The powder numbed the gums and left only but a burn. They told him to bite his lips to let the pain linger. Heat flushed his skin. An itch scuttled from his jaw to his chin. It was a good time for Dragonmarrow.

At first, Kadan was worried he'd taken too much, but there was something wrong. The chatter of cicadas never kicked into rumbles. Whistling wind winding through weir-leaves never warbled into screams. The night never melted into oil. He hadn't taken enough.

Perhaps it was never meant to be on the eve of battle. Dull, soft, rote. The camp was alight with the sound of flapping tents, smacking flesh, and roaring flames. At its east end, inauspicious, he smiled as the night gale tussled his hair. Such a wind was rare in these parts.

It was a clear night, the stars sparkling as a moon danced through veils of hot campfire smoke. Yet even in the dark, he loved to watch the shuffle of wind-swept grass, where the swaying led his eyes to patches of black and orange at the edge of a far-off forest. Kadan loved to imagine the elves there. Did they look back from the black with equally curious eyes? Did they ponder the crackling grassfires and the shouts of bannermen?

Would they even care to wonder about the enemy?

Arms crossed, standing, a woman rested her oily black hair on his shoulder. "This reminds me a bit of home, you know," Her voice was hard and rough, like a growl. She spoke like a strong summer's rain. "Nervous?" The nail from her thumb ran along his arm and scratched his gambeson.

"Not nervous," he whispered, "excited. The first time to see one."

She sighed. Kadan was thick-jawed, so at times it was difficult to know if he was smiling or grimacing. She'd serviced him for a while, ever since he came to these parts of the world, and she yet hadn't figured it out. She knew a cheek would twitch and a brow would fall, but when and why, she didn't know. He turned to her, his hands on her waist. "Are you busy?"

She smiled. "I've all night. To talk, maybe. On other things, maybe not."

He laughed. "Sweet Amelie, I don't deserve you." His laughter had a peculiar, loud guffaw, a rounded laugh from a rounded mouth. "How's about a ride?"

"Parna's offered, and the stablemaster's said no. Horses need rest, he says," She closed her eyes and sighed. "A shame, I so wished to ride with my favourite boys."

Kadan scratched the back of his neck. There came a click as a metal fasten from his gloves locked in a notch. "I'm a favourite!"

"You are. Now and always." Wolves howled in the forests. Not a face turned. It wasn’t the time, not now. "Kadan, Kadan, my big, beautiful knight-boy - ah!" He grabbed her waist and swung her around. Her hair fell and tickled his arm.

"This knight-boy has plans for his favourite girl," He smiled at her with his lips and his arms, a tight grip. "You wait, beautiful Amelie, rose of the north -"

"No, stop it!" She pushed away and laughed. "Stop this teasing!"

He laughed and gingerly kissed her outstretched hands.

The night was cool, but the fires warm. They needed all the time they could get before tomorrow.

----------------------------------------

Morning was met with poor planning and bad formations. Hungover men, shields swaying, both arms clenched around their spears. Eyes peeked from above the scutums, ringed in bronze and sharply cold. A man on a horse, slick-haired and wild-eyed, galloped down the rally line.

Kadan's flank, the left, was as poor as the center. The right was already beginning to buckle, not to soldiers or monsters, but chill, wind, noise, and sun.

Mavon, the rider, made his way to Kadan, who was polishing his tower shield to a mirror shine. "Ser Kadan, good to see you!" He dismounted and rushed over, wrapping his arm around him. They exchanged kisses on their cheeks and both set their sights on the field.

The enemy line was much neater. Kadan and Mavon cursed under their breaths. The enemy shield wall was much cleaner and the soldiers much more prepared. They seemed different from usual levies: chest-high slats of sharp wood and warped metal, uniforms with leather black as night, without sigil, blades readied. Their pikes stood up, straight up, a disciplined line, a wall of flesh and steel. Bannermen every few columns carried fine, featureless flags. Drummers rumbled from behind.

Kadan and Mavon looked back at their own men. They swayed like a low tide, a seashore of staggering knock-knees, hands sweaty. God, they’re up against a real line of men-at-arms.

"This is no pack of farmhands." Kadan led Mavon down to the centerline, his hand out to nudge a few men back. He never stopped looking at the enemy. "They're a mercenary army, they must be, but I hadn't considered they'd field so many. How did stick-ears rack up enough talents for this?"

"Whorin' out, I bet. Bog-birds are pretty." Mavon spoke with the softness of a winter's wind, with a treble high and knife-sharp.

"Y'ever seen an elven whore? They don' have em, moment the birds get low on cash they just...go back to the woods." He took a few steps out.

The forest, a shield of green and black, was a wild and old-growth beast that roared at night and shook during the day. How did the Salah live in those trees, and for so long? He would rather have the open invitations of waist-high grass and the smell of seawater, the smell of home.

But there was no such thing here; he was far from the stench of cordgrass and the laughter of rail clappers. Coyotes and wolves were as music here, and Kadan detested all of it.

Silence. Just the wind. Chills, morning sun. Warm. The flying of flags, but none of it mattered. Kadan heard clicks behind him; clashes of shields and the battle hadn’t even started.

Then he saw it. From the forest came a great stag, ringed in muscle and muzzled in steel, larger than any bull and swifter than any horse. Even so far away, it was so large that it seemed clear as glass. It dwarfed every man around it. A black fog escaped its mask, coating the enemy formation in a strange substance. On its back was more of a platform than a saddle, as three elves sat imperiously with room to spare.

"Where are the Milochs?" Kadan yelled to the captain of the center flank. "Where are the bulls?!"

"Bulls are coming, but we've only companion cavalry at the moment." Rali, the captain of the center flank, barrel-chested and mustachioed, was unwrapping his spear and sliding his hand into the enarmes. "Orders are to hold until Marshall Parasson comes with reinforcements. Ardalians want their glory."

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"Damn it! You see the stag?" Mavon yelled. "Who ran scout, are they blind? Look at that thing!"

The elven stag, head raised, roared. It rang throughout the battlefield, each rattle of its clicks louder than any lion. Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka, was the sound. Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka.

Kadan felt a swaying shield poke him in the back. "Hold the line." He ordered his men. "You run and you'll be hanged for desertion, you hear? Hanged 'till dead once Parasson arrives!"

"Ser Kadan, please, there's no hope..."

"I've children, ser Kadan..."

"I want to go home..."

"Then go home after this!" Kadan clicked and whistled and summoned a horse, rushing over to the center flank. "Survive this damn thing, and go home!" He was not much for speeches, and he worried that speeches wouldn't even do anything in this situation.

Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka. That damn noise, so far and yet so loud!

"Mavon, you make sure your men hold that shield wall, by God or mandate, understood?!" The rider raised a fist and galloped off. "And Rali, please, I understand your men might get hit by the stag, but please, don't buckle -"

"I won't if you don’t! You hold the left and we'll see the day again once the Smoke-Knights come hither the hills!" Rali slammed his fist into his breastplate and screamed.

"I'll hold the left, God protect us!" Kadan took deep breaths. He rode back to the left flank, grabbed his lance from his squire, and with his tower shield closed to his chest, he trotted forward until he could see the enemy with clarity.

Men, all of them. An East Siralian mercenary army. It shouldn't take much to break their formation if they had enough cavalry, but his meagre numbers here wouldn't shake the line. Like Kadan's, their shield wall was shoulder-to-shoulder, rows five men deep.

"Light arrows!" Kadan shouted, his arm raised to his archers. He heard Mavon follow suit. Bowmen rushed to the front of the wall, buckets down. They dipped their wicks in fat and raised their bows. The enemy formation was coming, but slowly. Thumping, trekking, sandals and greaves pressed against soft grass.

Not yet. They couldn't light the arrows yet. There wasn't enough to punch through the armour, not at that range.

But the stag, that was the problem. It stayed behind, fogging up the back lines, black wists swirling like a grim haze. What was it doing?

Then, following the mercenaries, it inched closer. Dear God, it's so much ground, Kadan thought. Its stride was long, men-length, greater than any horse he'd ever seen. Was this what elven dales were like? Was this their answer to fighting outside of the forest?

As the enemy marched closer and closer, he saw the arms of their stick-eared commanders: bows curled like ringlets, stag-bone, twine of deep sinew black as tar. They were in the hands of three short-haired elves, all men, raven-haired, wrapped in root-like lamellar.

Eventually, they grew close enough for Kadan to hear their shouts. "Isuphir, Isuphir," they shouted. Isuphir? He'd heard that before, but what did it mean?

"Imrisong, Imrisong!" Their mercenaries shouted back.

Kadan waited, his arm half-raised. A bit closer; they just needed to be a bit closer. Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka.

There it was!

His hand fell. His archers made their move. Arms cocked back, fletches down, heads high, a fiery volley whipped through the air. A line of fire gowned the grasses. The enemy wall kept moving. "Imrisong, Imrisong!" They chanted.

"Archers, ready!" Kadan shouted. He heard the other captains yell the same. Lance raised, flag billowing, he raced down to the center flank. He swung his hand down. Another volley.

"Imrisong, Imrisong!"

Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka.

The stag stamped and kicked up a wall of dirt. They fired another volley. Kadan whipped his head around, but he couldn't see them; where were Parasson and his men?

Eventually, the mercenaries came within clashing distance, pikes up. "Shields! Companions!" On horseback, Kadan trodded forwards, keeping pace with his men. "Give me a barrier!" An orb of soft blue light surrounded him.

He galloped to a rush, and with all his might, he fell into their shields. His lance plunged deep into the wooden walls. The barrier was only strong enough to last a few scrapes from enemy spears, but when it shattered nauseating energy splashed through their ranks.

His men soon followed. The left flank, shields high, smashed into the enemy. Then the center, then the right. "Companion!" He yelled again. Kadan tried to hear the sound of hoofbeats and the rumble of a stampede, but it was too easily drowned out by the stag. Mace in his hand, he crushed a young boy's neck.

Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka. The boss of a buckler shattered his barrier. Fresh air surrounded him.

Kadan backed off. "Barrier!" No barrier. Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka.

A veil of black fog swept his ranks. "Hold the wall!" He yelled. He just needed a bit more time - just a bit more. They were mercs, they’ll eventually break!

“Isuphir, Isuphir!” He heard them yell again. Rali was screaming, Kadan could hear him. However, he was too busy.

The men pushed and ebbed like a tide of wood and iron. Kadan was trapped in-between. "Barrier!" He yelled again, but nobody heard him. Something brushed against his hair, narrowly missing his ear. He raised his shield and pushed. He hadn't the room to swing; all he could do was thrust.

Shields-shook and shard-shot, Kadan's flank was receding. How was Rali doing? How was Mavon?

Teeth from a club cut his ear. Blood ran down his cheek, and he spat it out. Exhale, exhale, he thought. Exhale, exhale.

Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka. The smell of shit in the air. Kadan looked up. A giant stride, a shadow, simmering with smoke, flew above them. "Archers!" He yelled and pointed his mace to the stag's underbelly. "Archers!"

No arrows. The enemy wall smashed into his chest and he staggered back. He had the room to stagger back. "Rali!”

Imrisong! Imrisong! That damned chant!

A chorus of clashing blades in the air, a scream of steel. Imrisong! Imrisong!

“Isuphir, Isuphir!” Shut up, stick-ears!

Kadan rushed back. His men had long fled. Kadan ran down to the center flank. Why didn't they break? They were a mercenary army! They should've broken a long time ago!

Kadan fled a short distance before he heard the bellowing of a horn, deep, baritone, and brassy.

Shocks came from behind. Over the hills were the Milochs, giant Siralian bulls crowned by a spire of crows. Though none as large as that damn stag, they were big enough to dwarf even the biggest man.

Parasson! Parasson? Kadan thought.

No.

A rat on a chariot too small for any man, wielding a glaive too big for any child. A moustache of grey steel, a glossy coat caked in blood and feverish zeal. In his chariot, this rat-man shouted a war cry, too soft and quiet to be heard on the battlefield, but Kadan knew it well enough.

With a swing of his rat-spear, long streaks of black rope sleeted through the air. As these threads flew above the line of battle, puffs of white smoke fell onto the battlefield.

"Run!" Kadan yelled. His men were long gone, but Rali's men stayed. "Run!" Few heard him; fewer ran.

The elves knew what it was. The white clouds, sticking to the stag's skin, burned and bubbled and boiled. The mercenaries, still, even aflame, refused to back away.

Another volley. The first one had already turned to flame.

And yet, even in this, they kept fighting. "Back off!" Kadan yelled again. The center flank finally listened, dropped their shields, and ran.

At the sight of the center line's retreat, the right backed off. Crumpled underfoot was Rali, a twisted arm mangled around his flag. Mavon, and his companion cavalry, was nowhere to be seen. Only Kadan was left.

The enemies held the line, but another volley stayed their advance. Like a conductor, the rat raised his flag and pointed it at the left line. A barrage of arrows and fire melted their ranks. It was now, and finally now, that the enemy began to retreat.

However, they didn't slink into the forest where the elves had gone. They didn't belong there. Rather, they ran south, but Kadan knew there would be very little of them left: he heard another blast of horns from the south, deep, baritone, and brassy.

He fell, prayed on his knees to the rat, and tears welled up in his eyes. He thought he'd never see her again. "Thank you, Marshall, thank you!"

The rat looked at Kadan with pity, his beady black eyes surveying the battlefield. "Let Parasson and his son kill the Imhubat, they've been whining about the lack of a good hunt." The rat placed a small claw on Kadan's shoulder. "You're tired and your men deserve a reprieve. Leave this field to me, my soldiers have been hungering to taste elven meat, and that beast might be big enough to feed my camp!"