My heart races, and my blood boils.

My mind is sharp as a blade, and my heavy

armour falls lightly on my shoulders. This is it. The final moment.
Beneath me Farsight grumbles. His hooves paw the ground anxiously. He's as
excited as I am. The ground rumbles. I see the glint of metal, and crouch lower in the
saddle.
The men begin to ride along the road. Their armour gleams gold and silver, their
weapons sheathed. A few even have their beavers up.
Farsight quiets. He's been trained to fight since he was a colt, and has better
discipline than many o our line warriors.
But none of those are here now. I grip my shield, and check my sword, lying loose
in it's sheath. Then I raise my lance, along with the others. The defeat of Tallion, and his
knights of the Golden Sigil.
The column continues along the road, unawares. Our armour is green, smeared by
dyes. No light reflects off any metal. Along the line no one moves. Then there it is.
A trumpet blares, but Cyrion's call overshadows it. "CHARGE!"
The thousand horse hidden in the forest break the lines. Farsight reacts even
before I do, and begins racing forward. The enemy knight nearest me tries to spin his
mount. He is too slow however, and my lance spears though his ornate breastplate,
sending a splatter of red. He is thrust off his horse, and collides with the rider next to
him, sending that knight to the ground.
My lance finally breaks, as the man hits the ground. I'd already released it though,
and my sword kills the grounded knight, striking head from shoulders. Farsight kicks
forward, his twin hooves making furrows in a third man's plate, and he too falls. The
maelstrom of a melee ensues, as the charging knights litter the ground with used
lances, and draw blades. The Golden Sigils, caught unawares, are dying quickly, but
they do not have a fearsome reputation for nothing. My third slice is directed off a
shield, and my arm shakes as his own blade connects. It would have been an even
fight, but I have Farsight, almost as good a weapon as any on the battlefield.
The knight brings his shield up for my next strike, but Farsight rears, and instead of
glancing harmlessly off the shield, my blow crunches into his helm, cutting the ornate
falcon carved on top in half. Even before his weighted body hits the ground, Farsight
has turned, and my blade strikes true, sending another knight to his doom.
Beside me I see a flash of dull green, and some grey. Farsight spins me to another
opponent, before sending a back-kick of his own. My blade cuts into his side armour,
whiles Farsight breaks the ribs of another unfortunates horse. I hear a great cry, and
know it is Cyrion who rides beside me.
"MEN OF AGANAR! FOR THE IRON THRONE!" My standard bearer roars his axe
hacking, as he holds the huge pennant upright. The bright falcon has tears and rips, but
Cyrion does not.
We lock eyes for an instant, and he gives a crisp nod. I nudge Farsight, and the
horse turns. His eyes bright, he begins to gallop, and I hear men forming along my
flanks, Cyrion drawing them to the Grey Falcon. The golden knights spin as best they
can, but still the knights harry them. I thrust my sword out front, and roar a mighty war
cry that is echoed behind me. I know that these men will follow me to death. My
spearhead hits the swirling melee with a crunch, as armour buckles and bends, knights
thrown from their horses from the force of the impact.
Farsight and I perform a furious dance, as he spins and kicks, while my blade
sings intricate patterns through the air. Then I see my true target. His high Lion helm
marks him out, and he and his mount perform this same dance. Farsight reacts, and we
begin to close the distance. I decapitate another poor soldier, then swing my blade
down for a gut hit, send the man to the ground. Farsight is far from silent, his hooves
cracking plate, and killing horses, ever advancing forward.
Finally the Lion sees me. Sending two of my knights down in a flurry of blows, he
begins his own advance. Farsight temporarily stops his attacks, and begins a full gallop.
The Lion's mount follows suit, as he and I slash aside enemies in our path. Cyrion flies
at my side, his deep bellow making my heart sing. The Lion is also followed by a
standard, but it is gold on white quarters, with a bronze lion in the center. Both have
beavers down, but I sense their bloodlust flowing as sure as mine.
I hack one more soldier down, and we hit. Farsight dances to one side, and I
deliver a blow. It falls short, and my shield sings with his hit. I bring my sword around in
a riposte, but his shield appears in front, and I only succeed in making another deep
furrow. His return blow is dodged, thanks to Farsight.
Our horses fight as fiercely as we do, hooves flying, biting and kicking with a fury.
Farsight takes a blow to his ribs, but shakes it off, delivering a deadly counter. The other
horse dodges this, but the glancing hit knocks the Lion off balance. My sword falls down
stabbing and slashing, as he blocks and parries furiously. A stray blow rips off his
shield, and his head narrowly avoids a similar fate.
Gripping the sword in both hands, he begins to renew the attack, but his horse
can't catch it's balance. Farsight sends hooves, and teeth into it, and the equal battle
quickly turns one sided. Farsight keeps the horse off balance, and I renew my furious
assault. His sword spins a quicksilver defense, but his grip is loosening, and both
blades are notched from edge parries.
Finally his grip wavers. Only for a second, but I plunge into the gap, sending a
hand lying. He howls in pain, but keeps his grip on the sword. It's too late though. His
parries are sloppy, as fatigue lays in. My adrenaline is still high, and I rain furious blows
on a weaker and weaker defense, and finally another gets through.
This is not flesh wound. My sword rakes his armour, rending it through to his
chest. His corpse rocks backwards, and gives Farsight an opening in his battle. As the
Lion's horse tries to correct it's balance, Farsight sends a vicious kick that rips out his
throat. Rider and horse fall.
I hear a cry as my blood continues to rage. It is Cyrion, as he finishes his own
battle, sending his oaken standard's butt into the others head. The rider topples, and his
horse goes with him.
Cyrion looks to me, and gives a triumphant roar. My blood still boils, and
skirmishes are still fierce, as the Sigil's desperately try to escape. I look at him, and
nodding, we charge off into the next fight.
 ------------

I come into the stone foyer. Farsight lies back in his stall, having enjoyed a good
grooming after the battle. I did the deed myself. He treats me well: I should do the same
for him.
My armour is still on, and pages rush forward to take it off. I stand still as they
remove it. Underneath, my muscles sigh. It's good to be in a battle, but sweaty plate is
hard to bare without adrenaline.
After they finish I thank them. I notice a new man, and ask his name.
"Garith, Lord." Comes his meek reply.
I clap my hand on his shoulder.
"It is a pleasure, Garith. I hope you will find yourself well while here. Tayman," I
call, and an aging man with a lack of hair, all that is left grey, rushes forward.
"Yes, Lord?"
"How is our young Garith doing?"
"Splendid Lord. He is fast becoming one of our best men."
I smile at the lad. "Good work. Tayman?"
"Yes Lord?"
"Find a spot in the sword lessons for Garith. And come with me."
The lad looks astonished as we depart.
"A little heavy that time, Simon."
I smile at Tayman.
"He'll become a skilled fighter. I saw it in his eyes."
Tayman groans. "All I saw was broken dishes."
I give a grin, and lead my aging chamberlain into the main hall.
Cyrion is there, along with several dozen others. They are all enjoying some ale,
while reclining on various objects around the room.
Cyrion is the center of attention, his muscles bulging every time he moves. His
shaved head is grinning, as he sends mug after mug into his thick form.
"...twenty came on, and the Lord Falcon was busy fighting the Lion himself! Well,
says I, well, I can't very well let them get to him! And so I go and take them on. You
should have seen them! Their faces were scarred, and they howled as I rushed them.
They would have sent fear into any other man, but not I! I looked into their eyes, and tell
Challenger to keep up the pace. When we hit twenty went down at the first blow.
Seventeen on the second-"
A younger knight, his head wavering, pipes up.
"I thought you said there was but a score."
Cyrion looks about. "Well, it was a fierce battle. I can't be told to keep score, can
I?"
"Aye," the lad replies. "What a victory! We really showed them, then didn't we?"
The room falls silent. Cyrion sees me at the back of the hall, and immediately
grabs the standard lying beside him. Standing up, not even wavering he holds it high. I
walk slowly into the room, looking at each face, Tayman on my heels.
"You thought that was a victory?"
The young lad looks puzzled. Scratching a new growth of beard, he replies, "Well
we won, din't we?"
Still holding his gaze, I ask Tayman our casualties.
"Near four hundred in battle, and almost sixty after of wounds."
"Almost half our force. That is no victory. That is four hundred defeats. Look at you
all." My voice raises to speak to everyone.
"You all come in, hand over your horses, rip off your mail, and start drinking. Look
around you. You came back. Those four hundred never will. No, that is not a victory."
Everyone, save Cyrion, looks away, as my eyes tour the room.
"But."
This brings everyone's attention. A glimmer of hope in some eyes. A glimmer of
drink in others.
"I do have several victories. Tayman?"
My chamberlain unrolls a heavy scroll, and begins to read off.
"One thousand three hundred killed in the first wave, seventeen hundred and
fourty killed in ensuing melèe, three hundred died of wounds, and fifty captive nobles."
He looks up. "Plus the Lion was not found."
I look around again.
"On second thoughts, that seems a good victory. Well done Tayman."
The drunken lad staggers upright. His eyes are confused.
"What? You yelled at us for celebrating, then thank this page for our victory?"
Tayman bristles at this. "And the Lion escapes? How could you let him? Lord Cyrion
said you fought him. If anyone lost it was-"
"SILENCE!"
The lad is too drunk to hear the threat in Cyrion's voice. He spins around, and
almost falls.
"He did it. He lost more than anyone!"
Cyrion, swifter than his size seems, strode forward, and smashes the young man
in the face. He is thrust backwards, his nose spewing blood. He crashes into a barrel,
and falls motionless.
"He was right, you know. I lost that battle four hundred and sixty times. Each of my
men lost is another brave soul who will haunt me. I led them there, and there they died,
screaming my name. All I can do is try to avenge those who have fallen."
I reach behind my belt, and pull out a golden helm, a lion's mane flowing
backwards along it's crest.
"Spirits of the fallen! My brothers in battle! You! Are! Avenged!"
I smash the helm upon the floor, and with a crunch it's shape bends. It now looks
no more fantastic than the lad in the barrel. Cyrion stands to my right, and Tayman to
my right.
"BROTHERS!" Cyrion yells. "WE ARE VICTORIOUS!"
The hall erupts into screams, as the men cheer, and celebrate. Throughout, Cyrion
has never let down my banner. I begin to leave the hall. Tayman flanks me, and Cyrion
holds the banner aloft to my right. At the end of the hall we turn.
"I leave you here, Cyrion of Mount Rains. You have done your sworn duty."
"Lord of the Grey Mists, never may your banner fall. Grey Falcon, until my death
may your colours fly."
"Let them hang long in the sky."
Our ritual completed, Cyrion leaves to rejoin the men, banner still aloft, barely
shifting with his step. I smile, and leave them to it. Tayman follows, shaking his head.
"I never knew a man like you to give such despairing speeches."
I smile. Tayman has never understood this particular play.
"I give the lament to the dead that these men might live. They will remember their
fellows, and fight all the harder to avenge them. I will never forget many of the names,
and as long as they are remembered, they will never die. Besides, even with our attack
being so successful, if they begin to think of the men as expendable, they do
themselves a disservice. By this, I remind them that I will think upon each of the fallen.
And by the breaking of the helm they know I will avenge them should they fall. And this
gives them great comfort. It also reminds me that each of the lives under my banner are
individual and precious."
Tayman nods, but I see that he doesn't understand. I hope he does someday.
We go to my chambers. I open the huge wooden door, as Tayman watches.
"Simon, you continually astound me. As strong as Cyrion and twice as limber."
I smile. Tayman is the only man who calls me by my first name. He has been
around almost as long as the kingdom itself, and has no respect for ranks or royalty. It
would be capital insult, but he is my most trusted advisor, and a dear friend.
"Tayman, may the good Lord give you knowledge. It might finally give Him a
challenge."
He scowls, and leaves. I enter the chamber, closing the door behind me.
Going towards the writing desk in the corner, I draw a quill, and sharpen it. Dipping
it in my inkwell, I start to write.

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

Many lords and nobles employ chroniclers. They pay them high amounts of gold
that they might record their deeds for all time. I don't believe in these things. They won't
print the failures or mistakes only the good things.
I am my own chronicler. Being my worst critic, I will give the true events.
The scratch of my quill on paper becomes almost hypnotizing. It's a serene
sensation, my own personal ritual after the battle. I go through every part of the battle,
maybe not in as fine words or print, but everything goes in. Where, what, tactics that
worked, tactics that didn't, heroics, losses.
It gives me peace of mind. My own personal roll for those who have fallen.
Scratch. Scratch. Dip. A rhythm develops, and the battle once again happens, this time
on paper. I see the trees. Malius going down to five Lions, taking three with him. The
Reaver squad tearing through the ranks, Sir Golan with his bastard sword leading the
charge.
I don't hear the footsteps behind me, but I sense that there's someone there. I
keep going. My men respect me enough to wait.
Finally, after almost five huge pages of poor script, the history is finished. I put
down the pen, and turn to see who it is. It's Alena, my Lady wife.
She is sitting on a chair looking at me. Her brown hair hangs loose, and her grey
and green gown sits upon her lovely figure like it was made of water. She has a
beautiful smile upon her face, and she looks just lovely.
"Finished?"
I smile back. "This one at least."
Her smile wavers, but stays.
"It must have been a horrible battle."
"No. It was a noble war."
"You lost so many poor souls. James wasn't at table tonight. Matilda was
heartbroken."
I look into her eyes. She doesn't understand. I doubt she ever will.
"James was at my side in the charge. Cyrion was at my other. James stayed right
there the entire time. His sword took at least a score of Lions down. He fell under the
blade of the Golden Lion himself, in single combat. He went the way he has always
wished. Finished in a blaze of glory."
"That doesn't help those left behind."
My temper begins to flare.
"It would help them less if we stood by and let those glory hungry beasts kill more
villages. One burned to the ground, the people too I might add, was enough. I will not let
men like that live. That is why we fight."
Her eyes are hard.
"You brought only a fraction of your force. I know you have almost twenty
thousand foot soldiers, and another fifteen thousand knights," she spits the word out,
"So why take only a thousand? You could have easily beat them on the battle field."
My voice is dangerously low, my eyes narrowed. "You think to teach me tactics?"
She either doesn't notice, or doesn't care.
"You made those men die. Why didn't you at least try to-"
"ENOUGH!"
My roar rivals Cyrion's, and Alena realizes that she's gone too far.
"Yes, I brought those men to the field with me. Each one only went because they
wanted to. They couldn't bear those murderers any more than I."
She quickly backs down, but I can tell she hasn't really surrendered. She doesn't
understand how I can fight and kill, and do it over and over. She waits for the day when
she becomes like poor Matilda. She doesn't say this, but her eyes do.
I close the Tome of Names, and leave the room. I feel her hurt behind me, but she
went too far. She does that too much lately.
Walking through the halls I still greet everyone I see, but they can see that I'm not
pleased with something, and sigh after I pass them.
I enter the armoury, and see three apprentices there training with Domin, our
Bladesmaster. His scarred face looks over at me, and his short, stout frame moves
quickly, throwing me a sword. I catch it easily, and test balance.
The apprentices are looking nervous, and jump as I cry out and rush Domin. My
first blow has much of my emotion behind it and Domin has to parry quickly. My second
blow is weaker, and he ripostes easily. I spin away from the blade, delivering a flurry of
top blows. He easily uses a defense to block every attack with little effort. After about
two minutes of my attack I slow slightly. He is on me in a second, his sword coming fast
and furious at my lower body and legs. I'm hard pressed to counter every blow, but
none manage to land. Our swords lock, and my speed allows me to strike first. He
quickly moves aside, and my blade meets air.
For about a quarter of an hour we go on, switching from attack to defense as it
flows. Our blades are whirling silhouettes around us, silver cones with strikes of steel.
Finally Domin knocks my sword aside hard.
"Enough," He says.
I lower my sword, sweat streaming. Domin looks winded, but is barely perspiring.
"Very faulty defense. If I hadn't gone easy we'd be picking you up off the training
floor now."
I laugh. "What about that side strike. Forget I'm about a foot taller? You were wide
open. Your lucky we don't see your innards lying about."
The apprentices are wide eyed. They probably have never seen that kind of fierce
swordsmanship before. Domin salutes me wit his sword, and I return it, before chucking
back my own blade.
"Might have at least given me a sharp one."
"Wait until you have some technique. Then we'll give you one. If you ask nicely."
I laugh again. He got the last word as usual. I go as he turns back to his eager
learners. No doubt it'll be a lesson on what I did wrong. Although I'm a battlefield warrior
of some renown, Domin is one of the foremost bladesmen in the world. Lousy with a
lance or mace, and never give him a flail. Gods, that was funny. With a sword, however,
he's almost unbeatable.
Returning to my room, I find that Alena is already asleep. I disrobe, and get in
beside her. Seeing her returns the argument to my mind. I quickly think of my sword
session, and within moments fall fast asleep.

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

The sounds of battle sing strong in my ears. My sword flashes a silver shield
around me, as Farsight does his own dance below. Cyrion rides beside me, the
standard high, laying about with sword and standard alike. Around me, my men fight
valiantly against the black robed army.
Each one wears a death's head as a helm, their swords and armour bearing
similar heraldry. They ride about silently. As my own warriors shriek war cries, and
bellow in pain when hit, this ghastly brotherhood makes no sound.
I kill one with a slash to the chest, another with a back hand. Farsight sends
another's mount to the ground. But the rider simply gets up, ready to continue.
Farsight's hooves dissuade him.
Cyrion too dispatches his foes like they were made of parchment, but there
appears to be no end in sight.
A man falls on my left, and I vengefully smite down his killer. Another is upon me
before I can react. Farsight saves my life again, with a nimble dodge. I kill him with a
stab to his eye slot.
Cyrion and I find ourselves in a moment of calm. Surveying the black and burnt
landscape, I frown. My spears and other foot fight nearest, and their morale is almost
broken. The knights who ride towards them seem unstoppable. The death's head
makes them seem ghosts, and to infantry mounted warriors are always cause to fear.
I roar a challenge, and Farsight charges towards my beleaguered foot. I hear
Cyrions cry beside me, causing heads to turn. The foot see me, and they begin to gain
resolve. The dark brothers ignore us, that is, until we hit their flanks.
I send a warrior to the ground with my impact, and dispatch another with brilliant
swordplay. They turn to us, and the foot press their advantage.
The brotherhood falters. My mounted assault to their flanks has caught them
unaware. They begin to gracefully retreat.
Cyrion roars a cry of victory, but his cry comes too soon. A black shape appears
above these warriors, and they stop. Our battle lines are drawn. Cyrion cries the charge,
and both sides renew their assault.
Above these dark brothers however, flies a strange new standard. It twists in the
wind as though made of mist. Beside this rides a warrior twice the size of any man I
have seen.
He looks to me, and I see his dark helm. It is all angles and sharp edges. His great
sword sweeps easily through the air, and his white mounts rears above the fight.
I charge, knowing Cyrion is at my side. The dark brothers almost make way,
offering little challenge. The Warrior waits for us. His stance is almost mocking.
We arrive within a meter, and he finally moves. He and his standard launch
towards us, his weapon striking more swiftly than thought. My shield takes the assault,
but if not for a quick turn by Farsight the splintered shield would have still been attached
to my arm, both splintered.
My riposte is swiftly countered, and the return swing is so quick I barely duck in
time. He's barely trying. I can see that. And he knows. His blows are almost laughing.
Another smash comes, and I slide aside, the blade missing me by centimeters. This
time, I seize the attack, sliding close and using lighting fast blows against his torso and
head.
He doesn't even bother to block all of them. I score several cuts and scratches, but
his armour holds. Again the mighty blade arrives, and this time Farsight and I are too
slow. The blow hits my sword, sending me flying from the saddle. Farsight dodges a
swipe at him, and tries to guard me, but two of the brothers force him aside, dodging
their wicked pikes.
I see the warrior dismount. Swinging my broken blade, I prepare for my final battle.
But a new figure is there. The dark lord turns his head. It is a figure on foot, with twin
swords. He wears the green and grey, but I cannot recognize him.
He swings a lazy salute with one blade, and finally I see who it is.
The lord charges Domin, but the strike is easily batted aside. The riposte begins a
flashing sequence, and the lord is on the defensive. Domin's blades are not strong
looking, but he wields them expertly, swinging not towards the plate but it's links.
Another sign of how much better he is than I.
The lord of the brotherhood battles back furiously. He is almost Domin's equal, but
the twin blades are the bane of his great sword. He cannot easily block these master
strokes. Domin strikes once, scoring a cut. The lord steps back, but Domin doesn't give
him any time to regroup.
A hand hits my shoulder and I turn from the battle. It is Cyrion, his own battle long
finished. He grabs my and swings me up on Farsight, who stands behind him. Two
warriors charge us, and Cyrion cuts one down. I grab the other's pole arm. Disarming
the warrior is easy, and I smash his head with the blunt end.
My eyes are drawn back to the epic fight between masters that is occurring. The
lord is almost finished several pieces of plat fall off. He makes one final strike, and
surprisingly Domin blocks. His twin swords catch the great one, and it snaps. The lord
looks at him in wonder, and Domin strikes off his head in one blow.
I ride over, and offer a hand up on Farsight. He shakes his head, and charges off
after new prey. I smile to myself and do the same.

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