The wind billows. The rain falls. These mountains have been carved by the elements for many a millenia, standing as a testament to time. With no adherence to what any mortal might say, the wind, the rain, and the stone toil in a never ending fight. The wind pushes the rain, the rain in turn slices the stone, and the stone halts the wind. And as it did, it does. As it does, it will. For all eternity. . . . . . . . . . “Steel your nerves, men! Prepare!” came a billowing voice from the crest of the mountains. It was pouring. It seemed that the Goddess intended to punish them. “Mages, prepare your Sigils! Infantry, prepare your glaives! We must halt the Androsars on this mountain! They can not win!” The man paced back and forth on a wooden parapet. Him and his army, of which there were thousands lined along fortifications, stood upon the crest of a foothill. These mountains, statuesque silhouettes placid against the tumultuous night skies, stood as a bulwark against the oncoming Androsar armies. In the dense forests of the Siran Mountains, the young, dashing Piomus Beremekhu stood, watching his troops intently as they grasped their spears. They had spent the past week building these walls out of the lumber found locally in the valleys below, and now that the battle quickly approached, Piomus found himself excited at the prospect. Not an ounce of fear, nor a tinge of preoccupation with any other matters. He was raving to fight. It showed on his face, with how his blue eyes shone in the illuminating lightning strikes that hit every now and then. His armor, the illustrious silver finish befitting that of a general, glistened in the rain. And, his damp black hair that extended into a thin beard around his sharp jaws fell in wet strands along his forehead. His officers, who joined him at his sides on the commanding parapet at the top of the foothill, looked at him with wrinkled brows. “General Beremekhu, sir, the Androsars are perhaps closer than we imagined.” said one, a man that Piomus defined by his scar that ran alongside his right ear. “Should we not urge a scouting party to confirm their location?” “No,” Piomus didn’t even glance in the man’s direction. “That Androsar General, the one they call ‘Sarpente’, he’ll take the hidden route. One that cuts through the Sarites. One that brings him straight to us.” “But, would a scouting party not help you to confirm that?” The officer asked. “Believe me, Afonso, I am confident. Do not let yourself waver.” Piomus turned to him. Afonso’s eyes averted Piomus’ gaze, as he nodded. “Yes, sir.” “Do me a favor, Afonso. Go to the Western side of the mountain, and notify the troops there that they will sortie out into the valley once the Androsars arrive.” Piomus laid a hand on his shoulder, the cool, soaked fabric of Afonso’s shoulder padding squishing against the surprising force of Piomus’ hand. “Yes, sir.” Afonso’s right hand snapped to his chest, near his heart, in a salute. Piomus smiled, and patted his shoulder. With that, Afonso began down the hill, rushing through the crowds of men clammering around camp. The makeshift fortress that General Beremekhu had built. The hill they had inhabited was part of the larger Sarite Mountains, a stretch of black mass that extended for as far as the naked eye could see. It was rugged terrain that challenged Piomus’ men. Their scouts had found this place mere weeks prior, and with news of an Androsar army on the march for Kos Marna, he knew this plan was to be fool-proof, if he is to succeed. He continued to pace, his boots squelching on the soaked wooden boards beneath him. He peered about at the flickering flames in the distance. His army of fifteen thousand men, many of whom were peasants from Kos Marna that he’d had to train, stood in fortifications that wrapped around the central command post where he stood in a circle, with three layers of fortifications further expanding out until it stopped near the trough of the slope. There, several ditches had been dug out and filled with loose soil. The rain had turned them into death pits of the most treacherous mud that could swallow horses whole. Another lightning strike illuminated the future battleground, but for now, Piomus sighed. His battle was so close, yet so far away. “General Beremekhu, you have a letter from Set Viul. It’s from the King.” A messenger called from behind him. The balcony he looked out from was lonely, so… “Come in.” Piomus replied, stepping aside. “Read it aloud to me.” “Are you… sure, sir?” “Yes, come. Come in.” He smiled, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The messenger unwrapped the scroll and cleared his throat. “To the esteemed Conqueror of the Isles of Ganume, Sir Piomus Beremekhu. I send this letter to you concerning the effect to which-” He starts, before Piomus cuts him off. “Oh, spare me. Summarize.” “U-Uhm, of course, sir.” The messenger quickly skims the scroll before folding it beneath his arm. “The king is curious about your plans to defeat the Androsars.” “Ah,” Piomus chuckled slightly. “Burn it.” “E-Excuse me, sir? Burn it?!” “Yes. Burn the scroll.” “But it has the seal of the King! Would that not anger the monarchy? I mean, you might be-” The messenger babbled, panicking on Piomus’ behalf. “If it were the King, why would he want to know about my plans? Now, of all times?” Piomus laughed. “These Androsars are hilarious. Hand me the scroll.” Piomus took it from the messenger and read through it. “Look, look. The grammar is wrong here. ‘Guard these mountains good, my dearest Man’! Ah, what the blasted Isles does that even mean?!” He laughed loud, his armor clanging as a hysterical laugh overtook him. The messenger looked on, an uncomfortable smile on his face, unsure if he should laugh along with the general. Finally, after many awkward moments, Piomus calms himself down. “You are dismissed, messenger.” He said, walking into the command post. It was a small room, one that had been built haphazardly and henceforth wasn’t very furnished – of course, save for a small table that sat in the corner, sprawled with parchment that had unfinished war plans drawn across their faces. Atop these papers was a lit candle that flickered as the terrible storm outside was tapered off into cold winds due to the open doorway to the balcony. He held the letter to the candle, and watched as it ignited. The messenger said his goodbyes, and left. Piomus stood idly as the letter burned. The smell of smoke filled the room. “I cannot believe they thought that would work.” Piomus muttered as the fire crawled over the parchment, licking at his fingers in all of their orange light. Then, all at once, the world seemed to explode with sound. In the dead of night, the Androsars had found them. And, just as Piomus had predicted, they wanted to go through the valley. But, he had other plans. He exploded down the stairs, grabbing his sword from its scabbard on his hip, and charged out of the cabin with a guttural roar as he left. “Here they are, men! Mages, release your sigils! Let these Androsar bastards know true pain!” All at once, the dark landscape that had been defined loosely by torches that were as disparate lily pads atop a creek was illuminated by the tremendous explosions that rippled throughout the valley as the Energmaxos of Piomus’ army activated their sigils. Piomus rushed to the bottom of the hill, passing checkpoints. He jumped onto the first wall with ample running start, landing on the wall walk. One of the soldiers noticed him, and pointed toward the gap between two mountains. “A contingent of our sortie found the Androsar camp less than a kilometer out! What do we do, sir?” “Send mountaineers and skirmishers to assist the sortie. One brigade’s worth. Go, tell them!” Without much protest, the soldier left his post and ran across the top of the hill to the other side. Piomus watched as his troops engaged a small portion of the Androsars. He almost ached to leap over the other walls and fight with them, but he knew he had to do what he could from here. “Archers, ready a volley!” He roared over the torrential downpour, the sounds of battle, and the detonations across the Sarites. “Draw!” The archers in the upper walls drew their bows, nocking an arrow each as they stretched their shoulder, pulling their arm back, and with them the bowstring and arrow. “Fire!” A flurry of arrows came from the fortifications as the archers let go of their bowstrings. The sheer amount of them created a thin veil of projectiles rising up through the air, before falling upon the Androsars. From this distance, even Piomus could tell that the volley struck them directly. Then, just as soon as the battle had started, it seemed to end. The last Androsars were picked off on the mountain path, and there were no more banners of that dynasty left here. But Piomus knew. “Send out three brigades. If we are to crush the Androsars, it will be to completion.” He said, calling to some officer in the lower walls. “Prepare your men! We are going to that Androsar camp, and we are burning it to the ground.” . . . . Piomus shifted on his saddle as his horse tread along the mountain path. His fortress was behind him now, and the camp was in front of him. As they went, Piomus could see the lights of the Androsar camp from the thin path they traveled. “Look ahead, lads!” he yelled out to his men, pointing to a break in the hills, a wide gap between the Sarites where the Androsar camp of dozens of tents spread on either side of a creek. “The Androsars have been caught with their pants down! Mages, prepare your sigils!” They marched faster now, and the sound of the stamping men echoed against the walls of the mountain. They turned a bend in the road, and as Piomus led them, more and more of the Androsar camp came into view. “It must be an army of tens of thousands.” He breathed out in excitement, a grin smearing across his face. “Sir, maybe we should bring the entire army out? As of now, we only have fifteen hundred men at our disposal.” Said Afonso, who had joined him on his sortie “That much is enough. We will catch them by surprise, surely.” Pious responded, spurring his horse to walk faster. It seemed that the explosions from before had alerted the camp, but even then he saw minimal activity within the encampment on the river bank. “This will be a battle of annihilation, after all.” And so, with a single shout, Piomus spurred his horse as the troops behind him slowly transformed from a march into a job, then into a quick advance down the hill. He led his cavalry into the fray, throwing himself down the mountain in a storm of dirt clouds. Fury in his movements, he pulled his sword from his scabbard, its worn steel still glistening in the sleeting rain. Within moments, Piomus’ cavalry was upon the edges of the camp, trampling through tents. Any lit torches that were inside ignited the stretched leather and canvas tarps, sparking massive flames from the insulated wool on the inside. “Tear them apart!” The guttural yells of men fighting filled the camp as his cavalry advanced, cutting down those barely in their under coverings. Piomus watched as the sleeping Androsars bolted awake. It seemed they might put up a fight. “Shame.” He muttered, before calling out to the soldiers following the cavaliers. “Charge! Slay any Androsar you see! Mages, fire your sigils!” On his command, the infantry moved to the wings, cutting through the campsite with ease. The few Androsars that were savvy enough to pick up their swords against the oncoming Hervacenan infantry. Explosions ripped through the camp as Piomus had never seen such slaughter before. But, even as his stomach churned, he cheered on. For he knew that if these men had been let to live, many others back home would die for it. And, though the killing disgusted him, he fought forth, trampling bodies and cutting through tents, seeking blood. Under the torment of the Goddess, he was glad that the rain masked his tears. He felt for these men, still. He had known what it was like to be a mere soldier. To fear for your life at all times. Unfortunately, the command of kings could bring even the closest of brothers to kill each other. He looked up from his thoughts across the creek, where many Androsars now fled with their general. Across the plains, and into the foothills of the Sarite Mountains. There were cheers among the contingent he led, some murmuring praises, while others were distraught by the death below their horses. The steeds they sat upon muddied their hooves in the blood and grime of the many dead and still dying beneath them. The Androsar banner was broken. And with it, its pride. It was quick, and painless for most. That was all Piomus could ask of a battle. “I must congratulate you, sir.” Afonso said, riding up beside him as Piomus thought. “For?” Piomus replied. “...winning the battle.” He furrowed his brow, before adding, “Sir.” “Ah, yes. I suppose.” “You suppose.” Afonso scoffed. “Sir, you just destroyed the Androsars and saved this war! What do you mean you suppose?” “It’s a victory. But not one I’m particularly ecstatic about.” “Could I ask why? You won decisively.” Piomus smiled and turned to Afonso. “What is the point of a battle if there is no fighting?” “To win?” “Ah, but to win is to fight, Afonso. This was no real victory.” Piomus looked down at the dead Androsars beneath his horse. Vacantly, as it neighed and trotted about, it splashed in the vibrant red blood of the enemy. “Look around.” Afonso turned to look at the devastation in the field around. He gulped as the stench of death caught up to him, carried by the cool breeze flowing into the valley. “Now, let us go back to the fort. We will have to march back to Set Viul soon.” “Why, sir?” “The Androsars are bound to sign a peace treaty now that the infamous Sarpente is running with his tail tucked between his legs.” Piomus turned the stallion around, and whistled loud enough for all to hear. “Fall back to the fortifications! We are done here.” . . . . . . . . .