish enough to ask you watch over just the Zerui, but please guide the Endikai also, for among them were people who welcomed me. Most of all Edorta, lead him to safety and I pray Eguzki that you let no child nor woman’s blood be shed this day and those to come. I know you will do what you think is best, all I do is ask.

His prayer ended with his furrowed brow, his arrows were running low, he had only grabbed what he could find and consequently they hadn’t been enough. Cursing his ill luck Xanti wished he had brought his own bow from the Zerui camp that day he had fallen, the day he had fatedly met Edorta once more. Shaking his head he banished all thoughts other than those of the task at hand, kill as many as his weapons and skill would allow, leave none to mercy, as they would not for the Baskar. There was silence among the woods, save for the twanging of bowstrings and the occasion rustle of leaves or boots over twigs. Proud was Xanti for the skill his people had among Eguzki’s natural world, let those interloper scum last two weeks without nothing but a dagger among this wilderness. A gurgle and a twisted cry resulted in the death of a man close by, a white man, still the screams and shouts from the camp sounded out. The white men were angry the Zerui and Endikai had escaped their grasps, yet women still screamed, those who were not fast enough, and children still wept.

Counting the arrows stuck crookedly within his belt Xanti found he had but seven left, grimacing he notched another, the smell of smoke upon his tongue, the tang of death lingering closer into the, for now, untouched woodland. Aiming for a middle-aged white-man with a gnarled face Xanti pulled back the string yet was caught off guard by the hard impact of another against him. Eyes widening he was not quick enough to grab his sword so stood stunned, only to have his heart plummet to the pit of stomach at seeing the precious Edorta before him. With his mouth agape he merely stared as Edo stammered and plundered his way through words, ”Of course I fight, these are my people I defend-“ Quieting his voice he quickly scanned around them before leaning closer to the brave and gentle Edo, ”-I fight to defend you. Yet how can I when you are running through a camp filled with killing and massacre?! You are a woman to them Edo, think of the things they could do, would do, if after undressing you finding you to be a man?! I will not have you fight!” By now his words were fierce whispers, as he glared defiantly at a wide-eyed Edorta,

There faces were close, so close Xanti was almost lost in the aromatic smell of the other man, grabbing his wrist he slung his bow unto his back, slotted the arrow he had within his belt and all but dragged Edo behind him. With an iron fisted grip Xanti with stealth moved among the ever-bright day, wishing fervently that it were night as to aid the Baskar with darkness. Slinking into the camp he pulled Edorta closer to him, so much so that they were almost touching, he would not risk Edorta dying, not now, not when his true feelings where only just emerging. Knowing anyone looking upon them would see a man leading a woman Xanti was more worried than need be, he knew the Endikai man could fight, yet he was terrified for him and would not allow for Edorta to be dragged into such heartless warfare. Eguzki, I wished you to lead Edorta to safety, not to me. I fight, among warriors, to protect and to kill, in defending Edorta I could well get killed. Although his anger was now melting away into to determination for getting Edo to the women, he was still scared and with now his blade in one hand and Edo in the other his senses were on hyper alert.

Oh, yes. There were still barbarians in the camp. His horse screamed as an arrow hit the meat of its shoulder, and shuddered sideways, knocking Tertius over in its animal fear. Eyes rolling, mouth afoam, it wheeled and galloped off, leaving him with only the stinging lash of its tail across the face. Damn, he thought, but didn't say; the habit of not cursing was one he held true to even in the heat of battle.

Heat it was. For so early in the day, the air brought with it the heavy stink of humidity, and Tius could feel sweat pooling inside his helmet. He dared not take it off, and he was grateful for his coat of mail even as it stifled him--their archers, while only able to send so many arrows down at once, that was plain--were still no joke.

Raising his shield above his head, he set his feet and called out to his men, urging them forward. There were still barbarians in the camp, hidden in tents, but they were easy enough to deal with. He had his sidesword, and drew it, ready to engage anyone who might approach. For the moment the area was a chaos of fleeing horses, soldiers, and arrows like hailstones. He darted forward, setting his feet in clear patches of ground. He could already smell the blood, and worse. He heard screams, some of them feminine, and cursed the men who would do that. And they called themselves Christians! Bile rose sour in his throat.

He caught up with a barbarian warrior, coming at him with one of their bronze axes, and sidestepped, deflecting his attack with his shield. But the blow was hard--it drove him two stumbling steps back, and he almost went down on one knee. The barbarian, face creased into a snarl, came at him. Clang. On the shield. On the sword. The next axe blow opened a long cut along Tius's arm, and he would feel the sting later. For now-- clang. He was on the defensive, driven back--

And the barbarian gave a grunt of surprise. Eyes glazed, he toppled over, and his blood spurted free of his still body as Sir Julius yanked his sword free.

"Cap'n!" And he was off, after raising his sword in a gory salute, and Tius turned back to his own task--moving forward, driving the barbarians back toward their infantry--and he came face to face with a madman. That was the only explanation he could find for the glazed expression on the barbarian's face. His shield came up and his sword swept around--maybe he could run him through before the man got a chance to respond--

Gergori could hear the swish of a raised shield and a swinging sword, but he was practically airborne, his toes barely touching the warm soil. He grimaced and attempted to twist his body. Gergori smashed into the shield, his axe vibrating madly in his hands. He could feel a dull thud somewhere near his thigh, had the sword merely bounced? Gergori laughed as he pushed himself away from the man.

"You missed, dog. You-" Gergori grunted suddenly as the real sensation of the blow struck him. It was like someone had laid hot iron across his leg. Gergori's hand probed his thigh and came away slick with blood, his leg felt weak suddenly. "Dammit!" He hissed. Raising the axe this time was more difficult, his left leg burned as he twisted his body, nearly collapsing when he swung the weapon downwards. His blow was met by the shield again, a hideous shriek of metal on metal that made his lip curl. There was another swish, and Gergori raised his axe, the sword of his opponent chipping away part of the handle. The blind warrior snarled and limped backwards. Whoever this Interloper was, he was tough.

"You die, Interloper!" Gergori howled in the Interloper's language, one of the few phrases he knew. With a wild shriek he threw himself forward, his pain momentarily forgotten as he hurtled the axe through the air with the intent to rend his foe in two.

Edorta's fingers slipped up Xanti's chest, making sure that the wound was still sealed. He didn't want him to have pain any longer. If the wound were to reopen Xanti would bleed. "You stubborn male!" he snarled, glaring up at him in frustration. He wanted to help, he was a man physically at least, trained with the sword, learning medicines now, and he wanted, more than anything else, to be able to help Xanti fight. "I do not care what they do to me. They would have to catch me first. They have their horses, yes, but their horses are strange creatures... some of them, I know the land." He was fairly confident that if push came to shove he could run far away from the problems around him. Xanti fought to defend him?

Although it had been said moments before the words sunk into his skin, forcing his dark eyes to stare up into Xanti's. They did not have long, they could not just stand there! "But I want to be beside you." he whispered back, his hands remaining upon the warrior's shoulders as he held him in place. It was dangerous, but Xanti had said... that it was for him, too. For his people, yes, but for him as well. His heart fluttered at the admittance, a smile would have lit his features any other time, when the screams of women weren't heard to him from a distance.

Xanti's face was mere inches from his, his dark eyes lovely upon his own. "Xanti..." he whispered, leaning forward to run fingers down his beautiful face. So close it was so easy. Xanti pulled his wrist, pulling the young Endikai with him as he made his way through the lit camp. "Xanti," he protested, trying to pull his wrist back, but, when the warrior stopped, Edorta found himself mere inches from his warrior, his perfect warrior with the wonderful spirit and the beautiful smile, would he ever show it.

It only took young Edorta moments to understand, a click inside of his brain as he gazed up at the warrior that protected him. Quickly the young man, as femininely dressed as he was, threw himself against him, wrapping his arms around his neck as tightly as he could, slamming their mouths together sweetly. "You come back to me." He said thickly, tears threatening to spill over for fear, both of losing Xanti and knowing where the interlopers stood, "I will not bear to see you among the dead." a soft kiss later and Edorta pried himself away from Xanti, running the back of his hand over his eyes. "I will protect the women and children..." With that, he took the carved impression of his spirit from around his neck, lying the fire around his neck, the water remaining around his own. It would leave him with him, wouldn't it? It would bring Xanti back to him. His dark eyes shot back up to the man before, softly, touching his hand. Then he was gone.

Edorta ran toward the women, his father's sword drawn. The Endikai women would help him. A woman was there, as well, he didn't know her, name but it was Esti. The children hid within the cave, some crying, and Edorta waited, his sword drawn, staring out. His long hair was brushed over his shoulders, waiting. He would do as he'd said he would, and Xanti would come back to him. That was all he could hold on to. He had to see those brilliant eyes again.

When the first Baskar began to flee into the woods past the concealed infantry flank, a few of the soldiers had stirred. Kincade stilled them with a hand signal – not yet. It was only women and children now – the first to evacuate the premises. The men would stay to fight, for a time at least. It was the warriors they were concerned with – no use wasting their advantage on helpless civilians who would go down like cattle. Lieutenant Tremaine had been very clear on that point.

But when the sounds of fighting began to move closer and Baskari men joined the stream of refugees, Kincade gave the sign. Standing, he lifted his battered sword in the air and cried a single word:

"CHARGE!"

From the outskirts of the camp, it appeared as though the forest itself had come alive. Figures who had blended in with the dirt and trees but a moment ago swarmed forward. Pikemen lined the front, their lengthy weapons leveled and ready to decimate the first wave along with any Baskari horsemen. The infantry armed with swords and axes bellowed and ran behind them, and when the lines struck the oncoming ranks of fleeing barbarians...

Pandemonium reigned.

The pikeman beside Kincade went down, dropping his weapon and clutching at the arrow in his throat. A farmboy screamed as his innards tumbled out. The rush of adrenaline coupled with the smell of blood made something snap within the Sergeant. Letting out an inarticulate, primordial cry of battle, he leapt into the fray and began to hack and slash with his twin shortswords.

It was as if a switch had been flipped – the serious, collected drill sergeant who reigned on the parade grounds had vanished in the charge. In his place was a wild creature who moved with the grace of an avenging angel and the fury of a demon who'd clawed its way from the bowels of hell. A feral, wolfish grin on his face, Kincade stabbed, lunged, and moved with startling fluidity. All the sounds of the battlefield – the clashing of metal, and zipping of arrows, the screaming of the wounded – they all became muted to the sound of the blood steadily pumping in his ears, pumping like a drumbeat. It was the rhythm to which he moved, the one constant in the chaos...

... the blood...

Tius backed up, almost stumbling over a tent-peg behind him. The barbarian was almost too quick for him--but he seemed subject to odd moments of hesitancy. Something seemed to be faintly wrong with the combat, and it threw Tius off. At least he had drawn blood--a shallow cut on the barbarian's leg dripped blood. But for the moment he was using his shield more than anything.

The barbarian howled something--Scalian!--and Tius blinked in surprise, but didn't let it distract him. Instead, he raised his shield and blocked a poundingly hard blow from the barbarian's axe. Too hard. Tius went down on one knee, his arm numbed from the force of the blow, and essayed a stab upwards under the barbarian's guard.

Please let it end this!

His eyes were watering from the pain of the impact; of course his shield was designed not to break his arm whenever he took a hit, but Tius knew he had weak bones; it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility. But pain had to be an afterthought. He stabbed again, blindly.

Gergori hit the shield again, but this time his opponent fell to an knee, the blind warrior's momentum carrying him along as well. Gergori was painfully aware of his vulnerability, practically slumped over the shield as he was, and attempted to draw his arms back to his body to form a guard. It surprised him when he felt the hot blade caress his chest, opening up old scars, most notably the wounds from his Sundance. Warm blood trickled steadily down his chest, running into the shallow rivulets formed by his tense abdominal muscles. Gergori snarled at his foe, shoving the shield hard and forcing himself backwards. The axe handle was slick from sweat and blood, but the blind warrior gripped it tight, his knuckles the color of fish bellies. Gergori felt like a lion in a cage, here he was fighting like any man, while his opponent hid behind a shield!

"Coward!" Gergori howled, speaking in Baska once more. The blind warrior was reminded of an early part of his training, he had been locked in a wood cage, told he had to escape in order to eat, and then left. There had been other, more clever ways to get out, Gergori figured later, but in the moment he was angry, who would dare impede him? He had punched and kicked and hurled his whole body at the wooden bars, until his whole body quivered, his knuckles running with blood. Still, he hadn't stopped, throwing himself at the cage again and again until finally he lay on the ground outside amongst wood splinters and bloody sand. All barricades were the same, Gergori had decided, bars, fences, shields, they were nothing to the warrior, he would destroy them all.

"Give me strength, Eguzki, lay waste to those who oppose you!" Gergori snarled in his own language, half prayer, half pep talk. He held his axe low, showing the mosaic of scars he had, every muscle in his body tensed until he felt they would snap. The Interloper would regret making him bleed, would regret ever coming to the lands. Gergori lunged, swinging his axe upwards, he would damn well break his foe's body in half, or he would die trying.

Around him soldiers and Baskar were clawing at eachother to survive. Deora however was oblivious to this. Oblivious to their problems and their struggles. This moment was all about him. It beloonged to him and he knew that he'd always cherish it. Always remember it as a glorious time. The world seemed to slow down as he wrapped the ropes around his hands. The bombs were hidden behind the struggle to avoid allied losses. He watched as a small group of Baskar went to reinforce the engaged ones. He bent his knees and wrenched himself backwards. That was his part and he gleefully observed the results. Two of the five bombs had failed to go off ,but the others were fairly potent. The earth ,metal and clay covered most of the of the explosion's sound. After a muffled boom the bombs took effect. Small peices of shrapnel lanced through the air in a spread. Creating an odd whistling sound.

Deoras' grin widened from gleefull to fiendish. Funding and factories were but seconds away. Today bombs ,but tommorrow. The simple potential of the future nearly overwhelmed him. A rolling chuckle burst from his lips as he watched the reaction unfold.

Blood.

He swung one sword down, blocking a strike aimed at his flank, and swung the other upward, slicing an oncoming barbarian open from navel to chin. The enemy warrior's eyes widened as crimson spouted from his chest like a fountain, soaking Evander in –

–Blood –

He kicked the man in the knees and he went down, never to rise again. Stepping over the body, Evander slashed down at the exposed shoulder of a Baskar engaged against one of his recruits, then stabbed at the warrior who was running up to him, hache raised. The barbarian deflected the first blow, but Kincade's other sword snaked up to pierce him in the belly in a flash of steel and –

–Blood –

The earth shattered nearby with the sound of thunder. Screams and soil filled the air. The soldier to Evander's left went down with an arrow in his eye. A spear whistled past Kincade's ear, so close he could feel the breeze against his cheek. Another grazed the side of his thigh. He snarled and leapt forward, removing an unlucky barbarian's throwing arm from his body. The Sergeant was now a vision from hell itself, a fiendish grin plastered on his face, his teeth white against the rest of his face, which was a macabre mask of dirt and –

–Blood –

Kincade's troop had pushed forward, driving the ranks of Baskar back into the village, where the cavalry was laying the world to waste. The smell of burning suggested that some ambitious soldier had set fire to one of the structures. Here Kincade reigned himself back, if only a touch. He paused long enough for the tiny portion of him not yet consumed by battlelust to signal to his remaining soldiers to split into their own small squads. Then he threw himself back into the fray...

... only that sliver of sanity remained, and, unblinded by the red that had filled his vision a moment earlier, he caught sight of something glinting – a shield, Roman in make, raised up against an onslaught, the man beneath it cowering like a turtle beneath its shell.

Kincade paused for a moment. It was only a second, but it was enough time for an arrow, singing through the air, to pierce his sleeve and tear the skin of his shoulder. It stung hot, and then, against his arm, he felt the slow, hot trickling of –

–Blood –

He lunged, a wolf-like sound emerging from his throat. The Barbarian's weight had all been thrown into the strike, and this would have him off balance. Kincade used this to his advantage, charging in and slamming into the savage with all the force he could muster. The ax came down harmlessly a foot to the side of its target as the Scalian bowled into his enemy, the two of them tumbling into the dust...

With a palpitating heart Xanti let his muddy hazel eyes roam with a fervent desire within to find interlopers upon the Baskari land. Scrutinizing every shadow his breath came out in heavy bursts, he was angered, determined and a little lost, the only thoughts that made sense right then and there was to fight and protect. Under Eguzki’s firm guidance he was almost sure most of them would survive, yet he wasn’t conceited enough to think his God would take a particular interest within him and his prayers. Even from a young boy he’d been taught that the white men have Gods of their own, brought with them from whatever demon spawn lands they erupted from. And as he and his people, both of the Zerui and Endikai, prayed, he knew the interloper dogs prayed also, yet how could the high Eguzki favour the Zerui when they had yet to sacrifice a mighty foe to him? Shuddering under his heated skin from a seemingly invisible wind, Xanti could only hope from the depths of his very soul that in their time of need Eguzki did not sit back and watch. If their God abandoned them it would be almost impossible to holler the war cries of the Baskari or offer words to boost moral, without Eguzki it was hard to think of what their life would be like.

Running a dry salmon coloured tongue over his chapped and pale lips the warrior squinted into the glare of the sun, when a thought struck him, as did a body. Grunting from the force at which Edorta clung to him, he tried to drag a feeble smile to his lips through their passionate kiss. Even if he could not give hope to himself, he could at least offer it to the man that meant most to him within this now blood filled existence. Knowing they were in a perilous danger standing there just made him wish to hold onto the Eguzki shaman all the more, not even allowing the tears to brim at the corners of his eyes Xanti took deep, calming breaths. As calm as breathing can be in such a situation. You come back to me. Forcing out a chuckle the man replied with his deep now expressionless lyrics, ”Then you be there to great me.” Forcing back the realisation that in all reality either of them could die that day Xanti watched as Edorta openly wept, though silently, almost as a man he mused.

His mouth no longer held moisture though Edorta’s did and the sweet aroma of him lingered after their parted kiss, relishing in those last few moments together Xanti composed himself. Although admittedly he had shown little emotion, he was a man after all, he was the son of a warlord and a warrior through a through, he did not cry. With a stony expression he stood and received the small wooden carving that never left the other mans neck, shaped like that of fire he would cherish it deep down, and Eguzki curse his feelings for Edorta, he only wished to keep the other man safe. Nodding to what the Endikai man said his façade never moved from a slight frown, only his dirty brown eyes displaying the displeasure he felt of leaving him. Keeping a stern eye upon the back of the retreating two-spirit Xanti never lost face, never slumped from his stiff back, never dropped his chin, never let a tear fall, Edorta would be fine.

Twisting the unfamiliar blades handle within his palm he crept off into the camp, the cries of the dying and terrified drowning out most thoughts, frowning he grimaced at the pain they expressed through noise. Biting back his anger he chose to reserve it, left it muster until he found a dog to slaughter, as he crept from behind tent to tent the agony around him was visible in the amount of dead he saw. What hurt him the most however was how he saw not only white men lying there but also women and warriors of his own people too. Cursing every single interloper Xanti let out an animal-like snarl, curling his lip he was distressed to see the previous emerald grass a now blackened maroon, with bodies strewn about here and there. It sickened him, the lengths the white men would go to secure land, the Baskari people had never done anything but protect, all those other lands the white men had crushed had probably only ever done the same thing. Throwing his sword to the ground he picked up a fallen warriors discarded short sword, the thought which had formed earlier now returning. The glare upon the interlopers grey and silver armour would surely give some of them away, with a malicious grin erupting upon his face he offered a silent prayer for the man who’s sword he took.

Seeking a hard skinned shield he found one, although covered with blood where his arm would be he cared little, hefting it unto his forearm Xanti went about seeking his prey.

Indar. Where was he?

Last Nahia had seen, he had been in the tent, snoring like a moron. That, however, had been hours ago, when the sky was still starry, and the air was not filled with screams and the stench of blood. Now where was he?

Nahia had left the camp several hours before, too tired and restless to sleep. She had seen the interloper cavalry, and for some moments had been too enchanted but the sight to move from her hiding spot in a tree. It was only when she realized that she had left Indar behind that she decided to move from her viewing spot.

Being in a panic, searching for her twin, Nahia had not considered that Indar would have been awoken by one of his fellow horsemen, or even had awoken on his own. Indar was too dependent on her on a regular basis for that to cross her mind. So she had run to the camp.

She had been fascinated by the Thiasans for years now, but that didn’t lessen her horror at the sight of the massacre. They were killing women and children… these weren’t the men she had associated with at the border. These were the fierce men she had heard stories about from the old warriors.

Had she not been so frantic for Indar, Nahia would have been bewitched by the violence. But there was Indar, and someone had to watch for him. The camp was so wrecked, she couldn’t remember where they had set up their tent. But it had been somewhere near here, she knew.

There were too many people here, too many men who were not Indar. At least she had not spied him on the ground with the rest of the dead.

Not yet, at least.

Gegrori howled in anger as the axe slipped from his grip, landing harmlessly on the ground instead of in his foe's ribcage. Whoever had hit him fell alongside him, landing on top of the blind warrior. Gergori growled and snarled like a wild animal, fingers scrabbling across plate and mail in a fruitless attempt to tear the armor away. His arms were pinned awkwardly and his blows were weak against his protected foe.

"Sem'zakur!" Gergori snarled, straining his muscles to push the man off his body. The blind warrior felt an opening and clawed himself away, rolling until he was no longer in contact with the new opponent. For a brief moment Gergori rested, his wounds stung, filled with dust and dirt, and his eyes watered from tiny particulates. He rubbed at his eyes before pushing himself to his feet, there was still a battle to fight.

At least, there would be, once Gergori remedied his current, empty-handed state. And there was the matter of that shooting pain in his knee, a new wound from his tumble. Gergori held up a hand in the direction of his foes, at least he thought they were there, dust had gotten in his blessed eyes, and for some reason he had lost track of the Interlopers. Either way, it was a gesture of surrender, if anything, it would buy Gergori a few moments while his opponents tried to decide if he was being honest or not.

The two warriors fell and rolled upon the ground. Evander could feel fingers prodding the openings in his metal and leather armor, then the barbarian managed to writhe away. Kincade quickly got to his feet. One of his blades had fallen to the ground, but the other rested firmly in his grasp.

The Baskari man staggered to his feet, rubbing at his eyes. Kincade prepared to deliver a finishing blow when the man raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, giving the sergeant a moment of pause – on the one hand, this was the enemy. But on the other, he was unarmed and in a state of surrender. Back in the highlands, war had been common, but there had been a shared understanding between all parties involved – a code of bizarre honor that forbade certain cruelties.

But this wasn't the highlands. Kincade watched his opponent warily, taking a step back in the direction of the Roman soldier and stooping to pick his sword up from the dust, never once removing his gaze. If the barbarian so much as twitched in an aggressive manner, he'd forfeit all right to mercy. "You alright?" Evander growled out of the corner of his mouth, the comment directed towards the man he'd just defended.

Everywhere, there was chaos. Men fighting, running, women and children underfoot – some of them fighting as well. It wasn’t as if there was much else they could do now with infantry and cavalry everywhere and no safe route out that Fergus could see. In fact no route out at all, as soon as one gap presented itself it was filled with someone.

It was not, in Fergus’s opinion, a terribly good place to be riding a horse. As his sword swung down on the exposed head of one of the Baskar warriors the height gave him obvious advantages, but as he pulled the blade free and twisted in the saddle it was evident that the horse’s movements were restricted in this sort of close quarter fighting where there was so much underfoot. It wasn’t just the people, alive and dead, on the ground and in the way, but the remains of the camp also. All over the tents were falling down, consumed by fire or knocked over by fighters. Poles and possessions and bits of cloth were scattered everywhere, and even if they didn’t cause damage to the horse’s hooves – something Fergus was wary of, some parts of the hoof were more sensitive than others – they made for uneven and unstable ground and the chance of harm to both horse and rider increased. An unseated cavalryman was in serious trouble, especially as the armour they typically wore meant that getting up once knocked down was always a problem.

The horse was a weapon in its own right. Well trained and shod with steel shoes very few got up again once it had kicked them, even if the infantry or dismounted cavalry weren’t waiting for an opening. The animal wheeled under him, flanks heaving and teeth bared. Different parts of the camp and battle swung dizzyingly in and out of his vision as his head turned with it, the helmet he was wearing restricting his vision as well as plastering his hair to his scalp with sweat beneath it.

Gergori rubbed at his eyes and straightened up, palms still showing. His sacred sight was in order now, and he could tell the last man to hit him stood directly between the blind warrior and his axe. Gergori grimaced, a dozen plans tried to formulate at once, all jumbled in a mind more suited for outright violence then subtle planning. Tackle him, kill him. Gergori told himself. He took a slow step forward, fire raged where he had been cut on his thigh, his knee threatened to give out, he was in no condition to take on an armed opponent. The two Interlopers spoke to each other in Scalian, plotting how best to kill Gergori perhaps. The blind warrior shook his head.

"Surrr enn durrr." Gergori said slowly and deliberately. He knew the word from the few raids he had gone on, a few Interlopers had cried it out to him. Gergori had laughed at them, cutting their pleas short with the edge of a sword. The memory haunted Gergori now, would these Interlopers react as he had? Would he die here? Maybe, but if worse came to worse, Gergori would fight to his last breath. Teeth and fists were no match for swords and shields, but the blind warrior would destroy- wrong, he would be cut down instantly. No, this had to work.

"I am defeated, Interloper." Gergori reverted to his native language. "Take me or kill me, but by the face of Eguzki make it quick, my pride is hurt enough."

François had melted into the woods at earliest convenience, but now that it seemed the tide of the battle had turned (and after a surreal and dreamlike encounter with the Baskari woman--were it not for the pain throbbing in his nether parts after her protectors attack, he would never have believed it had happened), he made his way tentatively toward the outskirts of the battle. Bad idea.

He'd had no idea it involved so much blood. It was everywhere, like a charnel house, and not just the Baskar... still, even he couldn't doubt that they were winning.

In a tree nearby, he spotted a human leg, dangling, so bloody as to be unrecognizable, and tasted bile; but it gave him an idea. He turned quickly and latched onto the nearest branch he could find, then started to swing his way up. Tree-climbing, a relic of his pastoral childhood, was a hobby he'd taken up to escape bullies. Then he'd thrown rocks down at them.

Now... now, wriggling up onto a convenient branch, above the leg, so that it was well out of his field of vision--horrible! he thought. Just horrible! Some things shouldn't be seen. Even though he knew war was only natural, and nothing morally terrible at all, the sight of that limb disturbed him. He tried a turnabout, thinking of what the aesthetic was, and convinced himself that morality was nothing more than a squeamish stomach and denial of truth.

Then he spotted Sergeant Kincade. He was standing in a clear area of battlefield, pointing his sword triumphantly at a captive Baskar. François felt a surge of hatred as fresh and raw as the scrapes and bruises on his face.

He took his crossbow from his back and made sure the bolt was securely in. He wouldn't kill him, he mused. That was too painless and too noble a way to die. Instead, he aimed slightly to one side of the center of Evander's body, and, with the satisfaction of a beginning chess player, pulled the trigger.

"Surr...enn...durr...."

Kincade paused and looked at the barbarian. The rest of the words that tumbled form the man's lips were incomprehensible to him, but that much was clear. This was an unarmed opponent pleading for mercy. No, not pleading... a warrior wouldn't beg. Asking.

Kill him, hissed a voice within him. It's a trick. Kill him now before he can cut down anyone else. This is war. You have a duty to your men.

A battle separate from the one around them raged behind the sergeants eyes for a fraction of the second. Then Kincade glanced down at the ax in the dirt and kicked it, sending it skittering away across the ground. He leveled his sword at the Baskari warrior. "Go." he stated clearly, jerking the sword slightly in indication for the man to flee. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the words didn't have a chance to emerge –

– Pain –

– Not a scratch, not a graze, not a trickle of blood, but something slamming into his back with all the force of a battering ram and exploding across his senses with scalding fire. The sword slipped from Kincade's fingers as, eyes wide with shock, brow furrowed in confusion, he arched his back in agony and crumpled to his knees soundlessly...

The gravity of his actions had overwhelmed Deora. The grand opening had commenced. The soldiers now knew what they had on their side. That they had the upper hand. Now it was Deoras turn to expand on this. He returned to his horse and retrieved his musket. In the future his weapons would be far superior but for now it would have to do. His ten man bodyguard were busy implementing his weapons. A few of them were throwing around small clay balls. Said balls were filled with gunpowder and lit before throwing. They were also useless in combat but exceedingly loud. The rest were making decent use of the muskets. Deora applauded the Scalian pioneering but would prefer throwing rocks then using one in battle. The only reason he held one instead of a bow was to display it. Due to the wild inaccuracy of the weapon most shots went wild. Large amounts of missed shots coupled with a horrible reloading time did not a good strategy make. Still it was at least long ranged. Which made it perfect for taking wild shots at the barbarians in the trees.

Still it was a wise decision with all of the cavalrymen prancing about. It was a shame that their blocky military didn't do many resourceful things such as that. He swept his gaze around the area and saw a Thiasan soldier in the trees. He watched the man aim his crossbow and fire. Now that was smart and individual thinking. A crossbow could easily snipe away at the enemy. That was grand old individual thinking and he was mildly impressed. He smiled as one of his bodyguard waved up to the man and projected his voice up the tree.

"Smart Shooting."

Tius stumbled to his feet, wheezing, the breath shaken from his lungs and sweat trickling down beneath his helmet. Coward coward coward whispered in his head. But he knew only pain.

No. Soul above body. Soul. Body. Body was weak...

He stepped back and watched in shame as his rescuer, the infantryman, subdued the mad barbarian. His pulse still pounded, but he felt oddly deflated. His mind had time to catch up with his body, and it was unpleasant. He felt every bit of pain. His shield-arm was on fire and ice. Around him, chaos. Within, a kind of stunned calm.

And then--blood, impact, shouting--

His rescuer was on the ground. Tius didn't think--only acted--he dragged his sword up through resistant air and pointed it at the barbarian.

"Do not move." He kept an eye on his fallen comrade, and edged sideways around him, his eyes on the barbarian. "Do. Not. Move."

Iñaki crouched on his branch, scanning the horizon, an arrow nocked to his bow. Beside him somewhere amongst the foliage, he thought he glimpsed--something--and it vanished. The shot that followed felled an interloper. And his attention turned back to the battlefield.

Fire. Smoke. Pain. Blood. Bile. Screaming.

And he perched above it all like a carrion-bird. His shots telescoped his vision to each man as a target. Target. Shot. Target. Shot. And then--below him--

Peru blocked a downward swing. Behind him, he heard the sounds of curdled screams, dying shouts, gouts and gouts of blood, some of it his own. His arm had been flayed down through the muscle by a knife-wielding soldier, one he'd stabbed in the chest viciously afterwards, and twisted, twisted--twisted face, agony, twisted knife in his shoulder--

And it was all chaos and the confusion and the denial of pain and he understood what it was to be you, really you, not your body, your body, your blood, all a sacrifice to Eguzki's all-seeing Eye. All seared away--sacrifice, blood, and beneath it, the whipcord of soul, whip-quick and tight and narrow white bone.

Cut--to--the--quick--

Painpainpainpainpain--

Cut--twist, wrenching--pain--he moved within a constricted range, struggling, an insect pinned, leering white redstained face above.

"No!" Iñaki saw Peru beneath him, barely conscious and stumbling before the driving boot of an interloper soldier.

And he let go. He launched himself off his branch and landed squarely on the interloper, sending them both sprawling, and for a moment he felt stunned, cut along the jaw by the man's sharp-edged helmet. But then it was embracing a lion. The interloper lashed out immediately, rocking back and kicking Iñaki off. He stumbled backward flailing--and his hand landed on the shaft of one of his arrows, buried in the ground. He didn't think. He yanked it free.

Launched himself forward, onto the interloper, his teeth bared, Peru dazed in the back of his mind and then just himself, the feeling, the blood pounding behind his temples, I want to live I want to live--and he doubled his fist and drew back his arm and readied himself to plunge the arrow through the man's eye--

Beneath him, the warrior's face had gone grey.

His gaze traveled over Iñaki's face. "Eye for an eye?" He looked slightly mad; he panted, open-mouthed. Iñaki understood, dimly, the Scalian words. Behind him, he heard Peru's wet choking. It was not a good sound.

"Better," Iñaki whispered, and drove it home.

When the interloper had stopped twitching, while he was still breathing hard himself, and realized he had a long gouge down his side, he backed off and turned to his friend.

"Peru--Peru!" He shook him. Was there the tiniest flicker of movement in his pale lids? Breath... no... "Peru. Wake up, Peru, you'll be all right--"

He didn't look up when a shadow loomed above him. The world was the faintest flicker of an imagined heartbeat, the long, long instant between hope and despair.

It was a strange sound, like an arrow from a bow, but stronger, more deadly. It impacted his would-be captor with a dull thud and the odd, sudden silence of a man in intense pain. Gergori wasn't sure what had happened, not exactly, but it delighted him.

"Eguzki gives us all what we deserve, Interloper." Gergori laughed, vaguely aware that neither of the soldiers would likely be able to understand him. "May his fires burn you both, sem'zakur!" He heard the man instruct something to hyim sternly, heard the scrape of a sword along the ground. It only made Gergori grin widely. This one was hurt, his pained steps proved that, and the blind warrior had done it to him. Gergori took a step forward, trying to ignore the fire in his legs. He came to where his axe lay, stooped to pick it up.

"You die... not now." Gergori said in broken Scalian, smiling at his former captors. "Not now, soon." He hefted his axe and straightened up. With a loud, rattling sound he cleared his throat and hawked the resulting mixture with force towards the Interlopers. With a final wild grin he intoned one last insult in the Interlopers' language, at least, he was pretty sure it was an insult. "Fuck you!"

Gergori laughed and threw the axe over his shoulder, limping away in high spirits. There was still blood to be spilled.

Evander lay on his hands and knees, trying to keep from collapsing into the dust completely, lest he never find the strength to get back up. He could feel the blood tricking down his spine, running in rivulets between the crevices of his rips and pooling within his tunic, dripping out from beneath his armor. He grit his teeth together in pain. Someone was yelling, but against the roaring pain that burned behind his eyes, it was merely an indecipherable noise. His other senses began to forsake him as well, as he found his hands and feet going numb and his vision swimming. Dark spots swam at the corners of his field of sight, threatening to encroach further and drown him in blackness...

If he lay here, he'd die. He'd give in. Surrender.

Kincade had never once surrendered, and he had no intention of starting now. Get up! he screamed within his own mind. He balled his hands into fists, pulled one knee forward, then pushed –

– and fell once again, screaming between clenched teeth. The motion had jostled the arrow, the muscles pushing and pulling it, the bolt's tip tearing further through damaged flesh with a new burst of agony.

War was nothing new to Thomas. This particular battle was bigger and bloodier than the one on the garrison wall, but it was more of the same. Screams of pain, adreneline directing action faster than thought, the rusted scent of blood mixed with the sickly sweet smell of decay. It was all the same, except-

This time women and children were involved.

The private shuddered a bit and then squared his jaw, keeping close behind his sergeant as they moved into battle. Kincade obviously was enjoying himself, and the man fought like a demon so he figured it would be easiest to stay out of trouble if he stayed close to him. Not that he was worried about a Baskari soldier doing him in, not after the Scotsman's rigorous training regimen-but Tom knew in his heart that it would be very easy to desert after an injured woman if he was out of the eyesight of a superior.

A feminine scream rent the air and he gritted his teeth, releasing his emotion in a well-timed thrust of the sword into a warrior's gut. He might end up doing so anyway. As it was, however, the women were at the other end of the battle and without a horse it was no use attempting to go to anyone's rescue. It was too far to attempt and survive. Tom could only fight and pray that the cries and wails carried on the wind did not belong to his sister.

He fought automatically now, blank-faced against the cries and moans of the warriors in his way. The thing about battle was that pity only had a place once you were very certain you weren't going to die, and that point had not yet occured for him. It helped to remind himself that any Baskari man on the field might have known Renna, or hurt her, or made her cry....and if that was the case, there was nothing keeping them from any other woman.

The battle was going fairly well until he turned his head and glimpsed Kincade going down, an arrow in the back.

Tom froze for a moment, his dripping sword held stiffly out in front of him. What had happened? He hadn't even seen the fight; nor the arrow-he hadn't been worried about arrows, because there were no barbarian warriors in the back...

Kincade screamed, then, and his pupil charged into action. Too many had been hurt right in front of him, and this was the last person he'd let himself lose. Tom had him in his arms in the work of a moment, heaved over one shoulder like a sack of barley and the other arm waving the sword. It was a terrible way to maneuver a battlefield and a terrible way to handle an injured man, but there was such a pressing desire for speed that Thomas didn't even give himself time to think of a better option. He needed to get the Scot off the field before he went unconcious from pain, or fainted from loss of blood....or died. It was impossible to study the wound as it was drowning in blood, and impossible to stop and clean while he was attempting to fend off the enemy one-handed, and impossible to call for help when he was contemplating the loss of the man who had worked him to keep him alive. "Sarge? Sarge! Stay awake; I'm here, talk to me. How many do you reckon you've killed today?"

It was horrible hearing him scream; the sound of a god made suddenly mortal and helpless. Tom tried to smile. "I think I've got four, on your sword."

Erramun was an early riser, having long since learned that the most successful hunts often occurred just before daybreak It was a habit only further instilled by his father’s influence as well. They had always woke together and quickly dressed so that they could offer prayer to Eguzki in the quiet morning solitude. Afterward, it was time to prepare for the day which often called for tracking the small herds moving through their hilly terrain.
It was this familiar tradition that gave him enough forewarning. Just as he heard the warning of “Interlopers!” being called out amongst them, he felt the tremble beneath his feet. It could only mean one thing and that set him instantly into motion. Sprinting to his parent’s tent, he grasped his mother as she stood in the doorway looking shaken. His father had already grabbed his bow and quiver, pulling the string taut as he headed to the forest. “Seme! Baso!” he called out. Erramun peered into the tent behind his mother. He saw his sister Itxaro holding his daughter Alais against her, a terrified expression upon her face as the toddler whined. “Itxaro, you take Mother and Alais to the cave,” he said to her, his voice rising as their mother began calling for Berezi. “There’s no time now. She’ll make it,” he told her. He knew Berezi was capable, pregnant or not. She would know what to do, her husband would see to it. His glance fixed onto his daughter, a fleeting note of impatience as he ruffled her hair just once before ducking back out of the entrance way. “The cave, NOW!” he shouted to Itxaro. The girl was dense at times! It wasn’t until he saw her feet combined with that of his child and mother running away from camp did he also depart.
His expression was ruthless, his longbow and arrows clutched in his grip as the axe was hurriedly attached to his back where he knew he could draw it easily enough once the arrows had run out. His feet were soundless amongst the uproar of screams and thundering hooves. The camp was all awake now, confusion and shock and anger and sorrow all blending into one chaotic noise that threatened to deafen him as he ran to catch up to the other men. Part of him felt as if he moved in slow motion, the images seen before him like some horrible nightmare except this one was no dream. There was blood and ruin, shreds of the leather tents lying in horrid mounds of decimation. He watched the head of a Thiasan fall and let out a whooping cry of delight. “Sem’zakur!” he shouted at the enemy, hatred plain in his voice. They would pay for this, he silently vowed.
He had reached the woods, half crouched as he ran. He knew this land, something the white faces didn’t. He knew each and every curve and bump and his feet thumped along without missing a beat. He quickly reached the spot where he would retain some degree of safety while he loosed his well aimed arrows. There he would fire upon the advancing men, resorting to the axe when needed. The more he could make fall from their horses the better chances the Baskari had.