“What in the bloody hells is taking them so long?” Morra grunted, her voice echoing in her helm. Her armored war horse moved impatient beneath her, causing Alynor to neigh and lose her temper all the same. Veryanor pulled the reins and whispered soothing words in feeble attempt. However, she understood well how the white mare felt. The day had dawned white with clouds, and the moors gleamed with dew under the feeble morning light. For two hours they had stood on top of the open hill, lashed by the warm wind that have swept mists and armies alike. “We fight or we don’t. Yes or no. Just two options,” Morra scraped her throat, opened her visor and spat. Tall broad as she was, with mail and scaled armored all over, she looked more as a man than she did a woman. Surely she had the manners as well. “These nobles and their bloody codes. Always turning things more complicated than they should.”

Veryanor opened her visor too to have a better look. Far in the moors she descried the five lonely figures with their banners flapping overhead. Vorick Aldermont and Raldent Orsten facing the King Dasmond Arnor accompanied by Ormont Ecklehart and by what Veryanor supposed was Ryvian Langarde. Veryanor shifted uneasily on her seat. What in the world was Manthyr thinking? Even her, with as little experience in battle she had, she had heard of Ryvian Langarde’s prowesses. It was him, alongside Thormand Farren, who fended and repelled the Empire and liberated the greater northern side of Akrevann. Him on the enemy lines meant great part of the north was present in this field. While King Manthyr’s army was composed by mercenaries and small lords. And criminals, dragged from the dungeons swayed by empty words of greatness and riches and a new life free of sin under the eyes of Ellth. All savages and untrained. Something inside her knew all of this was a reckless whim of a reckless self-named king.

Far ahead the forest of ashen spears loomed, their leaf-shaped tips gleamed palely in pair with the thousands of helms that showed beneath. Banners flapped, grey and black, grey and orange, mud and green, and here and there the sky blue and white of Arnor showed proud. Farther, on top the opposite hill, the gray mass of walls and towers that was Olmant Castle waited as an old man longed for death. By Bloody Ellth, Mordan. What did you get us into? She saw K’aldrick gallop in the front lines, impatient as a caged feral cat would, his helm and plate shone with many dints and a long spear rose atop his head. He knew too how reckless this all was, as everyone well did.

She sighed. If miracles do indeed happen, now would be the best of times for one.

The march to the moors had been tiring. They broke their fast on stew made of rabbit and wild onions before the first light and less than an hour after they were all on their feet, armed to the bone with muddy mails and plates, spear and swords, bow and arrow, wending ever uphill.

The colors of Manthyr, Aldermont, Ashternford and Orstenshore swept the land. A priest of Ellth walked untiring to one side of the retinue, ever chanting, “For the Eyes of God shine bright above us, and witness our sins as well our deeds! He who gave men night and day also gave the gift of life shall brig the virtue of dead upon us if our time is come! And he, the well-doer, shall be greeted by Ellth’s kin and beckoned in his golden gates of Hereafter and shall know not suffering, no ill, no dread! His kin will see, for from his sight they were born and travel the world day and night keeping the Dark One’s creatures at bay from us!” A roar of agreement rose from the men, kindled with a new flame of determination. “These heathens come from northern lands, alien and dark they are. They bring here, to this pure and hallowed lands, their pagan gods, seeking to rive them from their rightful and just king! He, o Blind Ellth, is here with us!” Another roar came, stronger than before and a sea of brandished spears and swords rose in the air.

Veryanor and Rethe galloped in silence abreast as they listened to the priest’s words. There was not much to do other than hear the old priest as he moved along the company with short steps and bent back. A long scepter walked with him, aiding him with each of his tired steps. It was tipped with gold and silver, fashioned in a moon and sun that glimmered each time its butt hit the soil.

“Have you ever witnessed a miracle?” Veryanor asked Rethe as her horse climbed up a small slant.

“No, you?” Rethe rose an eyebrow, a little startled by Veryanor’s sudden question.

“No,” she answered, looking at all the slanted spears and backs of marching men, all in dressed in colored liveries and steel. She spotted Mordan and K’aldrick speaking to each other in the front. “I have long prayed for one, but never came. At some point I gave up.”

Rethe kept silent for a few more paces.

The priest waddled along. His hair was all gone but for a few unshaven patches on his spotted skull. A hooked nose jutted sharply from his baggy face. If Veryanor were to say, she’d guess the old man was more than three score years old. “Death is a reward, if come as our duty to Ellth is being done!”

Does he know the will of Ellth? Verya thought, or does he only know sweet words?

“My master,” Rethe picked up the conversation once more, “used to say that Ellth only comes down for the one who has the the bigger army in battle.”

“The bigger army is the one who needs miracles the least,” said Veryanor as she remembered the idols back in Riverland Hill. “It is the smaller army who faces impossible odds, is it not?” She took a long breath and released the air slowly. “I prayed, for my father. Every day for months upon months. And he died anyway. No miracle came, Ellth never paid heed to my call. You think he never came because he was fighting someone elses’ battle?”

Rethe remained silent with his gaze fixed on the road ahead. The priest had finished his sermon and now spoke with a group of soldiers and shared a skin of wine as they walked.

“Well,” said Rethe, “praying is the only thing we can do for now.”

And now here they stood, in the cool morning wind, and with the bigger army before them. Have they prayed as well?

Ravens circled in the sky, black specks against the white mantle of clouds that flew in anticipation. They know. They are eager for the feast. Veryanor tightened her gauntleted grip about the reins.

Only one miracle. It is all I ask. If not from Ellth, from whatever god is watching.

The five figures scattered and two of them grew larger as they approached, their banners flying like dragon tails. K’aldrick and Mordan spurred their horses to meet them, mud splashing under his horse’s hooves, and parted sideways on their way back. Each to their respective squadron.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Finally,” Morra said and lowered her helm’s visor with a short clang. She readied her lance and eased herself in the saddle. “My arse was growing roots and blisters here.”

Veryanor’s heart thundered as loud as the hooves of the count’s hors. She pressed her jaw to keep it from trembling, her eyes shut hard to keep tears from welling. If you hear me, Ellth, bring the only miracle you always forbade me. Veryanor prayed. Just this one time, I ask no more.

K’aldrick ran his horse from one end of the line to the other, shouting as loud as his breath permitted, his right hand brandishing the silver shaft of his sword, pointing towards the sky. “Ready yourselves, my friends, my brothers, my sisters! For we fight today, and there is no other way! On this day we shall prove or valor. Prove that we are no mere sellswords, nor criminals!”

Then the sound of horns flooded the grasslands.

The exchange of arrows came. “Archers!” Just as the first horn echoed K’aldrick bellowed, somewhere Mordan did alike. The first line of men readied longbows and notched arrows. The wave of wood and pull of strings resonated from east to west. “To my command!” He let a few heartbeats pass. “Now!” The curtain of shafts rose, hissing sharply through the air, ready to curve downwards. Almost in the unison an opposite flight of arrows rose alike, blackening the view of the castle behind. “Shields!”

Veryanor rose her rounded shield right before the rain came. Many arrows clashed airborne and fell broken on the ground, the rest drummed hard on the thick roof of shields that had rose over the army. Veryanor’s arm tired as the arrows hit and stuck in her shield, others caromed from its boss. From the slits of her helm she saw many of her companions had not been as lucky. Men lay dead in the spot, other wailed in pain as arrows kept falling to finish the job. Her heart pounded up her gullet, but weather it was her heart or bile, she could not tell.

Morra shouted unintelligible words from under her shield, her double-sided axe was ready in her hand. Veryanor noticed her sword ready as well, but could not tell since when.

AOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The horn’s cry reverberated deep in her chest and the arrows ceased. When Veryanor lifted her view she saw thousands of soldiers cover the plains as a growing steel-fanged shadow about to tear them to gobbets.

“Charge!” K’aldrick roared, and the earth beneath trembled to the thousands of voices rising as they moved forward.

Ellth, one miracle, Veryanor prayed as her heels dug on Alynor’s flanks.

The white mare cut through the enemy as Veryanor hacked with her sword right and left. Morra was nearby, laughing and cursing all the same, her war axe hacking and slashing as if she were possessed. Warm blood spattered everywhere. An enemy soldier swooped onto Veryanor with lance in hand, but from afoot it was a hard aim and the lance tip caromed on her neck guard. She used the moment to dive her sword in the soldier’s throat. Blood gushed down run sparkling down his neck and he fell limp on the ground. Only then she noticed the livery: gray on orange and the two peaks sewn on the chest. Ecklehart, she thought, I’m killing those sworn to protect me. A hand pulled her boot from the stirrup and yanked her from the saddle. Veryanor’s heart twisted and she clung to the reins to keep herself from falling. Then the strange hand’s grasp released and when she turned the man’s head was separated for the shoulders and rolling as the body collapsed.

“Save daydreaming for another time!” Rethe scolded, his sword was marred with blood as well as his arms and plate. He spurred his horse forward, disappearing in the turmoil.

Men died everywhere and the ground turned red. The bedlam was an amalgam of swordplay, wailing and roaring.

Veryanor had lost count of how many men she had slain. A score or a hundred made no difference now. Her hear beat, her breath was heavy in her helm and her hair plastered with sweat on her face. She hewed and hammered, covered blows with shield and parried. Her right leg throbbed and burned. At some point she deflected a sword blow with one of her own but the parried blade found her right calf and cut clean through thick jerkins and flesh. She answered with hacking off the attacker’s hand. Her leg’s wound was somewhat deep, but had not reached the bone.

In the midst of a moment’s respite she saw him, mounted on his armored dark-brown stallion. His dark green cape swirled about him with every swing of his axe. It was rimmed with golden silk and white trees were sewn all over, many of which were tinged red with crusted blood. Beneath his armor shone except for dark spots where the blood had marred. Aldermont killed as if it were a sport, his stallion reared and kicked and trampled.

He’s there, Veryanor thought, and her heart began to race once more. Just one hit. He’ll never see me coming. Her grip tightened on the reigns and pressed her heels on Alynor’s flanks. He will die and nobody will know it was me. But as soon as the mare began a canter a hit came out of nowhere. Veryanor had enough time to rise her shield, but the strike was so strong and violent that it pushed her off her seat and her helmet flew to the sky. The impact the floor greeted her with shook even the bones Veryanor didn’t know she had. Her jaw was tight and her left arm was numb. The hooves stopped beside her and a shadow loomed over her. The hazy figure gradually shaped as her view cleared and the dizziness faded. His armor was as black as his horse’s and cunningly embossed with silver. An onyx pinned his black cape in place. The horseman inspected her for a few heartbeats as in awe of finding a woman partaking a battle. She felt his cold stare from the slits of his helm, cold as the light he covered. Then Ryvian Langarde readied his spear. When the he was to pierce, a horn came from the east.

The world froze. Enemy and allies alike waited as the first banners peeped from the eastern hills. Then the tips of steel followed by horses and men donned in golden plates. Galdwein, Veryanor thought. Saved. Another horn echoed and the newcomer army swept down the hill. Hundreds, thousands of men on foot and horse were ready to join the battle. Veryanor’s heart warmed and silently thanked Ellth. But the turmoil began again.

She focused on her opponent. The dark knight stroke with his spear, but Veryanor parried with her shield and rolled to a side. She found her sword in the mud and parried and rolled again and again and stroke with no avail. We have the numbers! She thought as the strikes came, why do they keep on fighting?! She tested her luck with a desperate blow and the half-moon strike slashed one of the horse’s legs. The stallion reared and wailed in pain. Langarde’s armor rattled as the heavy armored mass struck the blood stained mud.

“Retreat! Retreat!” Veryanor heard someone cry among the chime of swordplay. She pulled herself to a knee and took a look around. Aldermont yelled desperate.

Men ran and scattered and some not so lucky were put to the swords as cavalry reached them. Veryanor tried to stand but a pang of pain pulled her down. Her head felt dizzy and she heard the sounds of battle muffled and distant. The world clouded about her. She took a hand to her side and examined her palm. Blood, She smiled, ironic. My blood. She knew she wanted to cry, but tears would not come, only a small, sad laugh.

“Alynor!” She called, or so she thought she did. The white mare was nowhere to be seen. Someone got ahold of one of her arms and jerked her up.

“Bloody Ellth, Veryanor! Get up!” She heard distantly.

“R-Rethe?” She tried to ask but her voice was feeble and low and her lungs emptied of air.

“Get on the bloody horse!” He yelled and pushed her up. Even the slightest effort made her stomach want to turn. Her chest felt heavy and cold.

Rethe sat and held her still from behind. He spurred his horse and galloped. Soon the forest surrounded them and the trees drifted fast about. Alynor she thought. I have to get Alynor. But it was easier to think, for as soon as she did darkness engulfed her and her eyes closed. She felt cold, and soon she was asleep.