It was a three hours march to ‘Death Point’, as the front lines were being called due to the death toll they brought. Grand Chief Yerg had begged for reinforcements and so the village had sent two hundred of roughly one-thousand men selected to fight for Torkov Village. The war had been going a month yet, and already it was looking grim.

   Currently, Owain slogged along, panting hard from the exertion of the trek. Even at the age of fifteen, Owain was one of the best archers in his village, thus he was chosen for this mission. 

   He grimaced as he looked around. Chief Agnon had sent one hundred of the village's best fighters, and one hundred of the dispensable ones. All in all, Owain was scared. 

   By now, King Harnkelt had led his army into the heart of Heshibald Crune, forcing a retreat from Chief Yerg in an attempt to mobilize forces. The remaining Heshibald Crunain forces were at a total of twelve thousand–a harrowing number. For the eight thousand Heshibald Crunain soldiers dead or captured, just two thousand of the King’s forces had been killed, and one hundred captured. The odds were heavily against them.

   Nevertheless, the men of Torkov Village trudged on, led by a Töber, also called a Heshibald Crunain officer. The tenth month of the year had come upon them, and a downpour of rain muddied the dirt and froze the men to the bone. The fur pelt they wore did little to help Owain, as the water plastered his hair to his scalp and soaked his skull. Channels of water rode the nape of his neck down his undergarments–carefully extracting the warmth from him like a python squeezing the life out of its prey.

   All this they were enduring when they heard the clang of steel and the cries of pain over the next rise. Owain cursed and unwrapped his recurve bow from the folds of cloth it was kept in to keep dry. He strung it and waited. 

   Their Töber mustered what strength he had. “Ready for battle men! This will be the fight of our lives! It will be for our nation! It will be for our wives and children! Are you ready to die for these things!?” 

   At this, a roar of ascent worth more than their two hundred in number arose. Even in their current state, they would fight with vigor. 

   The Töber raised his voice again, “Then we go to battle!” 

   At this, the rasp of two hundred swords sounded over the valley, and they charged over the rise to certain death.

   Ilben gritted his teeth as he darted around the battlefield. What an idiot I am! he thought. Chief Agnon had asked for young volunteers to be supply runners for the upcoming battle. 

   Now he was sprinting with two sheaths of arrows to supply the archers. He grimaced and felt the bile rise in his throat at the site of a gutted man; blood and gore covering the ground. 

   It was a bloody battle between roughly three thousand Heshibald Crune fighters and the much more experienced and organized Bloodied (what the Talora Kalian soldiers were called after their blood red uniforms). But if there was one thing they had that the enemy lacked, it was passion. Harnkelts men fought like men made to, while the people of Heshibald Crune fought for chief and country.

   Ilben sucked in a sharp intake of breath as an arrow flew by his ear, and ran even faster. He struggled up a hill on the slick grass and arrived, panting, to drop the arrows. 

   While there were only fifty archers firing from the hill, the remaining one hundred were in the front lines, firing into the main body of the enemy. 

   On the other side, the imposing Talora Kalian archers in red fired in a neat row from the safety of the back. Other than the traditional archers, precise crossbowmen fired into the thick of it all with large bolts, with the protection of a pavise.

   All of this Ilben took in as he stood atop the hill and surveyed the field. It was then that he knew: they would lose this battle. Already, the Bloodied were slowly carving their way around the Heshibald Crunain’s flanks. The enemy had the advantage two-to-one, and Ilben could see its effect. What were they to do?

   In a tent, on a bed of pillows and a meal spread before him, King Harnkelt reclined and savored the sounds of dying men just far enough away outside that no danger was posed. A servant stood at attention at the entry to the tent.

   “Mmmm,” the king groaned with pleasure at the taste of a grape, “Gortreff, send Lieutenant Werter in for a battle report.”

  “Yes, M’Lord,” the awkward youth mumbled before bowing and hurrying outside.

   “Fool of a boy, that one,” the king grumbled.

   A few minutes later, Lieutenant Werter stumbled in an undignified manner into the tent with a cut on his forehead and his chainmail soaked. “Sir!” he said, snapping into a salute.

  “At ease,” Harnkelt mumbled lazily. “Report.”

  “Of course, My Liege,” the man quivered. “We have gained ground on the enemy and should have them dealt with sundown.”

   “Casualties?”

  “Two thousand to the enemy, and the near the same to us.”

  “THE SAME!!??” Harnkelt roared. “How come we have lost equal numbers to uneducated simple folk!”

  “I-I… Sire, I-I don’t know. Still, we have them four-to-one,” the trembling man stuttered.

  “Get out of my site, and don’t let me see you till their heads are on spikes!” the king spat.

  Werter nodded, bowed, and near bolted from the presence of the king.

   Ilben was panicking now; watching as the Bloodied soldiers cut down more and more Heshibald Crune men. Even worse, Ilben’s father was fighting on the front lines, and Ilben was terrified he would die.

   Even then, the horns of retreat were being sounded. But it was to no avail. Ilben turned, screaming for his father. “Dad!”

   “Ilben!” Hashel cried as he grabbed his son. “Let’s go!”

   Suddenly, Hashel was seized from behind and thrown to the ground. The soldier responsible raised his sword.

   Ilben met his fathers eyes. Hashel said all he needed to with that look.

   Shunk!

   “NOOOOOOO!!!” Ilben screamed before the man hit him on the temple, knocking him out.