Chapter 13: The Final Sally Forth

Wyndham, Midland, Early Spring

It was a bright, crisp day, the winter having passed its course just a month prior. That did not mean that it was a restful winter, however. Spies, skirmishers, and raiders, those daring enough to brave the cold at least, had gone back and forth between the Midlandian and Tudor lines, burning supply depots, chasing away horses, or poisoning supplies. With how the Tudors had been ravaged the preceding summer and fall, their advances were minimal. And, due to an idea first suggested by one Lord Griffith, the Midlandian attacks had pushed many Tudor armies out of their winter quarters, back toward the border of their old homeland.

Now, as the sun began to rise, Daniel prepared Shadowdanse alongside many of the other Falcons, fixing the saddle to her back atop the blanket and his pack on top of that before stroking her head. "Thank you for not being too jumpy, love. I'll make sure you get an apple once we're on the road."

Shadowdanse nickered in appreciation, and Daniel checked his handiwork over one last time before he looked up at the palace, a sight he likely wouldn't see for quite some time, and wondered what was going through the minds of its denizens as their armies prepared for what was hoped to be one last push.

. . .

Minister Foss was, to say the least, terribly unsettled by the events of the last several months as he walked down a long hallway, its left wall open to the air allowing the sound of the army's preparations to rise and climb their way in.

With Julius' commanding presence gone, and a funeral that coincided with the first snowfall of the previous year now past, there had to be many changes made to their plans in order to keep the balance of power from swinging too wildly in one direction or another.

It did not help what rumors came from the household of Julius in the immediate aftermath. It was no secret now that there was something unnatural in the city of Midland. Something that had not turned back up once it had made its disappearance with the assassin that had been sent to kill Julius.

The guards that engaged the creature swore up and down that it was a monster out of legend, able to do impossible things with its utterly strange sword, as well as vanish without so much as a puff of smoke. Rumors of soldiers encountered on the field with similar weapons thus might now have the need to be heeded, looked into, and either confirmed or dispelled.

Young master Adonis, now the new commander of the White Dragons even as battlefield command was largely turned over to Julius' second in command, told a different story, however. He claimed with all the strength of conviction that he had that the monster was the only thing that had visited that night. That there was no other assassin.

But Foss recognized the handiwork done to Julius' body. No simple hacking of a sword from a normal man, however frenzied, would produce such breathtaking results as he'd seen. No, there was only one weapon, and one man strong enough to swing it, that could leave such a mortal wound. The Raider commander of…

He paused as his focus drifted up into the hall. To the man who, passing by curtsying servants, strode towards him in gleaming silver armor, a cape of lustrous red flowing off his shoulders highlighting the sword at his side and the bird-skull helmet under his arm. Lord Griffith.

"Hail to you, good sir," Foss called out, Griffith slowing to a stop.

"And hail to you, Minister Foss," Griffith replied, and Foss marveled at how naturally regal the man sounded in person, up close.

"I hear rumors that the Band of the Falcon is to be this campaign's leading edge, alongside the White Dragons, White Tigers, and even the Capital Garrison." Foss began. "General Laban and General Harrison are fine commanders, but I hope that you will be able to work well with Commander Garlan in Lord Julius' place. As I understand, you and Julius had a somewhat… strained relationship."

Griffith nodded slightly. "From what I can tell, Garlan has a firm grasp on the necessities of warfare, and I look forward to serving alongside Laban and Harrison. It is striking that the king would send even the protectors of this capital realm out to battle. He must have quite the faith, or at least the need, for this operation to succeed."

Foss sighed quietly. "With General Julius dead, it seems to fall to you to be this nation's 'guardian deity', so to speak. Hopefully, such fortune as befits that title will smile on you and your campaign."

Griffith chuckled softly. "That's quite the exaggeration of my abilities. I will, however, strive to do my best."

Foss smiled slightly, mirthlessly. "Indeed. Hopefully, after all these assassination scares of the past year, your victories will be a ray of hope for this kingdom. Right now… it is almost unbearable."

He paused as he shook his head. "It's said that in times of strife, dark spirits mislead human hearts. But to go after young master Adonis, and to summon a monster almost out of myth… it seems more like the work of demons."

Foss watched carefully for Griffith's reaction. His face was almost carved from marble at the mention of the near brush with death Adonis had, and only twitched at the mention of the monster. 'What remarkable control. Perhaps he didn't send someone after Julius? Would it be a setup then, by Sir Daniel? To what end?'

"I wouldn't pin such doings to the work of spirits or demons, Minister," Griffith said calmly. "Even such things as a seeming monster can be revealed to be the work of men."

Foss remained silent for a moment in seeming contemplation. "Another thing incidentally, Lord Griffith," he said almost casually. "I've managed to catch wind of several similar rumors regarding the assassinations."

"Indeed?" Griffith inquired.

"Rumors that not only was the assassin that fired an arrow at you during the autumn hunt was not only a disgusted noble formerly in the service of our kingdom, for now that much is largely not in doubt."

"Really?" Griffith chuckled almost bashfully. "A nobleman stooping to shooting a mere knight-commander, putting the princess at risk? It seems such a tall tale."

"Hardly." Foss cautioned. "Your deeds are known almost throughout the land now, and you have the praise of the king himself. Your humility does you credit."

"However," he continued, "not only that but also that he might not have been in Julius' service as you and your men so claim. In fact, I hear whispers that the hopeful mastermind that sent him might even march out with you. Along with the assassin that killed Lord Julius."

Foss waited as he watched what he was sure was Griffith turning the words he'd said over in his mind, all with a rather passive, if slightly curious, expression. The sort that the wheeler-dealers in the court would have killed to be able to pull off.

"Those are quite the audacious insinuations," Griffith replied simply.

"I of course mean no disrespect to your men, sir. But with the way of the political dealings of this court, its members might still be likened to evil spirits under a thin veneer. It's not far-fetched that any, even among those nobles marching out alongside you, would resort to murder for the sake of maintaining their influence."

"But surely the king would ensure such things are strictly punished." Griffith insisted.

"Indeed so. But war touches all people involved in its tempest. In one way or another, it makes soldiers of all of us. From the viewpoint of the noblemen here, such work as they do here might bear more than a passing resemblance to yours on the field."

"Interesting theories, one and all." Griffith smiled warmly at him. "Truly, you are blessed with quite the intellect. Nevertheless, I'll strive to do my uttermost out on the field. Your pardon, sir."

With that, Griffith turned away from Foss, leaving him alone as he stood in the middle of the hallway deep in thought.

'Barely a twitch at the idea of either the potential mastermind or the living killer marching under his banner. What skill. Sir Theisman was right. He is not one to be underestimated.' he mused.

Theisman himself might not appreciate the fact that Griffith's focus could be turned on him. He was of noble enough bearing to warrant suspicion, after all, and Foss was sure that Griffith was the one who ordered Lord Julius killed. 'But such attention would not bring his wrath down on me. I would have little if any part to play in whatever suffering visits him after. Another potential player off the stage.'

A quiet, but needling fear lit itself like a tinder flame in his mind. 'Could Griffith possibly know of my involvement? Would Sir Theisman, in a moment of danger, reveal me?'

It was a possibility, of course. One that would need to be prepared for. 'Besides, Griffith couldn't know of my involvement in Julius' schemes on his own. I never intervened directly in the matter. There's no evidence of it, anyway.'

Foss looked out the window, at the men mustering into their ranks. 'Ah, well enough. If this campaign delivers us a long peace, it will likely settle his affairs somewhat as he himself settles into the workings of the court. There will be others jealous of his popularity with the people, however. Others that I can turn against either him or Sir Theisman, should he get any ideas as well.'

Foss shook his head as he looked away from the sight, walking in the direction that Griffith had gone. 'Either way, when all of this is over, the greatest hero a nation could have is a martyred one…'

Then, Foss stopped cold as he saw Griffith standing still in an archway that led out towards the closest foyer. The pillars framed the man, torches close to them lighting him well enough for Foss to see him. And see how he stared back.

Griffith's eyes were empty of all warmth, of all mirth, his face a mask so much like the one that Sir Theisman had shown him when he'd made his promise to him. But where there had been a fire in Theisman's eyes, Griffith's were simply cold, calculating, the stare of a predator sizing up its prey, just as Julius had described it and yet so much more. There were no words spoken, for none needed to be said. They both knew what Griffith meant by that stare. He knew. He knew.

And Adelbrand Foss realized, beyond all doubt, that he was under the gaze of a Falcon.

The gaze held him for a heartbeat, then another. Then, finally, Griffith broke it off, turning away and disappearing down the hall. Finally, Foss took in a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding off.

He was dangerous. More dangerous than any of them knew.

. . .

Daniel walked into the foyer, glancing over at Casca as she walked in beside him. "I could make a readiness report of the Raiders to you, ma'am, in place of Guts," he said, his words echoing slightly. After the fight with Zodd, Guts had made him equal in standing to Gaston, a fact that the man hadn't begrudged in the slightest. It had made watching Guts' back that much easier, at the very least.

"In a moment, Daniel," Casca replied. "I have to report to…"

She looked up, and Daniel looked up with her, as they both saw Griffith, walking down the stairs towards them. Casca lit up, a sight that Daniel had seen dim slightly over their time here. "Griffith…" she began.

Before she could continue, another voice, one that was familiar, called out. "Oh, Lord Griffith!"

Griffith paused on the stairs as he turned to face Princess Charlotte, who rounded the corner from the balcony where she had come from. And, Daniel noticed, Casca faded into hiding behind one of the stair railing's pillars as the princess spoke.

"Are you… leaving already?" she asked, her voice heavy with sadness.

Griffith nodded. "That I am, much as it pains me to leave your pleasant company."

The princess blushed, hesitating for a moment as she held something out to Griffith. "Here. Take this, please."

Daniel could only barely make out the small, dark pendant in her hand, the light of day showing a somewhat crudely shaped soldier with a sword and shield as Griffith took it. "What is this?" he asked quietly.

"It's a necklace made of lodestone. It's not very valuable, but it's a memento from my mother… the former queen's…"

She trailed off, choked up for a moment as Griffith studied the pendant intently before shaking his head. "I couldn't part you from something as cherished as this is…" he began.

"Please, take it!" Charlotte insisted. "With these lodestones, the man and the woman are attracted to each other. It's said that… those two who possess each half are destined to meet again. My mother gave it to my father every time he went on campaign."

"If you were to take this man-stone…" Charlotte held up the necklace that was likely its partner. "Then surely the woman-stone I keep will draw you back from the battlefield in safety."

She paused for a moment. "So, please. Accept it with my well wishes."

It was silent for a moment before Griffith spoke again. "No. I couldn't keep this keepsake, so important it is to your highness."

"But-" Charlotte began to protest before Griffith held up a staying hand.

"Which is why when I return from this campaign, I swear I will return it to you."

Daniel could hear the smile on Griffith's face even as he saw Charlotte's face light up with one. But the smile faded quickly from her face as it creased with worry, an expression that he saw mirrored in Casca to some extent.

"Never have I dreaded battle so much as I now do…" Charlotte said quietly. "Lord Griffith. Please… please be safe."

Charlotte looked out into the foyer, spotting Daniel, at the very least. "Both of you brave knights!" she called, and Daniel had to suppress a grin at seeing the normally unflappable Casca so thoroughly startled.

Casca stepped into view of the princess, coming to attention as Daniel followed her lead. "Yes, highness?" she asked, fighting all too briefly to not stumble over the first word.

"Please, both of you, protect Lord Griffith."

It was a silent moment as Daniel and Casca shared a glance, then both rested a hand on their swords as they placed a hand on their chest and bowed slightly. "Yes, my lady," Daniel said firmly.

"Even with our own lives," Casca added with emphasis. Daniel couldn't help but silently muse at how the words, such simple things for a soldier to say, gnawed at him.

Griffith bowed in turn before quickly making his way down the stairs, pausing for a moment to put a hand on Casca's shoulder. "Let's go," he said quietly, a slight, but sure smile on his face.

Casca nodded, a somewhat unsteady smile of her own forming as the Falcons turned and began to leave.

. . .

Princess Charlotte looked out after Griffith and found herself at once profoundly grateful for the time that they had spent together, and utterly sad that such a time had come to an end. And all that for a man that had seemed to her at first like a somewhat exceptional soldier.

She'd been utterly taken by the man. It seemed that he and he alone actually paid attention to anything she said with any sort of consideration, actually looking at her instead of simply through her. 'Please, Mother. Look after him…'

"Charlotte!"

She turned to see Queen Amandine Halbard, father's current wife, standing imperiously at the top of the stairs, looking down at her with a look of annoyance as her handmaids looked on. "What, exactly, do you think you are doing?" she asked coolly.

"What do you mean?" Charlotte asked, walking up the stairs as she suppressed a sigh.

"Do not feign ignorance. Giving gifts to one as undeserving as him…"

Charlotte reached the top of the stairs and turned away from the queen. "It is my business to whom I give gifts. What I gave him was mine to give."

"Unacceptable!" the queen retorted. "You are a member of the royal family, far above the concerns of any but the highest of rank. Yet you give trinkets to a common mercenary? Acting in propriety, you should hesitate to even think of speaking to one such as him."

"The gift is mine, mother," Charlotte replied stubbornly as she turned to face the queen, the title she called her seeming ill-fitting at the moment.

"You are nearly seventeen, young lady. Hardly a girl. You should not be led astray by any mere boy that captures your interest."

"But…"

She wouldn't understand. She wouldn't care to even try. So, Charlotte simply shut her mouth, turned, and walked quickly toward one of the towers to go and watch the army march out.

The queen scoffed from behind her. "Charlotte!" she called out. But she gave the woman no heed as she disappeared around a corner.

. . .

Guts was near the front of the line of Falcons, the commanders by his sides and the 5,250 men that now made up their band behind them as they stood at one of the massive crossroads that was a thoroughfare for the city. They were waiting for… something. Someone was supposed to pass them. The rest of the army was already waiting outside the walls for them to lead out. Right?

Then, he heard the tramp of horse's hooves, the rhythmic drumming of marching men, coming from the street to their right. One more force was going to be out the gate before them. But who?

Then, the line of men began to cross in front of them, carrying a standard of a white dragon, breathing flames of red against a banner of deep black. And at their lead…

Guts felt a hollowing in his gut as he saw Adonis, dressed in armor that was still just a little too loose for him, riding at their head. As Adonis looked over at them, he drew a sword, raising it in salute as he regarded them. The boy had a grim look in his eyes and a set face. It was a face that had stared back up at Guts from the water for years before.

Finally, he couldn't bear to look at the kid any longer, looking away as the shame overwhelmed him. There was as good a chance as any that Adonis's life might end up in his hands. The same hands that had come so close to killing him.

He waited in silence for the White Dragons to pass, then waited for Griffith's signal. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Griffith unsheathed his sword as he stood in his saddle and turned to face them. "Alright!" he shouted. "Move out!"

With that, he urged his horse forward at a trot, leading the Falcons in a left turn towards the gates as they finally got moving.

All along their way, people hung out of windows, stood on roofs, and even swarmed the top of the curtain walls that surrounded the city as they departed its mighty gates, cheering all the way. Those elements of the army that still waited to follow them had varying reactions, some raising their weapons in salute, others simply staring at them. Regardless, the Falcons, with their banner of a sword with wings sprouting from its crossguard on a shield of blue, would lead the march toward the crossroads, where the majority of the armies would split off to their own objectives.

As they marched, and as the city fell behind them, Guts couldn't help but think of that cold near-winter night. "What I think a friend is, Charlotte, is one who is my equal."

What did that even mean, being his equal? What kind of dream did one need to have in order to reach that? Where did someone even start when looking for a dream?

He recalled something Griffith had said months ago now, in the aftermath of a battle.

It had been a fierce battle, with a fair amount of armored foes, something that had forced him to be careful and precise with where he placed his strikes. He'd ended up on his own again, laying about and felling two or three men with every strike. He'd ended up buried under a pile of corpses and had lain still to avoid getting stabbed by any passing Tudors as they fled the field.

The strategy had worked. At least, right up until he'd tried to extract himself from his hiding place. He was stuck. At least, until he heard Griffith calling out for him.

"Hey there! Are you alive?"

He managed to get a hand out above the stinking pile and waved. "I'm here! More or less."

Griffith chuckled, almost laughing as he pulled bodies off of Guts. "You really do have something besides Daniel looking out for you, don't you?"

He kneeled and reached out to Guts, the man taking his commander's hand even as he rolled his eyes.

Soon enough, Guts was free, covered in blood and guts as he was, and the two of them were resting on the hill that Guts had made his stand on. Well, Guts at least was resting, checking on his blade. Griffith was standing and staring out onto the charnel scene.

"All this martyrdom for some merciless god." Griffith began. "What a waste."

Guts looked up at Griffith as he continued. "On these battlefields, it doesn't matter how much silver these common soldiers are worth. They're still led about by the whims of nobles, them and all the rest of their subjects."

"Even still…" Griffith said quietly. "Even a king cannot live completely as he pleases. There is no person, no living thing that is not at the mercy of some great tide. Fate, the gods, call it whatever you wish. Regardless, we all disappear in the end. Our lives spent, and without more than a shadow of an idea of who we truly are."

Guts waited to see if Griffith would continue on like this, watching as the man turned away from the sight and toward him, sporting an intense look on his face. "In this life, unrelated to social status or wealth or the man-made ideas of class, there are some people who, by nature, are the keys that set this world in motion."

That intensity fell on Guts as Griffith looked at him. "They are the true elite of this world, as dictated by its golden rule."

"That's what I want to figure out, Guts! What is my place in this world? A common soldier, or something so much greater? Who am I? What am I capable of? What am I

destined for?"

He paused, and the intensity left Griffith's expression as he looked at the ground, chuckling before a much softer face returned its gaze to him. "My apologies, Guts. You're perhaps the first person that I've spoken to quite like this. Let's get back to the others."

It wasn't quite an answer to his questions. But it was at least a start. He'd need time to think. And with the battles ahead, he was fairly confident he'd find plenty of time.

. . .

Several Days Later

The Midlandian forces that had remained with the Band of the Falcon, which at this point was the Capital Garrison under the command of General Laban, had paused with a report from their scouts. A Tudor force was a day's march away. It would need to be dealt with.

At a joint command tent, Griffith and Laban, along with their commanding officers, planned out their response to the oncoming threat, a map of the area spread out before them as they leaned over it, placing and moving wooden tokens that represented their forces and the enemy's.

"With how large this force is," Laban said, we'll need to lead them to a decent spot to engage in a pitch battle."

"Perhaps this clearing here?" one of Laban's captains asked, pointing to the place that was a few miles, only a little more than a day's march away. "If their main component is a calvary force as the scouts say, it would hinder them significantly to fight here."

"Perhaps so," Laban replied, "But enough of our force would be neutered as well. Archers need a clear sky to make their shots land with any great force, and crossbowmen and arquebusiers need clear lanes without anything dense in the way to stop their shots. It would turn into an infantry slog that risks grinding us down as much as it would them. We can't risk that if we want to reach our objective in any sort of shape to fight."

"The nearest field for that sort of battle is closer to the White Tigers than it is to us, four days march away." another captain interjected. "And if we try to make a run for that, there's every chance they catch us on the march and cut us apart that way."

The captain ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "We don't have many good options here, it seems."

"Perhaps that's not the case," Griffith said as he put a finger on the line that represented the cliff that they'd been marching alongside for the past several days to secure their flank.

"Are you really suggesting that we should fight by the cliff?" the first captain said incredulously. "It's been useful thus far, but if we try to fight a pitch battle out here, regardless of the space we might have to make formations, it would be just another tactical hindrance to plan around."

"It would be if we were to fight a purely traditional line battle," Griffith replied, lifting his finger from the cliffside and tapping on the forest that was to the right of the clearing pointed out earlier. "If we sent forces to flank them through these woods here, we could pin them against the cliffside, and turn a hindrance into a decisive advantage."

"We'll need to pin them there for long enough to work." Guts interjected, drawing all eyes to the thus far silent man. "Otherwise, they'll get smart and just turn tail."

"Indeed," Griffith said, cupping his chin in thought. "We'll likely need calvary forces to make up the majority of the distraction force. They'd be among the quickest to extract themselves from a pincer attack if we send the crossbowmen and arquebusiers through the woods."

He looked up at Laban. "Do you have any calvary forces that you could spare, along with your archers, to link up with some of mine?"

Laban considered the question for a moment, then nodded. "I can give you a unit of heavy cavalry, two of light cavalry, and my archers. They'll be under Captain Solomon, Captain Dirk, and Captain Victor."

Griffith nodded. "Thank you. I'll leave the Vanguards under Captain Casca, the Raiders under Captain Guts, and the Arrowheads under Captain Judeau. I believe these formations should present a tempting enough target for the Tudor army to try and crush."

Laban nodded as he straightened up and stepped away from the table. "I'll allow your captains and mine to figure out the finer points of their strategy."

Griffith nodded. "I look forward to seeing this strategy through."

With that, the gathered captains began to disperse, going their separate ways back toward their camps.

Daniel, who Guts had taken along in case he had any insights, found Guts' insight to be remarkable for the rather stoic young man that he usually was. But it wasn't the only thing that he'd noticed in the tent.

Casca was a woman used to the stares and whispers of the soldiers that were not used to the idea of a woman being in command of any number of people in an army. She usually took such things in stride with a relaxed, confident poise. Here though, he saw a woman that was tense, silent not because she decided to be, but because she was holding herself back from saying something unwise.

Daniel tapped on Guts' shoulder. "I'm going to go ask Casca something. I'll see you at camp."

"Alright." Guts said in a tone that indicated to Daniel that he was thinking deeply about something. He had some idea of what that was but left Guts to continue thinking as he walked over to Casca. It wasn't generally wise to snap him out of his deep thoughts.

He made his way to Casca, putting a hand on her shoulder as they reached the outskirts of the camp. "Captain Casca…" he began.

She paused, jumping slightly, as she turned to face Daniel. He could see sweat beading on her forehead, whether from the heat inside the tent or something else he intended to find out. "Yes, Daniel?" she said somewhat tersely.

"Are you… okay? You're usually a little more assertive in those sorts of meetings."

"And why would you care if I wanted to be quiet this time?" she nearly snapped.

"Because I've gotten to know you. Are you sick? Are you… going through the courses?"

He'd hesitated as he tried to find a way to ask her about her period that would make some sense in this world, but it seemed he'd succeeded as he beheld the utter shock that plastered Casca's face.

He smiled slightly. "Come on, Casca. I'm familiar enough with women that something like that wouldn't surprise me in the slightest."

"Like Eleanor?" Casca asked. The question, curt though the tone of voice that asked it, was genuine if her expression of curiosity was any indication.

'Shit.' Daniel thought, dark memories running through his mind. The ring that rested in his pocket felt heavy as it pressed against his hip. 'When did she hear that name?'

"Yes," he admitted quietly. "Like her."

It was silent between them for a moment before Casca sighed. "Yes. I'm on the rag right now. And if you tell anyone, I'm going to ram my sword through your cock and give you an idea of how it feels."

Daniel raised a staying hand, not wanting to relive a very particular experience. "Your secret's safe with me. But still, be careful on the field. There's no need to put yourself in danger in order to prove yourself to anyone, in either camp."

Casca stared at him for a moment before nodding slightly. "Alright."

She looked back at the camp, pouting slightly. "I wish I was as good at hiding my pain as Anna must be. She never gives any indication of whenever she's like this." she pined.

Daniel, wisely, kept quiet as to the many different reasons why that was the case as he took his hand from Casca's shoulder. "Alright. I'll let you get to your men. If you need someone to complain to, you can come to me."

"I'm sure Guts probably wouldn't care either," Casca said rather flippantly. "He's stoic enough that anything I'd say would probably slide off him like water off a rock."

Daniel smiled slightly. "I wouldn't disturb him right now. He's considering something big, I can tell."

Casca arched a brow as they walked back into camp. "I can't help but wonder what's going through his mind sometimes. He never says much out loud."

"I believe it has something to do with what he heard at the autumn ball back in Wyndham."

Casca's expression became dark for a moment, and she nodded slightly. "Yeah. That would make anyone think for a moment, wouldn't it?"

Daniel nodded in turn. "It would. But right now, we've got a battle to persecute. Let's give it the attention it's due, shall we?"

. . .

The Next Day

Casca was grateful that Daniel had given her his support, even if she was still confused at the idea of him knowing even that much. It was probably more than almost anyone in the Band knew. It still didn't help the pain. The stomach cramps were even worse today, of all days, and it made getting into her saddle like someone had stuck a blade onto it that she sat on.

This was the worst it had been in a long time. But she had to focus, as they rode out to face the enemy army. There couldn't be any room for error. Even still, every bounce, however slight, made her wince just a little bit until they managed to get into formation, giving her a blessed moment of stillness even if it did nothing for the pounding headache.

Her Vanguards and the Raiders were right here against the cliff's edge. Griffith trusted them in such a dangerous position as he knew the skill and discipline of the troops that were under her and Guts' command. Further left of them were the Capital Garrison troops, who were given enough space to make up for their relative inexperience. They'd been well trained, she could tell. But there were signs an experienced eye could see that were mistakes that the units in her care would never make now.

"Hey, Casca…" one of her captains said, concern evident on his face as his words shook her out of her reverie. "You alright?"

Casca nodded as she put down the face grill of her helmet. "It's nothing worth mentioning. Get ready. I can see them coming over the hill."

Indeed she could, the vanguard of the Tudor army just now making itself visible as the Midlandian forces largely went silent, allowing the low rumble of horse's hooves to fill the air. As expected, the vanguard was an order of knights, likely named. She hadn't heard the name of the order from the scouts, only that they had a very… particular motif.

And indeed they did, their armor sculpted into the designs of fishes, plumes of white rising from the top of their helmets. Their banner was a strange fish, a whale most likely, rising from the waves and sporting that same plume of white near its head. Most all of them were armed with lances or polearms of some sort, the most ostentatiously decorated one sporting what looked like a long pitchfork for a weapon.

The Midlandian ranks were still as they watched the movements of the Tudor vanguard as they began to form into the sort of arrowhead formations that were perfect for punching through lines. They, however, were ready for it. 'Come on…' Casca thought as she drew her sword.

Finally, as it looked like the vanguard was preparing for a charge, and the infantry component of the Tudor army appeared over the hill, two long blasts from horns within their ranks rang out in the thick air, looming storm clouds beginning to block out the sun.

"Charge!" she shouted, the men around her obeying without question as their ranks began to break apart, slowly bending forward into an inversion of the arrowheads the Tudor cavalry were showing them. The heavy cavalry was concentrated largely on the point of impact, while lighter units would go up the sides of the formations. She'd come up with the strategy herself in battles past and was thankful that Griffith had allowed her to test it. Every time so far, it had worked like a charm.

Even still, as the lines collided, and arrows began to fly overhead, it became hard to keep an eye on the big picture, especially with having to bat away halberds and billhooks and focus on the man in front of her that was trying to kill her.

Even with that focus, she could still see the point where lines and formations dissolved and the battle became a massive melee. Now more than ever she had to focus on staying alive until…

She heard even over the sound of battle the horn blasts that signaled the springing of their trap, the rest of the Falcons and the Capital Garrison charging out to slam into the Tudors' unprotected flank. They'd pinned them against the cliffside. Now they just had to manage to get out alive.

She caught glimpses here and there of Guts, Daniel, and Judeau as they laid about themselves, men and horses tumbling to the ground around them. Then, she glanced to the side and cursed silently as she found herself next to the cliff, the body of a soldier she slew tumbling off his horse and over the edge into the darkness below.

She looked up and saw what could only be the commander of the knights that they dueled against riding towards her, the other knights giving him his space as he slowed to a stop in what was clearly intended to be a dueling ring.

"So," said the man, his deep voice matching his large stature as he looked down on her from the overwrought helm that covered his face, "this is the woman commander of the Band of the Falcon, a thousand men under her banner."

She tightened her grip on her sword as the man scoffed. "What an unnatural thing, a woman trying to play the role best given to men. Your strength is nothing compared to that of any true soldier. What use are you in battle, truly?"

'You have no idea how strong I have to be to put up with this right now.' Casca mused as the man jabbered on, looking for a weak point that she could strike.

"You would be wise to hurry back to the camp followers, woman." the man continued. "Or if you really want to remain close to these soldiers, then perhaps a night-time posting in their tents would fit you best."

Casca's jaw clenched as she struck out to test her foe's defenses. He leveraged the length of his pitchfork thing to bat away her thrusts.

The man chuckled as if this were all some great game to him. "And to find yourself in such a high position… perhaps you snuck into that man Commander Griffith's tent?"

She could tolerate insults and jibes aimed at her. She expected them. But no one had any right to mock Griffith like that. She shouted as she charged inside the reach of his fancy pitchfork to strike at him directly.

Her haste had left her open, however, a fact she realized as she saw the haft of the weapon, sheathed in metal, coming towards her left. She raised her shield, but the force of the blow was still enough to throw her from her horse. 'Damn,' she thought as she struggled to get back on her feet, 'he's strong.'

Before she could stand, she fell back from a stab that went into the ground between her legs, rolling away as her foe extracted the pitchfork from the earth and surging to her feet.

"The battlefield is the sacred realm of men!" the knight said, sweeping his weapon out over the vista. "And I, Lord Adon of the Scions of the Blue Whale, Masters of Horse and Lance, Most Famed Knights of the Empire of Tudor, shall teach you the folly of your frivolity in intruding upon it!"

With that, he attacked, leaving her on the defensive as she parried and blocked and guided away the strikes he aimed at her. She tried to maneuver to make a dash for the camp, but he guided her away from it with expert ease, pushing her slowly back toward the cliff.

'And you call yourself a lord?' Casca thought as she dropped a now thoroughly ruined shield to give herself a little extra speed. 'I would have expected this sort of herding from a farmhand.'

Even still, it didn't detract from the fact that he was wearing her down, slowly but surely. Every block and parry she gave became more and more ragged, more and more desperate. If she didn't get any help…

The blows paused as Adon swept his pitchfork out to keep away a group of her soldiers, laughing at their caution. "You would be more daring if you weren't led by a woman! She has turned you into skirt-clutching damsels as well!" he mocked.

One of them, incensed by the mockery, shouted as he charged, his sword clashing with the pitchfork once, twice, then another battering of the pitchfork's haft dismounted the man as well. He was not quick enough to roll away, however, and the pitchfork was buried into the soldier's neck.

The man writhed, then went still before Adon took the blade out of her soldier's neck, returning it to point at Casca. "I've heard tell that your beauty matches your ferocity in battle." Adon began, a hungry tone to his voice that made Casca's skin crawl. "Perhaps I'll let you and your men live, should you come with me to my camp. You would be quite a useful servant to me and my men, I'm sure."

"Go to hell!"

Adon growled. "Then I will see you dead!"

"You first!"

Adon, clearly surprised and angered by the intrusion, swept his pitchfork back as he turned, catching the lance that had been aimed at his back and pushing it aside. As he stabbed out, Anna danced to her right, throwing down the lance and retrieving her hammer.

"Anna! Be careful!" Casca shouted, grateful for the moment's reprieve.

"Anna?" Adon scoffed. "Another woman intruder. It's a wonder that Griffith has found such success weakening his army so!"

He stowed his pitchfork on his horse, drawing his side sword. "You are not even worthy of tasting the bite of my trident. Come and die!"

He charged into her, swinging his sword almost like he swung his 'trident'. Anna met him blow for blow, and Casca found herself struck by how tall Anna sat in the saddle, almost as tall as Adon. Had she really gotten that much taller in the years since she'd joined?

For a moment, Anna seemed to have the advantage, Adon's horse taking one step back, then another as Adon began to lean back from the fight, the head of Anna's hammer denting the man's left arm, then bending the detail work on his right shoulder. She might actually beat him.

Then, Adon cried out in disgust as he swiped down, cutting deeply into the horse and sending it bolting away, carrying Anna with it back out into the melee.

Adon shook his head as he sheathed his sword, taking his trident back up as he wheeled around to face Casca again. "Now, you die," he said, an angry exasperation in his voice as he raised his weapon like an ax.

She tried to raise her weapon, but the moment of rest had sent her adrenaline crashing, and her arms barely moved now. 'Damn it… move…'

Casca braced herself, trying to shut out the desperate cries of her men as the strike came.

Then, charging from her left, a roan horse put itself between them, its rider blocking the strike with a familiar, massive sword.

Adon shouted in frustration. "Another intruder!"

"Captain Guts!" her men shouted in relief, even as she silently wondered the same.

"This ain't like you, Casca." Guts said nonchalantly as Adon began to back off, their weapons still joined.

With that, Guts tossed off Adon's trident, the man's horse rearing slightly as he flailed. "You lout!" he cursed.

"Come on!" Guts shouted as he raised his sword to his shoulder. "I've got a lot on my mind. Give me something to actually think about."

Adon steadied himself, his trident now at his side with the point going towards the ground in a stance that Casca had seen Daniel display from time to time. "It would take a proper soldier to block a strike like that," he said. "But lightning hardly strikes twice!"

He took his trident in both hands, sweeping it in loops from one side of his horse to the other and back. "I have trained to the point of mastery in the ways of my Corborlwitz lineage, a martial art older than this war! This weapon, in my hands, has shattered marble!"

His loops, which had gotten faster and faster as he spoke, came to a head as he swept the trident over his head. "Taste the fury of the Rock-splitting Whirl-"

Before he could finish rattling off his attack's name, Guts, clearly bored, raised his sword overhead and swung it down on Adon's head. The strike, clearly unexpected by Adon, caught the haft of the trident, bending it and slamming both sword and haft into Adon's helm, denting it with a loud crunch.

Guts lifted his sword from the ruined weapon and the equally mangled helm, now rent open enough to show blood flowing from Adon's forehead past dazed eyes. "Th'... Rock-splitting Whirlwind…" Adon tried again as he attempted to maneuver his trident as best he could.

Guts wound up a swing, taking his sword in both hands as he let it loose in a swing that collided with the weapon again, bending it further down the body. That fact might have been the only thing that saved Adon's life as the sword once again collided with Adon's head, a snapping strap sending the helmet flying off as he found himself dismounted.

A cheer went up among the Falcons, and a cry of despair among what watching Blue Whales there were, as Adon struggled to get to his feet, the Blue Whales beginning to turn and run from the battle.

Guts, satisfied his work was done, turned his horse to face Casca. "Rock-splitting Whirlwind," he muttered. "Whatever."

"Hey, Casca," he called out, getting her rapidly diminishing attention. "What's wrong? You're not usually this out of sorts. You could die if you get too sloppy."

Casca saw her vision begin to tunnel, felt her heart pounding in her chest, and slowly began to fall back.

. . .

Guts' eyes went wide as he saw Casca falling back. Was she wounded? Either way, if she fell off that cliff, she was done for.

"Casca!" he shouted as he reached out to her, grabbing the helm of her chestplate. He cursed as the action sent him slipping out of the saddle of his horse as he grabbed her arm as well. If he fell onto the ground and kept a good grip…

Then, he felt a lance of pain in his side, likely a crossbow bolt burying itself in him, and the pain shocked him as he slammed into the ground and began to slide with Casca. He couldn't let go, but with the haze of pain that settled over him, he didn't have the dexterity to try and stop his own fall either.

'Aw, hell…' he managed to think, hearing the shouts of the other Falcons as he went plummeting with Casca toward the river below.