A new encounter

[Taos]

Taos, on the far side of the field, pulls his longsword free of a Viking ribcage. Moving as one, he and his charger survey the battle, the outcome still in the air, as the strange magics of the shugenja and the skills of his warriors are pitted against the fury of the Vikings.

As his charger rears and lashes out with his hooves, striking down an approaching raider, Taos sees Sarjent circling, high in the sky, crying out in warning. A glance back towards the Iron Mountains tells him all he needs to know. Pulling off his helmet, he shouts clear and true across the field.

"Greybeard! A host of warriors approaches from the east! They are no friends of ours, and our escape may be cut off!"

[Sir Nichtmar]

Nichtmar shifts the shield over his shoulder, covering his back.

"Thanks, GB."

He winces a little at the pain in his shoulder, he looks to Taos and listens to his words. Then looks to Greybeard.

"We'll be out numbered, but that's not stopped us before. We've done our mission, Firoth has led most of the slaves to safe ground. Some stay to fight. We may die, but at least we'll take some with us."

He gives a slight feral grin, "And I might have my revenge."

[greybeardabbot]

With deliberate and quiet disgust Greybeard lets a vulgarity pass his lips in vitreol... "Mer'de!"

"This is unwelcome news!... I see no purpose to a withdrawl now... " He speaks out-loud, but clearly to himself.

"We are too scattered, Nichtmar... We should rally our forces to Tatsumura, I think"

Greybeard moves wearily over the dead under his feet.
He lets his arms down to hang limply with the dead weights of his shield and sword, as he manuvers around the bodies with the fatigue of hopelessness. He does not have the energy to RUN to anyone's aid, let alone fight for his own life.

"This will never do." He wispers... Then with effort, he draws a deep breath to fill his lungs, with the energy to once again assume a fighting stance. He fits a bull's horn to his lips and blows a shrill tune of a mere two notes... "toooo Dooooooo!" The queer sound draws the attention of friend and foe alike. The old Abbot raises his sword to point toward the Shogun.... "Tat-su-mu-ra!"

He hold the point like a hound, then begins to trot in the same direction. With a sardonic smile, Greybeard is pleased to see many others are also heading toward the heat of the fighting.

[Tatsumura Masamune]

Masamune and his remaining samurai are scattered in a loose line, attempting to hold the vikings at bay. With the shugenja already heading to the bridge, they remaining bushi are forced to hold the line with strength of arms.

Masamune splits a viking down the middle. It is a quick hard shot, chances are, the viking felt nothing. Masamune leans forward a bit, the fatigue is setting in. The battle has gone on for some time, but all sense of how long it has been has disappeared. He stands to his full height, taking in a deep breath, then behind him, a crack.

He spins himself in a 360, stopping where he started, with his no-dachi outstreched in one hand. The sound of shields and weapons hit the ground, followed by the sound of three bodies. As Masamune regains his stance, he hears three more thuds. The heads belonging to the three vikings finally hitting the ground.

Masamune turns as he hears the horn followed by Greybeard's calling of his name. Masamune yells out to his men, "TO ME!!!"

Suddenly, the world seems to stop, as if a moment frozen in time. Masamuen looks down, to see a spear protruding from his lower left abdomen. He hears the snickering of the foul beast gaijin in his ear. He turns, grabbing the man by the face. The snickering has suddenly turned to a struggling scream, and then silence, as a large shard of imbedded ice explodes from the back of his head.

Masamune releases the filthy backstabbing gaijin, but suddenly, the wound is to much, and he crumbles to his knees, being held up only by the end of the spear, which has planted it's self into the ground. The 10 remaining samurai quickly make it to Masamune, making sure to keep these worthless viking dogs away from their wounded leader.

[Sir Nichtmar]

Blood trickles down the cuirass of Nichtmar, his finger outlines the new hole the spear put in it. He thinks to himself, I will need new armor after this is all over.

Nichtmar looks to Taos, "Who is it? What do you see?"

[Taos]

Taos, in a sublime display of horsemanship, keeps a trio of foes at bay with a flurry of shield and sword and horse's hooves.

"They were man-sized, a blood-red legion, marching under a banner marked with a sigil like the gears of a machine. If they are allies of ours, I do not know, so I fear they must be enemies."

Two of his attackers lie dead on the ground, their skulls cleaved through, but the last one finally lands a telling blow, unseating the elf with a blow from his mace, and sending Taos sprawling backwards into the mud.

As Taos struggles upwards from the sucking murk, dazed by the fall and throwing up only the least skilled of defenses, the Viking towers over him, mace in the air for the killing blow, only to be slain in turn. Haggard and tired, Greybeard stands behind the raider, his sword thrust between the man's ribs.

[greybeardabbot]

OCC: I'm sorry if I make long posts sometimes... It's really only for STORY purposes and Charactor developement... The action comes in the fifth paragraph.

As quickly as he can manage, Greybeard transfers his sword to his sheild hand and offers his gauntleted right hand to Taos. An elf covered in mud was a new sight, even in war... but war has that effect on everything it touches. At any other time, the Abbot might have been tempted to discharge one of his sarcastic remarks toward one of such a proud race, especially where friendship would allow it. But as he plantedhis left foot and bent down, the situation did not permit such a sacrelige.

Taos looked up from the ground. His pride rather more dented than his body. He considered only briefly the extended hand. Had there been the slightest smirk in the old man's face he might have refused it and sprang to his feet with a show of nimble elvish dextarity. But it would have been an expence of enegry, clearly wasteful and unneccesary. There was nothing in accepting this hand of friendship that would compromise his elfen pride.

Greybeard pulled the noble Dragoon to his feet. This was no scarecrow. Tall, thin and surprisingly light, and yet under it all there was a strenght that startled him. --They are truely a remarable race. It pleased himself that he had offered no insult, even in jest. He had bent to help a comrade to his feet, feeling the surpirior... and stood now in object humility.

Greybeard responded to this feeling with quickness and stooped once more to pick-up Toas' weapon from the mud, and hand it to him. All this took almost no time to complete... for behind all this was laid an ergencey that moved Greybeard against the stream of his fatigue.

"Masamune is wounded... the Samuri need re-enforcements... and we must rally our forces or be eaten alive... (Taos, takes the bridle of his mount and wispers something to the horses ears, calming the excited beast, while sSomething on the ground catches Greybeard's attention.) I suggest... we find a way... to... retreat. (He bends to pick of a Francisca; a throwing ax.)"

At that moment another contigent of 6-8 vikings comes running toward them, painted faces, wildly screaming... Greybeard adjusts his grip on the ax handle, and with a practices hand turns and throws the weapon with percision into the skull of the leading man -- knocking him backward and causing another runner to briefly stumble .

With energy born of battle, Greybeard also begins to run... runs to intercept. His eyes are focused on one particual man with a large round shield, whose footfalls were heavy. Vikings are light fighters, they wear little to no armor. The abbot was a heavy fighter, heavily armored, besides being a large man. He was able, over short distances, to move fairly quickly... and he loved to shield bash. His kite shield was a little overlarge just for this purpose.

As he closed on his man, he had in mind to change targets at the last moment. But he saw the large shield shilft, a tell that the man was going to faignt left... perfect! Greybeard stepped right, and then shifted, having to spin around in order to keep his momentum and his balance... Dangerous on wet ground... but his footing held, and he mananged to collide squarely into his original target... shield met sheild with tremedous force, but Greybeard's greater weight was the advantage. The old abbot managed to lfit his opponant off his feet and into his secondary target.... they collided in a heap.

Two men on the ground should have been dispatched quickly before they could collect themselves... but there was a third man with no shield that was only two steps to his right. The man held a francisca and a short sword. Greybeard, did not rekon to turn his back to such a man, even if two men could be taken out... they might be time for all three... It was Greybeard's intention to... cut this new threat off at the knee... And then turn back to face the men he knocked over....

[Taos]

After calming his horses' rattled nerves, Taos slid back into the saddle and took in the situation around him. Masamune was badly wounded, possibly dead, with his warriors clustered around his body, protecting it from the swarm of raiders around them. Greybeard had gathered up his energy and charged another group of oncoming Vikings. Nichtmar and the other warriors of Mittelmarch, having found their part of the field largely clear of enemies, have drawn back up into a ragged wedge, waiting for orders.

As he surveys the carnage, he mentally classes this battle as a victory, with casualties slightly lower than he had expected. Were it not for the oncoming legion, he would allow his troops time to loot the dead and clear the field of their bodies. It was a disappointment that this "Haldor" and his bodyguard had not been at the sight of the battle, but he was confident their ability to raid and plunder was severely limited now.

He spins the sword that Greybeard had handed him over and across his wrist as he thinks, feeling the weight of the steel blade, a relic of his time in one of many other worlds. And then, with a motion born of practiced ease, he hurls the blade some 15 yards into the neck of the man facing off against Greybeard, causing him to stumble and choke in the midst of squaring off against the old abbot.

Pulling out his favorite sword, a blade millenia-old and bathed in the magic of his own homeworld, he replaces his helmet, and looks down at Nichtmar, noble features hidden behind a mask of black leather and iron chains.

"Tell your men that we make for the Thunder Mountains. From there, those who can walk by themselves are to seperate, and travel north to Aethenu. We will gather again at the Abbey of St. Sebastion. Give me your best horsemen, and we will remain as a rear guard, to protect the movement of the wounded. Take the mules of Greybeard's brethren, and transport those who cannot walk. When you reach the mountains, we will guard them for the rest of the journey."

Elven script flares white-hot down the center of his sword as he spins his charger around, looking for anything else he can turn to the advantage of his forces, the activity covering his hidden worry that the warriors of the Land have been caught far away from their homes, out of position and too distant to provide aid against any similar legions advancing on unprotected cities.

[Suihaden]

Exausted and tired, Sui could barely hold his sword. He stumbled over to Maynard and kneeling over, checked his pulse. It was faint, but the knight still lived. Quickly Suihaden began to apply bandages to his wounds. It was difficult work, Maynard was heavy and his armor covered many wounds. Deftly Sui applied another bandage to Maynard's neck and applied pressure to stem the flow of blood.

Finally he was finished. "Be careful how you move lest fever set in." he wispered to the knight. Then with the alacrity of youth he stood to his feet and looked around at the carnage. The fight was still raging, but many would bleed to death without help. Yielding to compassion Sui began to help the wounded.

[Haldour]

(OOC Very sorry I haven't been around guys, though it seems that if I were I'd have had a hell of a time trying to keep up with you all killing my men =P

Help me out here, where am I, and not with my men? Just so I know, if I missed that. However you guys have written it thus far is fine with me)

[Baethor]

(you and a contingent of your vikings are in the thunder mountains, you all stumbled across me while i was exploring and mapping out a cave system near their, and i offered you all a drink, i presume the battle went on during that)

[Sir Nichtmar]

Nichtmar echoes Taos’s orders to the men and they gather the injured and the stronger men cover the flanks. One man steers his steed towards the back of the pac. Nichtmar a bit woozy from the blood loss, he ignores it the best he can and marches on.

“We’re ready sir!”

[greybeardabbot]

The spoils of war include a chesnut mare, to which Greybeard hastly makes a litter to bear the body of the injured monk...
GB: "There is no time Sui, take him with the rest as quickly as you can. His life belongs to the Lord, so do not spare to make haste or I fear to loose both you and Maynard, and this horse."

Dead on his feet with less then no inclination to run from the new enemy, Greybeard steels himslef to fall behind, and perhaps fight to cover his friends retreat. His loss would be forgotten on the marrow when he could no doubt return at his leasure.

His plans changed immediatly when Furey rides up with Millards Arabian in tow... her wounds are somewhat greater than supperficial, but not so great that she could not bear a rider.

Furey: "This new threat comes with wings on thier feet." He tosses a torch casually into a pile of straw and manure. "Let's hope the smoke will provide additional cover.

Painfully Greybeard mounts his new steed... "Lead... I shall follow." And as they move out, Greybeard finds he must fight the desire to fall sleep in the saddle.

[greybeardabbot]

The Old man had no fear of his own death. This often lead him to acts of carelessness. The death of others however was another matter. Many many, Years ago, Greybeard took the habit of never allowing himself to get too close to people on an emotional level. People die.And the grief of loss was ever growing too much to bear. But a long life, is all the more lonely without fiendships. Besides which... losses were inevitable.
There is a twistedness that eventually comes with immortality, to those living in a motal world. The acceptance that all things are temporary. And the despirateness to live only in the moment, is consantly challenged by his physical limitations.
Greybeard was dead tired. At such times the temptation to give up and do something foolish, like getting himself killed, was overwhelming. A quick death, a moment of pain, followed by a deep rest, and recovery to complete health and energy. But it was a lie... it was always a lie. The reward was always to fight on... the lie was that to "give-up"would bring peace to both bodyand soul. It was a hard choice. He physically ached, and was beaten with a profound sense of weariness.

As he road along in the saddle, his eyes closed with fatigue ... He was fighting a new battle... an inner battle, with his personal demons. When dimmly, he became aware of a sound... the low thunder of hooves... They pounded hard upon his clouded consciousness, nagging his thoughts until he finally turned away from his inner dialogue. His eyes snapped open. He became immediatly aware of the approaching danger...

Furey: ALARM! They are upon us...

Snapped from his revery, adreniline coursing through him for the umteeth time, only had the briefest of effects upon him... at this point his muscles were oversaturated and could only respond in neverous shaking fits. All smoothness of motion had left him as he was long past recovery from mere fright.

More than angry at his own physical responce, he was angry at this new threat... "Who ARE they?!?"

[shatar]

Their armor was the color of blood and it shimmered like steel. They wore a tight black gambeson underneath. They were in perfect formation. The one that led them need only give the word and his legion would attack. He was the only one wearing a cape with his armor.

“I am General Shatar of the Jovian Empire, commander of the 34th Legion, that stands before you. We are 400 strong. 50 horseman, 50 archers, 50 pikemen and 250 shieldman. I tell you this not with threat, but with warning. What is the business of this rabble? You their!”

Looking to Greybeard.

“You appear to be the chieftain, speak!”

[Tatsumura Masamune]

The warriors of the shogunate had made for their horses, collecting those that they could. The samurai helped Masamune onto his mount, the spear having been broken off at the front and back, but still embedded in him. The would did not seem to bleed anymore, but a trained eye would notice that the remaining stick seemed to be freezing. He removed his kabuto, his face even paler then what it usually was. He looked up, to see the remaining warriors moving out. In the distance he saw the shugenja returning. He looked about the battlefield. Many of the vikings were dead, but at a great cost, three samurai were dead, reducing their numbers to 18 total.

They fall behind the rest of group as one of the shugenja attempts to look at Masamune's wound, though it proves mostly useless as they are on horseback.

Masamune notices that the group has stopped, and as they arrive with the rest, Masamune looks up to see the large force before them. The sudden and shocking realization of who stands in front of them can be seen on his face before he speaks.

"Jovians!!!!"

[greybeardabbot]

Under his breath, Greybeard tells Furey...
"You, Taos, and Nichtmar must get clear of these men, back off as slowly as you might, and when I make my move, FLEE for all your worth."
Greybeard saw that look cross his friend's faces..."Remember, the grave holds no threats for me. Let me do my work. Escape with your lives at all costs."

Slowly, Greybeard turned his horse and brought it forward at a leisurely and contemptible walk. He sat tall in the saddle, his confidence was clearly evident. His lone regret was his doubt that Sui would make it clear... not with the burden of Maynard's litter. It was not that Greybeard lacked compassion. Truth be told, he was more certain of Sui's reward that his own, since if Sihaden fell, he at least would awake in the gates of heaven. This was a bitter thought to the Abbot, whose destiny would once more delay such a blessing. Besides... Sui seemed to have God's favor. More than any other of his monks, Sui's apparent "luck" transcended explanation. No-doubt, he might very well survive this fiery trial to live another day. Such were the thoughts of the Grey Pilgrim as he bided his time answering.

His appearance was so austere and commanding of the space he traveled through that all eyes fell upon him. Greybeard silently willed his comrades to move off... as slowly, he come on toward the Jovians.

His hands held the reins, and those, almost casually. There was no weapon in his hands, but a short dirk was hidden in his left bracer. Flat and balanced, he could flick forth with great speed and deadly accuracy a distance of 40 feet. He was just inside this when he brought his steed to a halt. On any other day he would not doubt of hitting his target clean in the throat above the armor... but today he was running on empty fumes.
He was squared off directly in front of General Shatar, this made him a poor choice to be marked for death. However, His lieutenant upon Shatar's left hand was ripe for attack, even... though the abbot had reached his physical limits... and now hid his infirmaties with the very last of his strength. His composure, this peace with his choices, served to projected the mantle of power, but it would not last long. At the point it would be demanded for action, it would quickly consume whatever strength was still his to comand.

GB: "Keep your 'Ho, There's!' ... General Shatar of the Jovian Empire, commander of the 34th Legion... I am not threatened by your show of force, for I do not recognize your authority over these lands. I am not your citizen that I should answer you as a Lord. In fact, it seems to me that you are the trespasser in the Lands. Neither these men nor I owe you an explanation for our business here. In point of fact, as the Abbot of the Lands, it is more than likely that you owe me your service as the servant of the most High. Not that I would expect your to recognize the Divine authority any more than I will acknowledge by what right you stand before me in presumption that you are MY inquisitor?!?."

[shatar]

Shatar lets out a haughty laugh before he speaks, “Easy elder, obviously you are not a citizen of ours. We are not policing the land. We are on reconnaissance. Though from the look of things, some of your villages it looks as if you could use some policing. We watched as one your tribes raided a village. Besides, what are we to conquer here? Those pile rocks?”

A few of his men chuckle.

Like the roar of a lion, “SILENCE!”

His men go mute, before Shatar’s order echoes off the moutains.

He settles back into conversation.

“I’m merely curious of the quarrel that took place here. If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

[greybeardabbot]

Unfazed by this pretext of bemused authority, the Grey Abbot proceeds to instruct as to a child.

GB: Goliath once spoke the same nonsense. May God grant to you the same lesson in humility.
I am the servant of the king of kings. And He alone has the power you claim to possess. Better men than you have thought me dead... only to learn the error of their wicked ways.
And I call you a liar sir! A villain and a liar.
You enter these lands with an armored LEGION, and dare to suggest you come in peace? Out dog! Out Cur!
I call you "Opportunist"... Our peaceful villages pillaged by raiders and you are content to WATCH? Perverts! Voyeurs! You are no friend to these lands... You are a plague with honey on your breath... a pestilence with sweet songs to lay your traps. I see you clearly. Shall I parlay with Satan or rather... with Satan's pawn... For I perceive you are a mere TOOL Sent like a Dog to hunt. Or rather as a PIG to forage truffles."

The old man spoke evenly without shouting, but still his voice carried passion as a threat. He had meant to shovel it in HOT and provoke the Tribune to wrath... Without betraying his intension, Greybeard rehearsed the movements in his mind. In half a second he would dispatch the Lieutenant... He was most certain. He expected the arrows that would no doubt pierce him. Perhaps he would live long enough that his friends could bolt to freedom... to where? As his strength recovered he began to become dimly aware that they may flee... only to be overtaken... unless perhaps they could hide in the land they must know far better than the Jovians? It now seemed less and less likely...

Whatever would happen next would be in the court of General Shatar. In the next seconds... either Greybeard would lash out with all he had left... or perhaps... perhaps not. But if not... would his friends condescend to become Jovian prisoners?

[shatar]

Shatar stunts back a little at the strong words. After listening, he doesn’t touch his sheathed sword on the side of his horse.

“If I didn’t know any better I believe you were goading me. We are under specific orders at the moment to locate tactical sectors to perhaps setup outposts. My emperor has ordered us not to engage, unless attacked. He believes we won’t be here long. He has entered negotiations with one of your magicians to get us out of here. Fleeting if you ask me, I’d rather kill or convert you all now. Orders are orders aren’t they. Who is this King of Kings? We are loyal to the God of Gods, Jupiter. It is his strength that our Empire has survived the ages.”

He begins to get agitated. “My Emperor wants to go back home, I believe Jupiter has brought us here for a new challenge and his hesitation to conquer is weakness!”

The Lieutenant interrupts. “Sir…”

Glancing right to left, Shatar thinks to himself, “Why am I saying this to this man?”

[Suihaden]

Suihaden watched in shock as Greybeard lectured the leader of the mighty Jovian legion. "What is he thinking, they will surely slay him!" "They cannot slay him." Maynard feebly replied. "What?!!?" "Tis true my son, for the Lord has given that until his kingdom comes that he cannot be slain forever, he will heal of all deadly hurts." Sui mused for a moment. "Then he is buying us time." Maynard nodded then shivered. The knight was going into shock.

Impulsive as ever, Sui made a decision. Scanning the plain, it looked like the nearest cover lay in the Thunder Mountains. Sui pulled on the reins of the chestnut mare and strode forward. Hopefully, they could escape unoticed.

[Sir Nichtmar]

He feels the pain pulse to his shoulder. Nichtmar peeks through the men to see the red army before them. He wonders why they are still just sitting there, are they talking? He knows the Jovians have the advantage. He knows they would normally just kill whatever is in the way. Why not this time? He looks to Suihaden peeling off into the mountains.

Nichtmar whispers to the men, “if you cannot fight, leave with Sui.”

“Sui, get them home.”

They give each other a nod of farewell.

[Anvil]

Anvil sits on his horse in the tree line and watches the story unfolding in front of him. His men hear a heavy sigh emit from his chest and he turns to a younger member of his column.

"Ride and find Sir Brogas' and Plebian's patrols and tell them I am going to offer aid to our allies. Let them know our position and situation."

********

As Suihaden heads to the mountains, he notices that slightly to the left of the area he is headed for a line of twenty eight men in armor on stout mountain ponies carrying the banner of Dunland are emerging from the forest.

[shatar]

Suihaden leads the injured through the path in the mountains. Shatar sees this and does nothing. They come to an opening, and in front of them stands a Jovian Lieutenant and about 30 archers with bows stretched.

The calm voice of the Lieutenant gives the command, “Kill who cannot stand on their own.”

The arrows are released. Greybeard and the rabble can only hear the sound of punctured flesh and the groaning men. Suihaden gets to see Maynard die in front of him as arrows take him down.

Shatar still not grabbing his sword gives the order, “Lieutenant, take them!”

The Lieutenant charges towards Greybeard the other Jovians engage the others.

Shatar , “Bring me prisoners!”

The Jovians well outnumbered them. The sea of the crimson armor was a fearful sight. Like a wave they crashed into them. As children they were taught the ways of combat. All their life, they knew nothing, but war. They have been waiting, and they were eager for blood.

Shatar waits to see how the old man stands against his Lieutenant.

[greybeardabbot]

Greybeard did not turn to look… rather, closed his eyes and simply let his face fall forward and he merely witnessed the slaughter with his mind's eye.
Clearly he was defeated, yet his spirit rebelled at the temptation to surrender. Benieth the exhaustion that threatened his demise, the flame of his passion was rekindled. He still had one card left to play. His right hand drifted ever so slightly to touch the bracer above his left wrist. The subtile movement was masked by the true emotions of his grief and dispare.

--In the year 960 according to the Christian calendar, Greybeard had traveled once more to the Far East. On this adventure he went with the purpose of learning, not only their culture, but their style of warfare. He had been intrigued from his experience with the Mongols. He had been infuriated by his experience with the Arab Assassins. And during this phase, Greybeard had been interested in learning the oriental aspects of stealth. The Sung of China had less to offer in this regard than feudal Japan. However they offered warmer welcome to the fair skinned Saxon. Greybeard found that much of Sun Tzu’s philosophy chaffed his sense of fair-play. The Abbot was a Paladin after all, and was uniquely qualified to follow the more noble attributes of the White Knights. Even so… Under the German rules of defense, the best defense is to kill your enemy, BEFORE your enemy has the chance to kill you. There is nothing ignoble in surviving a battle. There is nothing inherently sinful in a “first strike” when responding to those who threaten the life of those you love.

Carefully hidden in the forearm of each of his bracers were specially constructed throwing knives. They were weighted and balanced with high precision. But they hand not been drawn out of their hidden sheathes in nearly a year. His bracers were made of laminations of leather, but he had been fighting several hours now and the leather was soaked through. At one time he was well practiced in flicking these blades with deadly force, consistently and accurately to half an inch. But this was a skill that he had allowed to lax. And now… He could not trust they would pull freely from their sockets. He could not trust he could be accurate without a slight re-adjustment of his grip and he could not make such an adjustment without a delay that could cost him his opportunity for surprise. And finally he could not trust that there was enough left to his physical strength and dexterity to hope that even if all the other worries proved meaningless, that he could deliver the death blow and not miss.

If he said a prayer, it was unconsciously and unformed --for in that same instant the old Abbot let fly with all that he had. The blade pulled freely and slipped through the air… but his aim was off by the degree to which the adrenalin had over stimulated his pain-racked limbs. He could not hit Shatar, his desired target, and so directed his weapon to the Lieutenant at his left hand. Had the weapon sailed true, the blade would have stuck solidly in the man’s throat. But it missed the mark by three inches… Greybeard felt the error as the weapon left his hand… he watched as if in slow motion the blade moved passed by the man’s neck, his heart sinking with hope crushing disappointment… and then the blade veered suddenly having glanced the side of the man’s neck.

Grim despair turned up into a satisfied smile as he witnessed the gush of blood spurt from the severed jugular. True… He had missed by the point. But the weapon’s edge saved the moment and turned the tide in an eruption of chaos.

The Lieutenant’s horror at his own death, his terrified shouts and wild movements excited both his horse and the men around him. Only Shatar remained unmoved by the sudden eruption of untimely and unexpected death.

It took Greybeard’s attention that Shatar remained in control. It did not escape his notice that while many near the injured man broke ranks… far fewer were disturbed by the spectacle than was to be expected. Such discipline and control woke a sense of desperation in the paladin and Greybeard sensed the diversion would not result in the escape he had hoped for. And so he played his trump card. As quickly as he could manage he drew his sword as he drove the brown mare forward. She balked at the charge, for she was not used to close combat. But Greybeard dug his spurs and she leapt into close quarters with Shatar; her added weight making up the difference in Greybeard rapidly weakening swordplay.