The Lost Battle

In the sky, thick and dark clouds dominated the large expanse of blue. Loud, roaring wind made it's voice heard, blowing across the world and bringing with it biting cold and stinging dirt. Every now and then, lightning would flash, temporarily illuminating the darkened day, and following it was a clap of thunder that blocked out all sound except it's own.

"What?" asked Peerha.

"I said, 'Excellent battle conditions eh?' Jekhel repeated.

"If you say so."

"Oh great now it's raining." Jekhel complained, shaking a fist at the clouds, who had just then decided to dump all it's moisture.

Peerha and Jekhel were standing in rank, right behind the very front lines. Both were holding spears, and both were very annoyed that Setther had put them there. Behind them was twenty other men and woman, lined up in ranks of ten. Beyond those ranks were four more platoons of forty soldiers. Three platoons stood twenty yards behind Peerha's, all lined up side by side. The fourth was positioned another ten yards behind the group of three, all of them archers.

The plan was to have the Black Hand skewer themselves upon the spears, and tire themselves out on the first platoon. Then platoons 2, 3, and 4 would mop up. And of course, the Archer platoon would rain constant hell. Much like the storm high above all of their heads.

"You do realize that this platoon is made up entirely of men loyal to you right? Or at least, the ones Setther suspects is loyal to you. I noticed that Agoth isn't here." Jekhel noticed.

"Ya, I noticed. This battle has a hidden agenda behind it. One that is making itself all to obvious to you and I." Peerha commented. "At least our opponents are small this time."

Peerha peered across the muddy battlefield at their opponents. It was only one large platoon of footsoldiers. All of them looked tired as well, as though they'd been marching for days. This struck Peerha as odd, because according to report from scouts, this particular regiment of the Black Hand had been occupying the area for over a month now.

"I fear something else is afoot." Peerha muttered.

"Like what." Jekhel whispered back.

"Like-"

Just then a loud horn sounded across the battlefield. The Black Hand was making the first move. The platoon marched forward as one, their boots steps making a large squelching stomp as they stepped into the mud. The first rank of the Black Hand lowered their own spears. It must have been some sort of sign, because just then, the Black Hand began running. Closer and closer they came, the distance closing frighteningly quick. Everyone around Peerha was getting a little nervous. Including Peerha himself.

"Not long before those archers start shooting eh?" Jekhel laughed, but the tone in his voice gave away his nervousness.

"Dammit Setther, give the order." Peerha muttered.

As the Black Hand came within ten yards of Peerha and his men's waiting spears, he was relieved to hear the swishing sound of arrows flying over his head. He watched as they smashed into the ranks. Only seven fell to the mud. Less than a third of the Archers present.

"At least our guys did something." Peerha ground his teeth.

"That Setther is leaving us on our own!" shouted Tactus, who was somewhere to Peerha's right.

An instant later, the Black Hand collided with the mercenary army. Spears met flesh as the Black Hand both drove themselves into enemy spears and stabbed their own into Peerha's soldiers. Peerha held his spear firm until he felt the satisfying feeling of another man running into the pointed end of it. He quickly let go and drew his sword. Once loose, he slashed it sideways, knocking a spear to the side before it impaled him in the face.

Before he had time to think, a cultist was standing directly in front of Peerha, a very large and very deadly battle ax in his hands. The cultist swung it heavily at his head. Peerha ducked the blow and lunged forward, his sword plunging into the man's belly. Blood dripped from the wound and stained his hands as Peerha tried to pull his blade out of the man. Unfortunately, the thing had become lodged in the man's spine.

Peerha continued tugging on the blade, inching it out slowly. He was just thinking that this would be the perfect time for someone to attack when they did. The man was an amateur though. He screamed loudly, a knife in hand, and ran straight at Peerha. No technique. No plan. Peerha kept his hands on his blade but stuck a booted foot out in the air. The cultist ran straight into it, and he hit the dirt instantly. Before the man could get back up, Peerha grabbed the battle ax that had been dropped by his earlier opponent and raised it over his head.

The downed cultist didn't have a chance. Peerha drove the weapon into his chest, finishing him off. He didn't like killing a man like that, but he knew perfectly well that there was no honor among the Black Hand. Therefore, he would not spare any of his. Peerha turned back to the dead man and his sword.

The body had now fallen to the ground, face first. The ground had pushed the blade back even deeper than before.

"Dammit." Peerha grumbled.

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The battle raged on between the two small platoons of soldiers. Both were evenly matched at the moment. If Setther wanted to, he could send the rest of the troops in and slaughter the Black Hand. But if he did that, Peerha and his troops would survive. Peerha was a threat to his seat of power. Such threats had to be eliminated.

"Sir. Do we attack?" asked a flag bearer. He was inquiring because normally, they would have charged by now.

"Hold strong. It's time we stomped on these bugs once and for all." Setther replied.

"I don't understand."

"I mean it's time we exterminated Peerha. With him out of the picture, we won't have any more trouble."

"But sir, we've never had trouble from Peerha." the flag-bearer answered.

"How many times has he undermined my authority?" Setther barked. "How many times has he ordered a certain number of my troops, the ones you see fighting right now, to do something entirely against my orders?"

"But sir, he saved us from several ambushes in doing so." the flag-bearer answered, now getting deeply disturbed.

Setther hadn't heard him completely though, "Several, that's right. And pretty soon, he'll be commanding everyone. He is trying to take away my leadership! I won't let it happen. He dies today."

Now the flag-bearer was getting heavily disturbed. Setther had always been foul tempered and very tough. But add crazy to the mix, and Setther was not looking like such a fine leader anymore. It was true that the loyalty of the entire mercenary army was divided between Peerha and Setther, yes. But it was not as if Peerha was deliberately disobeying Setther. He was merely saving the day. Something a hero does. Not a leader. It was all very confused to the poor flag-bearer.

"But sir, if you want Peerha dead, why not just assassinate him in his sleep? Why sacrifice all those men and women out there?" the flag-bearer questioned.

"Whose side are you on any ways?" Setther growled, getting annoyed by all the feedback.

"You sir." 'But that might change if you keep acting crazy like this.' the flag-bearer thought bitterly.

"If I assassinated Peerha, those troops out there would be outraged. They would no longer fight for me. They would leave. Or worse, rebel, costing the lives of more men that are loyal to me. He has to die in combat. There's no other way."

"Sir, you are a genius." 'And a fool'.

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The man was no novice to battle. He'd fought a few himself. But this cultist was nowhere near Peerha's abilities. Still, Peerha took his time. He studied his opponent. He never underestimated his opponents, no matter how weak they might appear. The cultist struck first.

He dug his foot into the mud and kicked. Brown, thick liquid sprayed up at Peerha. Rather than run the risk of getting blinded, Peerha shut his eyes. He felt the cold mud spray all over his face. But now he couldn't see his enemy.

Peerha ducked and rolled backwards. His guess was rewarded when he heard the swish of a blade slice the air, the spot where his neck had been only seconds before. Peerha stood up from his roll and wiped his eyes clean of the mud. His opponent was in front of him, attacking again.

Peerha parried the lunging attack. As the cultist's momentum brought him beside Peerha, Peerha himself shouldered the man in the chin. The man staggered backwards, blood flowing from his mouth. He'd bitten hard on his tongue.

Enraged, the cultist leaped forward, letting loose a flurry of attacks. Peerha blocked them all, waiting for his opening. He found it as the man tripped on one of the many bodies that littered the battlefield. Peerha dropped to a knee, set his sword on his knee and held it in place. The cultist did all the killing for him. The man, who was unable to regain his balance, fell forwards, and impaled himself. Peerha pulled the sword out, glad that it wasn't entrenched in this one's body. He let the pouring rain do the cleaning.

As he stood there, he looked at the combatants around him. Lot's of men were lying on the ground. Some were missing limbs; some heads. Even in the darkness, Peerha could see the crimson blood mixing with the water and mud. It was everywhere.

Nearly all of the mercenary troops in his platoon had been slaughtered. But as he looked around, he found that about the same amount of Black Hand cultists had been killed. It was pretty much even.

"If I were them, I'd start running. Setther will charge eventually, even if he wants us dead." he muttered to himself. Strangely enough, the cultists began retreating at that very moment. "I'll be damned."

Numerous cultists could be heard shouting "Run!". Some of them dropped their weapons. Peerha sheathed his sword. This battle was over. He started counting how many men in his platoon were left. 17. Out of 40. Setther had gotten his slaughter. And that was why he ordered his men to charge. Peerha almost drew his word to defend himself, then he realized Setther's men were chasing the fleeing cultists.

"Let em' chase them all the way to Oblivion for all I care. I have my own men to care about." Peerha muttered, kicking a spear that was imbedded in the ground. The wooden shaft snapped and lost itself beneath the mud and water.

Peerha started dragging bodies off the battlefield, putting his men in a line. Others started helping, except for Setther's men. They simply stomped through the battlefield, minds set on only their own motives.

"What I tell you? Setther wanted to wipe us out." Jekhel said, spitting o a near-by cultist's body. "Didn't get us all did you!" he thundered tossing a rock at the man in question, who was marching past without looking at them, or the bodies, at all. Peerha glared as he smirked with triumph.

"I hope there's a secret army waiting in that ravine they just charged into." Tactus grumbled, who was tying a rag to his arm, where he'd received a rather nasty wound.

"How's your arm?" Jekhel asked.

"Oh fine. Damn bugger sneaked it in. Took a dagger and... Peerha? Why are you staring at me?" Tactus' last statement had rattled him. "Seriously man, look away. Your creeping me out."

"What'd you say?" Peerha finally said.

"I said, your creeping me out."

"No before that."

"He took a knife and-"

"Keep going back."

"I said I hope there's a secret cultist army in that ravine Setther just so proudly marched into."

"That's what I thought I heard." Peerha muttered.

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"Look at that! We have them trapped like a sewer rat! Infantry, charge!" Setther roared. And that's when all hell broke loose.

From above, on ledges of the ravine, Black Hand archers appeared, and within seconds, they were all firing arrows down into Setther's soldiers, who were caught totally unawares. The volley of arrows cut down over twenty of Setther's men. Those hit lay on the ground, clutching their wounds and crying out in pain. The ones who had not been hit lifted their shields quickly, trying to protect themselves from the constant attacks from above.

A moment after the archers had attacked, the small, bloodied platoon of cultists that had led Setther into this ambush charged forwards. Swords glinted and voices shouted, praising their insane attack. Still shocked by the ambush, hardly any mercenary troops could defend themselves in time. The cultists ripped right through the front lines.

"Crush these infantry now. Archers, focus on the enemy above." Setther thundered.

Most men obeyed his orders. They stopped worrying about the arrows, or at least, put them in the back of their minds. For now, they worried about the ground troops. The only ones they could deal with. The archers began returning fire to the Black Hand archers. One by one, they were picked off.

Some of Setther's troops, however, chose a different path. Escape. They pushed their way back out of the ravine, desperate to escape the ambush Setther had led them into. They were disappointed however, to find a man in their way. Instead of the usual tunic and pants of Black Hand soldier, this man wore robes. A cultist mage.

"M-move aside, or we'll have to kill you." one man bravely shouted. His voice cracked, and he stuttered when he spoke. His fear was obvious. The cultist sneered.

"Do you know how many people have died in this ravine?" he asked.

Without saying anymore, he began speaking some arcane words. A chill spread through the air, and suddenly everyone's breath rose in a gentle mist. They shivered not from the cold but of fear. Suddenly, a hand rose out of the mud, followed by an arm, and then the entire decomposed body of a long dead soldier. The made had summoned the dead.

"Holy shit! Kill them, quick!"

"We can't, they're already dead. We have no weapons that can combat them either."

"The mage, kill the mage!" someone cried. But it was too late. The Undead had sprung up from the ground one too many and too fast for any of them to attack in time. The fleeing soldiers were forced to fight against an enemy they could not kill.

"It's hopeless! We're going to die here." a frightened standard-bearer cried out.

"We ain't gonna die!" Setther shouted, meanwhile looking at the madness all around him.

"It would take a miracle! Setther, you've led us to our deaths. It's your fault!" another accused.

Just then, a miracle happened. The archers from above suddenly stopped shooting down at them. Something had distracted them. Within a few moments, some of the cultist archers were being tossed over the ravine by an unseen force. One body landed near Setther. A knife was in his back. One of the knife's Setther had issued out to his mercenary troops.

"Peerha." he muttered, looking back to the ridge.

Soon, no more bodies were tossed from the ravine's edge. Taking the cultist's place were Peerha's archers. They wasted no time in shooting their own arrows into the ravine, dispatching living cultists and distracting the Undead long enough to be immobilized by a sword or an ax. Within a few minutes, and after several loud explosions, the Undead suddenly stopped attacking. They stood motionless, doing absolutely nothing.

"What the hell?" Setther wondered.

Cheering could be heard from the distance. Setther turned around and saw that it was his own men that were cheering. Fearing the worst, Setther pushed his way through the crowd and to the source of the cheering. It was Peerha they were cheering for. Peerha looked at his feet, where the cultist mage lay, blood pooling around him. Setther's worst fear had come true.

"You lost this battle Setther." Peerha said. His eyes were fixed on Setther's, as if he were trying to drill his words into Setther's thick skull. "If I had not intervened, you, and all these men, would have been crushed. You tried to kill me back there in the first skirmish. I only came to save the troops, not you. I am telling you now, in front of everyone, that your not the leader anymore. I am. I'm taking over."

"What!"

"Your actions and decisions both on and off the battlefield has divided us and nearly destroyed us. You were never a leader Setther. You were a dictator. You preyed upon these men and women, whose lives have been ruined. You said some stirring words, but all for your own personal gain. You didn't even care about them. You just wanted revenge for yourself. We were the tools. Well, we're not the tools anymore." A loud cheer erupted after this.

"You expect me to just give it up?" Setther growled. His grip tightened on his weapon. His feet tensed, ready to spring. Peerha paused.

"Yes."

"Never!"

It all happened in a split-second. A blur of motion was all that could be seen in the small circle of space. Suddenly, the motion stopped. Setther fell to the ground beside the mage, knife imbedded in his chest. Peerha did not even look surprised that Setther had attacked. He'd been expecting it the whole time. Setther lay there in the mud, feeling himself grow cold and numb. The last things he thought of was his family, the people he'd lost to the Black Hand, and the oath he'd sworn at their graves. "I'll make it right again. I'll avenge your deaths, no matter what the price."