Chapter 1: Massacre

"Hurry, Harry," called Ron as he, Harry, and Hermione ran at top speed, only just avoiding some of the curses flying at them amidst the chaos of the Battle for Hogwarts. Chunks of stone and other debris, some of it immense in size, lay strewn all across the castle. Even as Ron called the encouragement to his best mate, he had to roll to avoid a cruciatus spell.

A house elf popped in front of them. "Master Harry, there is no chance of surviving now. You will have to leave and find a way to deal with this once you are out. The school will fall but we can still win the war," Winky squeaked amidst the chaos, keeping up with them as they ran by hovering.

"We can't give up now, Winky. I won't leave these people to die," said Harry. Gasping for every breath, Hermione got out, "Harry, we must. The best we can hope for now is to spoil any future plans they have after taking the school and taking revenge on all of these sick, twisted people," Hermione said.

Harry gritted his teeth in a look of stubborn determination that was all too familiar to her. "No Hermione. I will not leave them," he ground out while sending a powerful curse hurtling towards a death eater that they didn't recognise. Unfortunately, the Death Eater held up a piece of armour that he had clearly taken from one of the suits of armour within the castle.

Harry, Ron and Hermione had all continued onwards, and had just passed the death eater before the spell reflected off the shield into Colin Creevey, badly injuring him. The Death Eater started running silently towards Harry, arm outstretched to grab him in a chokehold. Winky was the only one to see what was going on as she was facing in the right direction.

Her instincts told her not to act without a direct order, but circumstances were dire and if she didn't break what was acceptable, Harry, the man who had shown her so much kindness after being hurt by her former Master, Barty Crouch, both Senior and Junior, and ashamed at being given clothes. He had understood her grief and guilt and had hired her to work for him, which had helped her become well once more.

In the time they had then spent together, Harry had proved to be a considerate master and was attentive to her own needs, asking if she was resting and eating properly, and otherwise looking after herself and not overworking.

Thus, it was an easy decision to go against one of the strongest instincts a house elf had ingrained in their nature. Winky cast a spell to join the three of their hands and apparated them with a safe place in mind known only to her, but a moment before they vanished from the battlefield, she became confused as to where she was going and a strange spell hit her.

Little did Winky realise at that moment that the Death Eater from a moment earlier had grabbed Ron around the ankle. It remains unknown what the Death Eater cast but the combination of the spell, the distraction and confusion that suddenly hit Winky, the going directly against a strong house elf instinct, and the mysterious workings of their magic, they ended up falling through space and time.

-Page Break-

"Ambush!"

The cry from the rear of the Legion's column was drowned out by the thrum of a hundred bowstrings being released. A moment later, a hail of arrows streaked from the thick trees bordering both sides of the Eastmarch road.

Captain Aravon acted on instinct honed over fifteen years of drills and training. Sliding off his horse's back, he threw himself behind the nearest Legionnaire and his shield.

Something sliced the air a finger's breadth from Aravon's ear. The Legionnaire in front of him grunted as an arrow punched into his back. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he grunted, gurgled, and collapsed at Aravon's side.

Aravon fought down the instinctive horror and sorrow as the man slumped. Grieve later, he told himself as the man, and so many more around him, fell to the hail of arrows. He ripped the shield from the dying Legionnaire's grasp and stood in the first line.

"Close up!" he shouted. His heart hammered in his chest, sweat soaked his palms, and his mouth had gone suddenly dry. Yet his training asserted itself in his mind, pushing back the icy fingers of panic.

The Legionnaires' discipline kicked in before his order made it down the line. The eighty men still standing rushed to close ranks, forming a line four rows deep and twenty men long. Those in the front row presented shields to the enemy, while those behind angled their shields upward, like a tortoise's protective carapace, to ward off the plunging fire.

Arrows rained all around him from east and west, clattering in a hailstorm against the Legionnaires' shields and armor, far too many finding Princelander flesh. The grunts, screams, and wails of wounded men filled the air, echoing in time with the unceasing thrumming of Eirdkilr bowstrings. Arrows banged and clattered against the Legion shields. All around him, the stink of nervous sweat thickened the air. Yet Aravon's men held firm, shields held fast, steel in their hearts.

At the rear of the column, the shrill cries of terrified and dying draft animals filled the air. The armorless drivers of the company's baggage train were scythed down beneath the hail of arrows.

One quick-witted cartman managed to scramble to safety beneath his cart, fear and horror twisting his bone-white face. A moment later, an arrow punched through the flank of one of his harnessed draft animals. The horse reared up, twisting in its traces, its shrieks of agony high-pitched and grating. Panicked by the smell of blood and the screams of its harness mate, the second horse reared as well and tried to bolt. The sudden movement snapped the wagon's front wheels and brought it crashing down with skull-crushing force atop the driver.

Wood splintered and casks shattered on the paved stone, spilling gold—the Legion's pay—across the Eastmarch. The sight brought a renewed howl from the Eirdkilrs.

A hand seized Aravon's collar and dragged him backward into the middle line. He immediately raised his shield and the gap he'd left in the front line was filled by the soldier he'd replaced.

"Good to see you made it, Captain!" Lieutenant Naif shouted in his ear. The man cradled his left arm against his chest, the broken-off shaft of arrow still embedded in his forearm.

"How bad is it, Lieutenant?" Aravon asked. The need to command, to keep a clear head and give commands to keep his men alive, was all that stopped the nervousness from overwhelming his mind. His soldiers counted on him, and he'd be damned if he let them down.

Naif looked down at the wound and shrugged. "Won't be playing the lyre anytime soon, but I can still swing a sword."

The cacophony of arrows clattering off Legion shields was occasionally interrupted by a grunt or cry as a missile found flesh. Men screamed and fell, or snarled curses as they snapped off shafts stuck in their helmets, pauldrons, or shields. The hailstorm of shafts slowed and ceased, the sky brightening.

The enemy had changed tactics.

"Prepare for a charge!" Captain Aravon cried. He dropped his voice. "Looks like you'll get your chance," he told Naif.

Howls echoed through the forest around them—a fierce animal sound that chilled even Captain Aravon to the bone. He'd heard it before from across the battlefield, but never like this. Alone with his company,

what remained of it, twenty miles from Anvil Garrison, the nearest Legion outpost. Just Sixth Company against however many Eirdkilrs hid in the woods.

His heart plummeted as scores, then hundreds of fur-clad barbarians burst from the dense tree cover. Seven feet tall, with long, braided hair and beards that streamed in the wind, faces stained a hideous blue. Over their iron-studded leather vests they wore the filthy, off-white pelts of Wasteland ice bears. Their gut-twisting war chant filled the air. "Death to the half-men!" Words every Legionnaire beside him had learned to fear.

With a final howl, they raised their massive axes, clubs, and spears and charged.

The enormous barbarians pounded across the cleared space between the Eastmarch road and the forest, a wall of steel and death that closed the distance in seconds. Aravon leaned into his shield, the wood and steel strong against his shoulder, the grip of his sword solid in his hand. His teeth gritted and he prepared for impact.

Boom!

A hundred simultaneous clashes echoed up and down the Legion lines as the Eirdkilrs struck. Steel and fur-covered flesh slammed into Legion shields, and the foremost rank of Legionnaires was hurled backward beneath the impact of huge bodies. Even with the middle ranks to brace them, the force of the charging barbarians was too much for their thinned lines to absorb. Soldiers slipped on ground made slick by the blood of their fallen comrades. The front rank struggled to repel the enemy, stabbing their short swords between their shields. The men in the second rank used their short spears to bite back at the enemies locked with their comrades, filling the gaps as more Legionnaires fell.

One, just in front of the Captain's position, stumbled as a barbarian club smashed into his rectangular shield and drove the steel rim into his face. He slammed into the man behind him, and an Eirdkilr rushed into the gap. A Legionnaire in the second rank thrust between the shields to chop at the barbarian's knees. The huge man fell, and the Legionnaire beside the Captain finished the fallen savage with a quick stab of his spear.

The grim song of battle filled the air: Legionnaires screamed, cried, and cursed; steel clashed with iron and wood. The howling of the Eirdkilrs added an otherworldly, inhuman dissonance to the symphony of death.

Captain Aravon gripped his short sword in sweaty palms, fought against the burning ache in his left arm and shoulder. The shield suddenly seemed an immense weight, yet the only thing that stood between life and death. His breath came so fast it felt he couldn't fill his lungs before the air exploded from his lips. In that instant, the clash of weapons on shields, the thumps of weapons striking flesh, the crack of shattered shields and bones, and the screams of the wounded and dying filled his world. He could see nothing but the barbarians howling in front of him, hurling themselves at his men, snarling guttural curses in their desire to slaughter every Legionnaire.

Aravon was barely aware of Lieutenant Naif on his left, Sergeant Bytin on his right, and Corporal Older immediately before him. With effort, he pulled himself back from the narrowing battle vision, forced himself to scan the foremost ranks between him and the barbarians. They were being hammered by the Eirdkilrs, yet managed to hold their ground. But with the attack coming from both sides of the road, their lines were stretched dangerously thin. Two rows of desperate, hemmed-in Legionnaires were all that stood between him and the Eirdkilrs.

Then the Legionnaire in front of Corporal Older screamed and staggered backward, his face shredded by an Eirdkilr spear. Blood spattered Aravon's face, neck, and hands as the soldier sagged. Crimson soaked the man's burnished breastplate, and his collapsing weight bore down the man behind him. For a single instant, a gap opened in the ranks. The Legionnaires hurried to re-form, close the opening before the enemy punched through.

Too late.

A massive Eirdkilr barreled his way through the lines, whirling his axe about like a hurricane of steel and death. He brought the double-headed blade crashing onto the nearest Legionnaire's shield. The metal rim bent, wood splintered, and the impact hurled the man into the soldier at his side. The whirling Eirdkilr swung his axe around in a devastating blow that sheared through a man's neck and sent a Legion-helmeted head flying. Aravon flinched as more blood sprayed hot and warm along his upraised sword arm, dripped down his helmet into his face, yet drove his short sword into the barbarian's exposed stomach. The Eirdkilr fell with a scream, but the damage had been done.

Howling in triumph, more Eirdkilrs drove into the gap. Legionnaires fell back before the savagery of the attack. Many fell, never to rise again.

Aravon scooped up a shield and pressed forward into the breach. He found himself face to face with a huge barbarian. Though he wore the same leather tunic, mail shirt, and steel skullcap as his comrades, he stood apart. Not just his long, braided blond beard and his eyes, an azure deeper and harder than his blue-stained face. He stood taller than the rest, the breadth of his shoulders hulking. And instead of the dirty white ice bear pelt worn by all the other Eirdkilrs, his fur cloak had been dyed a deep red—dyed or stained with blood.

With a howl, the blue-painted barbarian raised an enormous club overhead and brought it crashing down. Captain Aravon tried to dodge, but Legionnaires pressed too close on either side. He could do nothing but raise the shield.

Agony seared through Aravon's arm, spiking from wrist to elbow as the blow splintered the shield and shattered his elbow. Crying out, Aravon fell back, barely retaining a grip on his sword.

The barbarian loomed over him, raising the club once more. For an agonizing heartbeat, pain rendered Aravon helpless. He could do nothing but stare his sneering, blue-painted death in the pitiless face.

Then Lieutenant Naif materialized beside him. The Legionnaire shoved Aravon backward and drove his sword into the enormous barbarian's side. Chain mail links parted beneath the blade's razor tip. With a growl, Lieutenant Naif buried his short sword to the hilt.

The Eirdkilr's howl turned into a cry of horrible agony. His club fell from his fingers, and he clamped his hands over the blood gushing from the wound. Lieutenant Naif tried in vain to twist his sword free. After a moment of struggle, he released his grip on the hilt and drove a dagger into the barbarian's eye.

All around them, the line buckled beneath the onslaught, and the barbarians charged into the gaps. Legionnaires fell beneath the stampede. Try as they might to hold their formation, they could not stem the tide of Eirdkilrs.

Lieutenant Naif turned to Aravon. "We've got to break fr—!"

An Eirdkilr spear cut off his words. The two-foot blade punched through the back of his head, the tip driving out his neck, spraying blood over Aravon. Spine severed, Naif sagged like a dropped sack of rocks, his body clattering on the stony Eastmarch.

"No!" Horror and fury surged within Aravon, a fire that burned in his belly and drove him to fight.

He lashed out at the spear-wielding barbarian, his short sword shearing through the man's wrist. The Eirdkilr stared stupidly at the blood gushing from the stump of his right arm. A vicious slash of Aravon's heavy blade opened his throat.

Every movement sent pain flaring up and down his shattered arm, but he couldn't let his men fight and die alone. Gritting his teeth, he sought his next opponent. He would kill until the Eirdkilrs laid him low. He'd fight until his last breath, give every drop of blood to protect his men.

Yet the state of Sixth Company filled him with cold dread. The Eirdkilrs had broken their ranks. All around him, Legionnaires fought the massive barbarians in squads of threes and fours, back to back. Their faces bore the expressions of true fighting men: grim snarls, rictus grins of desperate terror, or the coldness that came with recognizing impending doom. They absorbed the battering of the Eirdkilrs' wrath on their heavy shields, returning the punishment with short swords and spears. In vain, they attempted to re-form ranks.

Cold dread settled in Aravon's stomach. His men had no chance, yet their discipline held even in the face of annihilation.

He had to find a way to turn the battle. If he co

uld buy the Legionnaires even a few moments, perhaps enough could escape. A desperate hope, but he had to try.

His eyes locked on a tall, heavy-shouldered Eirdkilr a short distance away. The barbarian's beard was shot through with grey, and yellowed bones hung among the leather-bound braids. Atop his dark blue tunic, the ice bear pelt slung over his shoulders had been dyed a deep crimson. He alone wielded a sword: a massive two-handed weapon that far outweighed any Legion shield.

That has to be their leader.

Aravon slipped between the knots of fighting men. He ducked a savage swipe of an axe and hamstrung the towering man, finishing him with a thrust to the throat. A club struck the ground a finger's breadth from him as he darted around an Eirdkilr. The Legionnaire next to him put a spear into the back of the barbarian's skull.

Something slammed into Aravon, spinning him around. An arrow protruded from his right shoulder, and numbness coursed down his sword arm. Righting himself, he forced his feet to keep moving toward the leader.

The huge barbarian held a bow easily six feet tall, made of wood as black as his vest. He had the string drawn back to his ear, an arrow nocked, the steel tip gleaming in the sunlight. The archer's eyes locked on Captain Aravon—the arrow came for him. A smirk twisted the Eirdkilr's lips a moment before he released the string.

Aravon tried to throw himself out of the way. Too slow. The arrow caught him in the left side, punching through chain mail, only stopping when it struck his backplate. Pain raced through his torso—the broad head had to have cracked a rib.

He caught himself and stumbled onward. His left arm hung useless by his side and every movement sent agony flaring through his side, but he'd somehow managed to retain his grip on his blade. He forced himself to raise his sword, though his right arm responded languidly.

With mocking slowness, the Eirdkilr drew another arrow from his quiver and set it to his bow. Ice seeped into Aravon's spine. He couldn't tear his eyes from the wicked steel point aimed at him. Every muscle in his body tensed in expectation of the impending agony, yet he poured strength into his legs to cover the distance before—

The string twanged. A dark streak hurtled toward him and punched through his right thigh. The impact tore his legs from beneath him. He screamed as he collapsed atop his shattered left arm.

He tried to struggle upright, but an immense bulk collapsed atop him. His head rang. Blood filled his mouth, his nose, his eyes. His arms refused to cooperate, refused to heed his commands to get up. He had to get up. Had to stand and fight beside his men.

A tingling numbness spread through his limbs. Shadows hovered on the edge of his vision. The pounding of his heart sounded like a torrent in his ears.

Have…to fight!

His struggles weakened, exhaustion claiming him, his determination drowned beneath the pain. Like a man sucked beneath quicksand, Aravon succumbed to agony and blood loss. Just before the light went out behind his eyes, he saw a flash in the distance and noticed movement. Then all awareness ceased for him.

The sudden change of environment baffled the Golden Trio. The Death Eater who had grabbed Ron shoved him forwards the moment their disapparition was completed, in spite of the dizziness they were all feeling. The motion caused Ron to overbalance, which set the other two sprawling as he was still holding both their hands. As soon as he had pushed, the Death Eater bolted off into the distance.

Harry was the first one to register that something had gone terribly wrong. He could hear different sounds - there were no spells flying at him, but instead hoarse screams and the clash of steel and the whizzing sound of some kind of projectile.

Before he heard more, Harry looked at Winky, about to order her to conceal them all until they figured out what was going on, when he realised how haggard she looked. He saw a death eater running off into the trees and he started to see that somehow, Winky's actions, the Death Eater and possibly other factors he hadn't thought of had combined to send them not to a place where Winky wanted to take them but somewhere different.

-Aravon's POV-

He awoke with a gasp, so weak it barely registered in his ears. Darkness, thick and cloying, pressed in around him on all sides. He could barely draw breath.

Yet he still lived. The pain alone told him as much.

Something pressed on his back, his legs, his head. Agony flared in his arms and legs as he tried to move, but the burden atop him shifted slightly. Enough for him to catch a glimpse of starlight and a gulp of fresh air.

Hard stone grated against his ribs. Something sharp sliced through his right boot. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he wriggled like a worm, trying to break free of whatever pressed him to the earth. He forced himself not to panic, to keep moving, struggling against the weight crushing him to the stony road.

He emerged with a gasp and sucked in a lungful of cool air. Night met his gaze as he shoved his right arm out into the night and clawed his way free. Agony radiated through the wound in his shoulder, yet he bit back a cry and dragged himself one-handed over the mound of…corpses, he realized. A shudder ran down his spine. His fingers dug into lifeless flesh and steel armor turned icy in the chill night. The thick, cracking substance on his head, neck, face, and arms could only be dried blood. The blood of his fellow Legionnaires and Eirdkilrs.

With a final heave, he dragged his legs free of the pile and collapsed onto the Eastmarch. He lay for long seconds on his back, pulling one agonized breath after another into his lungs. It seemed an eternity before he could sit upright and glance around.

He almost wished he hadn't. Starlight illuminated the bearded faces of two Eirdkilrs that had fallen atop him, the night's shadows making their blue war paint appear somehow bestial, demonic. Four of Aravon's Legionnaires surrounded the barbarians, their eyes wide and unseeing. Dried, crusted blood stained their shattered skulls, shredded faces, and slashed throats. The smell of death—rotting flesh, the metallic stink of blood, the foul reek of men voiding bladders and bowels in terror and agony—hung thick, a suffocating miasma that pressed in around him, seeping into his nostrils, choking the air from his lungs.

His gaze roamed the battlefield, horror and the chill night wind setting his skin crawling. Every one of his Legionnaires lay dead. The Mistress' luck had been with him; the corpses of fallen Eirdkilrs and Legionnaires had protected him from the vicious stabbing blades of the barbarians finishing off their fallen prey.

But fortune hadn't smiled on his men. Eirdkilrs didn't take trophies—they simply delighted in torturing the wounded to death. Far too many had died slowly, their skin peeled in strips, scalps and ears removed, some with their eyes cut out. Moonlight bathed the agony-twisted faces of men that had marched at his side for years.

Acid surged in Aravon's stomach and rose to his throat. He'd faced battle before, but this…this was wanton slaughter! Hundreds of corpses littered the Eastmarch. Legionnaires lay still and silent in the night, never to rise again, never to swing swords or lift shields. The Eirdkilrs had butchered his entire company…and hadn't stopped with the Legionnaires. The carters lay a short distance away—none had escaped. The gold was gone.

Here and there, Eirdkilr bodies lay sprawled among those of his men. The Sixth Company hadn't died without a fight. Though caught by surprise, outnumbered, and overwhelmed, they had rallied to their Captain's call. With the courage of true soldiers, they had formed ranks, raised their shields, and joined battle.

To what end? To die at the hands of the Eirdkilrs, as had so many sons of the Principality of Icespire and the kingdoms across the Frozen Sea.

Sorrow welled within Captain Aravon. He wanted to shout, to rail at the heavens, but dared not. Even the slightest sound could be overheard by any Eirdkilrs still in the area. And the arrows still lodged in his shoulder and side made even the simple act of drawing breath agonizing.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he dragged himself to his feet. He scanned the road one last time, desperate for a sign that even one of his men survived. Moonlight shone on pale faces and slack, unmoving limbs. Only the hoarse song of crows and the whispering night wind met his ears.

Three yards from where he stood, Lieutenant Naif lay where he had fallen, the Eirdkilr spear still embedded in the back of his head. Captain Aravon turned away—he couldn't bear to see the man's face. A burden settled on his shoulders. He'd have to look the Lieutenant's daughters in the eyes and tell them of their father's heroism. Naif had saved his life and died in the bargain.

Tears streamed down Aravon's face. Everywhere he looked, he saw the faces of the men he had served with for the last three years. Sergeant Bytin. Corporal Older. Strom, Hortin, Enthos, and Dreault—men whose children would never see their fathers again.

He wanted to call out to them, to bid them rise. It was foolishness, but his mind recoiled from the harsh truth. Every man that he'd commanded, that had followed him loyally for years, lay dead.

Blinking away tears, he staggered away from the scene of carnage. He had no time for sorrow. He alone had lived through the ambush. He had to survive. Had to remember these brave men, to speak of their courage until their last breaths. He owed that much to his men, the fallen soldiers of the Legion's Sixth Company.

As he painstakingly made his way along, he saw a trio of figures nearby, clearly in discussion and argument. Instantly adrenaline sluggishly surged into his exhausted frame, nearly sending him unconscious. Yet it did succeed it sharpening his awareness. It could be an enemy he would have to fight, and he would, to bring back the memory of his men. And if those people were NOT enemies, they may be able to help him survive and bring back the news.

To Aravon's astonishment, as he neared them he realised that they were young adults, only recently out of their teenage years. They noticed him just a moment before he made to speak with them. They didn't seem like enemies but it was safe to be sure. But before he could ask, the three pointed polished sticks at him.

"Who are you? Where are we? And what happened here?," the three questions overlapped so they had to repeat themselves one at a time. Aravon, deciding that they likely weren't enemies, smiled girmly and said, "One at a time. I am Captain Aravon, of the Sixth Company of the Legion. I'm surprised you don't know where you are but the nearest Legion outpost is over twenty miles away. I would like to know where you have come from. And my whole Company was ambushed and massacred. All the comrades whom have loyally followed me for years all lie dead and brutally tortured by the Eirdkillers."

Blank looks met his words. Surprised at their surprise, he said, "I am exhausted, but I must survive. To tell the families about how their brave men died. And even more to report this ambush to the you come with me to the Legion outpost? We need to talk, most definitely. I might be able to help you, and I definitely would like to know where you came from and some other things about you. First we need to get there though. And I'm very curious why you're not wearing armour in times such as this"

The three asked for a moment alone, an animated discussion buzzing in the distance.

The Golden Trio huddled together, aware of being out of earshot. "We have clearly gone into a different world, guys, I think Winky's spell to get us away here somehow brought us somewhere completely different, and she looks absolutely exhausted so we need to bring her somehow so it wouldn't be anywhere near England I think," Harry said.

"More than that, boys, with the armour and everything I was thinking this could be the middle ages, but those big painted creatures didn't live then as best I know. So it seems to me that Winky has most likely taken us to some other plane of reality where the rules may well be different. We need to learn as much as we can about this new world as quickly as possible. Our survival may depend on it. Yes, we are wizards, but we don't have access to the library, only the books I have in my bottomless bag. There are definitely some spells that I don't have information on. I will soon make a list of what spells we do have information on. The rest I will have to do a lot of Arithmancy to learn," Hermione chimed in.

In unison, Harry and Hermione looked at Ron, the renowned strategist of the trio. "Well for now I say we play along, like matching our opponent's moves in a game of chess initially until the game develops and you develop a better understanding of the game. That same logic can apply here. I think we are all agreed that for now, we should follow."

As they returned, the raven haired young man stepped forward and said, "I'm Harry, this is Ron and Hermione. They are my friends from school." Aravon looked a little confused at the term, so he clarified, "I've known them for years during our education." Seeing a sufficient level of understanding, he continued. "You are right, we do need to talk. I agree, let's walk together and find this outpost.

-Page Break-

Swordsman's beard! With a groan, Aravon sagged against a nearby tree. He'd been walking for what seemed like hours. The wound in his leg made each step agony. His boot squelched with every step—the loss of blood left him weak.

Every muscle in his body cried at him to lie down, to close his eyes, to let exhaustion overtake him. He refused to give in. It didn't matter that the nearest Legion outpost stood more than twenty miles away. He would walk, shuffle, or crawl until his strength gave out again.

His vision swam as he pushed himself upright. He leaned against the tree until the darkness stopped spinning. Biting down on a grunt, he forced his feet to shuffle forward. One step at a time, trying his best to keep pace with the other three, who, while still clearly worn, were still in much better shape than he. Fatigue threatened to shatter his consciousness, but he forced his mind to focus on the problem at hand.

The Eirdkilrs shouldn't have been here, not this far north. The recent rash of barbarian raids had all occurred near Shield Garrison, two hundred miles farther south. Sixth Company had been prepared for enemies as they approached Anvil Garrison—they'd been sent to reinforce the three hundred Legionnaires stationed there after Eirdkilr raids took a toll on the companies—but this was too far into Legion-held territory.

How were we caught unaware? There'd been no sign of the barbarians at dawn when they set out on the day's march, and his scouts hadn't reported anything amiss throughout the day.

No, he realized, they hadn't reported at all. He had simply assumed their not reporting meant the way was clear. He'd been confident that no raiding party of Eirdkilrs would risk attacking them—so confident he hadn't been prepared for a small army.

There had to have been easily four hundred Eirdkilrs. Four hundred, this far to the northeast. It seemed impossible that such a large force slipped through Legion-patrolled territory unseen.

And what of those with the red furs?

All Eirdkilrs wore the dirty white pelts of Wasteland ice bears—furs thick enough to keep out the cold and turn aside a sword stroke. But these Eirdkilrs with the red pelts, that was something new. He had no doubt the archer with the greatsword had been in command of this force.

The questions whirled through his mind, adding to his exhaustion. He didn't have enough information to decipher what had happened. But one thought repeated over and over: the Sixth Company is gone. A hundred men, wiped out in an ambush he hadn't seen coming.

Guilt settled like a lead cloak atop his shoulders. He was their commander, and he'd failed to protect them. They had died because of his lack of foresight.

I failed them.

Worse than that—he'd outlived them. He would have gladly fought and died for any one of those under his command. That was the responsibility he'd assumed when he accepted the commission as their Captain. But they were dead, and he still lived.

Harry looked over at Aravon with sympathy. He, more than most, understood what the man was probably going through. Aravon had haltingly mumbled out most of the pertinent details of the ambush and they were getting a better sense of how things worked around here. Fortunately, Hermione had quickly forced a Blood Replenishing potion down his throat so he had a bit more energy to talk than he otherwise would have had.

He stiffened as his ears caught a quiet sound in the forest beside him. He reached for his sword, but his scabbard hung empty. Clamping his teeth down on a groan of pain, he reached for the only weapon remaining to him: his belt dagger. The three people nearby also pointed their sticks into the bushes and the raven haired one put a small cloth wrapped bundle down.

He couldn't outrun the Eirdkilrs, but he'd be damned if they took him alive. A low growl started in the back of his throat.

"Come on, then!" he snarled. "Get this over with. I won't cower or beg, but I'll die on my feet like a true Legionnaire."

The rustling noise grew louder as it approached, and Aravon tensed in expectation. He'd fight until his last breath. He'd make Icespire, the Legion, and his father proud.

The figure that emerged from the forest had four legs rather than two, a wet nose, and dark liquid eyes.

Aravon's breath came out in a ragged gasp, and he dropped his right arm to his side. "Blessed Swordsman!" He nearly wept in relief. Somehow, his mount had survived the ambush. Harry, Hermione and Ron relaxed.

The horse nickered at him as he fumbled for the saddlebags, desperate for a sip of the water and a bite of the food he'd packed. His numb fingers found an empty saddle. The bags had fallen off in the horse's flight.

But at least he had a horse. He wouldn't have to walk the twenty miles to Anvil Garrison. He shot a silent prayer of thanks to the Swordsman and touched the pendant around his neck. The jewelry, a silver sword two inches long, had been a present from Mylena. "May it bring you the Swordsman's favor," she'd told him the day she'd hung it around his neck. "And may it bring you back to me."

I'm coming home. Somehow, he'd make it back. He'd keep his promise to return.

He brought the pendant to his lips and kissed it. The movement sent a wave of pain shooting down his right arm. He craned his neck but couldn't get a clear view of the arrow still embedded in the muscle. With his left arm broken—the throbbing in his forearm made it very clear how much damage had been done—he couldn't pull out the arrow. Even the slightest movement sent waves of pain radiating up the limb.

"I will have to ride, but will ride slowly. Are you three familiar with how to lead a horse?," he asked. Hermione nodded - she had learned it when she was younger and had taken a few horse riding lessons. "Very well. Let's make our way back."

Biting back a groan, he reached up for the saddle horn and raised his left leg into the stirrup. His right leg protested as he swung it over the horse's back. Fresh blood stained the bandage he'd wrapped around the thigh, and the horse's movement jostled the arrow. He dared not remove it for fear of bleeding out.

With a click of his tongue, he set the horse into motion. Slow at first, a gentle walk as he fought not to pass out from the pain. The ride proved agonizing, but Aravon forced himself not to cry out at each jolt and jostle. He let his horse set the pace as long as his three companions could keep up and focused simply on staying upright in the saddle.

His eyes roamed in all directions, searching the night for any sign of threat. The Eirdkilrs couldn't have advanced too far northward in the hours since the ambush, but if he ran into them, he'd be in trouble. He doubted he could cling to his horse's back if it broke into a gallop.

The world whirled around him, and he closed his eyes to stop his head swimming. The faces of his men floated in the darkness. The sounds of their screams, defiant and determined, agonized, weak, cursing the enemy as they died. A deafening cacophony of shattering shields, skulls, and limbs, drowned beneath the roars of his Legionnaires and the howling of the Eirdkilrs. The stink of rotting corpses, the metallic tang of blood hanging over the Eastmarch. He didn't push the sensations away. He would honor their lives and their deaths by remembering them.

The spinning grew more violent, and he found himself floating. The cool night breeze seemed to hold him aloft, suspend him in the air for a long moment. Then he slammed back to earth with jarring force. Stars spun in his vision and his head rang, the taste of fresh blood filling his mouth. He swallowed, suddenly realizing how desperately thirsty he was.

He tried to sit up, but his body refused to heed his commands. Ice seeped through his veins, turning his arms and legs to stone. The chill drove back the pain and, with it, all sensation. His heart pounded a frantic beat.

He was dying. He'd spent enough time among the Legion's Menders to know that the rapid heartbeat was his body's attempt to cope with the loss of blood. But, in a way, death would be a just fate. He, the Captain of Garnet Battalion's Sixth Company, would join his Legionnaires in the arms of the Long Keeper.

Sorrow coursed through Aravon. Images flashed before his eyes: his wife Mylena, with her chestnut tresses and tear-rimmed eyes, kissed him one last time. His sons, Rolyn and Adilon, clung to his legs, their expressions mirroring their mother's sorrow.

Another face filled his mind: a stern face, with a hard jaw and cold grey eyes. Those eyes filled with disappointment as a messenger delivered to General Traighan the news of his son's death.

That look of disappointment, ever-ready on the General's face, drove a spike of pain into Aravon's heart. He was glad he wouldn't have to see it again. General Traighan would never again have to tell him how much he had let him down.

I'm sorry, Father, he thought as darkness overtook him. I tried my best.

In the end, it hadn't been enough.

He slumped unconscious as the bushy haired girl murmured some words he didn't recognise.