• Phaerus Lightbane sits atop his horse, Starbright. The Major General, Knight Commander of the armies of Tier, waits with four thousand heavy cavalry on the crest of a ridge. Below, a battle rages. The screams of the dead and dying reach even this far from the battle.

    The war horse Starbright paws the ground with an iron shod hoof. He is a mighty white stallion of eighteen hands, and weighs a little more than two thousand pounds of bone, blood, and muscle. The smell of death only just nerves the horse after having charged into so many battles like this one below.

    The Norian rebels had massed around fourteen thousand men and marched on the Tieran army. Even though they were out manned, the Tierans were professionally trained soldiers instead of simple armed rabble. The archers, numbering some seven hundred had first rained death on the giant mob. The heavy infantry had then closed in and the real butchery began.

    As Phaerus reviews the situation in what seems a textbook combat scenario, he is taken back as a new host stands abreast on the opposing ridge. The rebels had amassed somewhere near six thousand light cavalry of a sort.

    "Corporal," Lightbane barks, "Sound the charge!" Lightbane draws his sword Frostfang clear of its scabbard on the side of his saddle. The sound of one hundred skate blades over ice is heard. This legendary weapon has drawn more than it's share of blood.

    Horns sound among the Tieran cavalry, and the mass of armored horsemen thundering down the slope shakes the ground like the titans of old. Phaerus enters the state of mind typical to this type of situation: all sound becomes noise, the grip on his sword's handle ever present in his mind. The speed of the great war mounts is unbelievable, and the distance between the two groups closes briskly until bodies meet. Horses scream and men shout, this time as Starbright kicks out and Frostfang deals death in the hands of the General.

    This bloody business continues until something strikes Phaerus across the chest. The knight falls from his mount's back, and hits the hard ground with explosive force. He sees stars until he becomes aware of a more ominous threat: an enemy soldier standing over him with a raised spear.

    The head of the weapon comes down. Phaerus rolls out from beneath the weapon's lethal trajectory and comes to his feet. He is off balance, his air coming in gasps and moans. The warrior with the spear comes in again, stabbing and swinging with the skills born of years of practice.

    Lightbane collects himself, and steps in now to meet his attacker. His blade licks out and deflects the incoming attacks faster and faster until he finds his balance again. Now he makes an over-handed slash through the haft of the spear.

    The knight stands and readies himself in La Poste de Falcone, or Guard of the Hawk position, with his blade raised over his head, his feet spread not quite to shoulder width. His enemy draws a longsword of similar length and style.

    Like dancers, the two men swing and parry blows, testing each other to find a weakness. Phaerus attacks,and his enemy feints. The tip of the blade comes up, and Lightbane moves away, but not as fast as he might. The steel bites his face, sliding up his cheek and skiping past his eye to split his brow. It will just leave another scar, if he survives, as his opponent is skilled.

    Back to this dance of death the two soldiers step, now faster, less measured, and more deadly in purpose than before. Blood has been drawn and Lightbane intends to be the victorious one in this hazardous ballet.

    A mailed hand grabs the blade of Frostfang, and the ancient magics of the weapon take their own hold in return. Phaerus' opponent screams as cold like winter's midnight chill paralyzes his hand. The Knight Commander changes his hold on the weapon, and jams the cross guard up under his enemy's jaw bone. Blood spurts briefly and Phaerus sees the same fear of defeat; the fear of emptiness. Soon the man grows still, and Frostfang's magic releases, letting the corpse slump to the once-green field. Everywhere there is death. Blood and sweat sting Phaerus' eyes, but it is small compared to the butcher's bill for the day.

    The knight plants his blade in the muddy plain like a cross and kneels before his fallen opponent. Although a veteran of many battles, the loss of life to be the cost of combat is never easy; it is never lessened by the years of victories and defeats, gains and losses. The Major General of Tier reaches down and closes the eyes of his enemy, and then stands slowly. Starbright finds his master, and Phaerus mounts up, riding slowly from the field, knowing that one day his bill to pay in this bloody business will come; that he will be called upon to answer for all the life he has taken...and he wonders on that day as a cold wind from the north moans with the sighs of the dead and damned...