[b]Morning of April 12th, in the Year 3650 of the Tolosi Calendar[/b]

[center][b]A time for killing.
The glory of the Prophet.
Fighting with legends.[/b][/center]

The orders arrived before the first rays of sunlight reached Lyvresse's southern treeline. The courier, a pale-faced youth with the broad features and thick lips of the Mardochian aristocracy, had trembled like a guilty man facing the gallows as he handed the sealed letter to Myranda. The frightened boy mumbled something about "moving as quickly as you can and may the God-King protect us all" before wheeling his horse around and galloping away. The little bastard had forgotten to salute, though the elven warrior didn't mind. Niceties tended to fall by the wayside when there was killing to be done. 

Myra had opened the letter quickly and woken Trooper Pyral so they could both examine General Astra's plan to take the Sun Gates. Less than thirty minutes after the twosome finished reading, the Forlorn Hope platoon had roused itself and finished preparing for the upcoming charge while Myra went to speak with the penal battalion leaders. In truth, the criminals' role was one of the most important parts of the general's scheme, which Myra found more than a little surprising. If they failed then the Forlorn Hope would have a difficult time completing their own assigned task.

Captains Tressida, Longfoot, and Kraven hadn't been pleased with General Astra's plans for them and their charges, but orders were orders. They always were, weren't they? Sneering at the thought, Myranda shifted in Blackheart's saddle and urged the imperial grayhoof forward a few steps. The elven warrior and her host of twenty-five mounted sellswords were standing just to the south of Lyvresse's vibrant treeline, a position that gave them an excellent view of the fertile plain separating the forest from the Etrusceia River. 

Squinting in the predawn gloom, Myranda could almost make out the large clump of black dots moving rapidly away from Lyvresse and moving towards the Widow's Tears river. Captain Tressida and her men certainly didn't waste time. After taking their blunted iron weapons and grappling hooks from the supply wagon, the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Penal Battalions had immediately rushed off to set General Astra's plans into motion. 

However, just before the red sashes began their mad dash towards the City of Kings, Myranda had spotted Sweet Thond struggling to remain upright amidst the heaving, sweating throng of jogging convicts and screaming captains. Since most of the criminals serving in the penal battalions were either Mardochians or Etruscan prisoners the dark-skinned southerner was easy to find. The Jadisi man's eyes were bloodshot and he'd managed to lose even more weight, which gave him the gaunt, haggard look of a beggar or a drug addict. When Thond saw Myra mounted on her massive warhorse, he'd smiled through cracked lips and waved at her before the tide of doomed men swept him away. He'd almost looked happy to see her again.

The memory of that smile made Myra bite her lip, her mud-colored eyes narrowing as she thought about what she could have done to change Sweet Thond's fate.

She should have done something, anything, to help her friend. It was as simple as that. Myra could have easily ridden into the Seventh Penal Battalion's camp and rescued her friend from the clutches of that crazed zealot, Captain Tressida. She would've been like one of those elven heroes her father used to go on and on about. So, why the fuck hadn't she done that? The elf knew why, and it was eating at her like a starving wendigo gnawing at a corpse bereft of meat. Myranda Tavellan was many things, including a murderer and a sadist, but she respected the chain of command. It was one of the few things the elf believed in with her heart and soul. Unfortunately for Sweet Thond, the Mardochian penal battalions had been ordered to obey Myra's commands as if they were General Astra's own, but the elven warrior didn't see this as an excuse to do as she pleased. 

Myranda knew what happened when men used their authority, temporary or otherwise, to pursue their personal agendas at everyone else's expense. The insanity that had engulfed Kurdan's Sabers during the dwarven sellsword's sickness was created by ambitious morons trying to claim the captain's seat. They didn't care how their feuding and backstabbing might affect the mercenary company as a whole. Petty rivalries, rampant greed, and sheer stupidity nearly destroyed Kurdan's Sabers, though Captain Kurdan recovered before the company was completely ruined.

Abusing her position wasn't something Myranda did unless she had no other option. It was a last resort. The elf hated all the double-talk and underhanded dealings most sellsword companies got involved with. She preferred to handle her problems with a grin on her scarred face and her sword in hand. Things tended to be simpler that way. If she'd tried to take Sweet Thond away from Captain Tressida, and used her temporary power over the penal battalions as an excuse, it would've only been a matter of time before she was court-marshaled for conduct unbecoming an officer. And that wasn't even her most pressing concern. Myra had long ago lost track of the number of unsavory things she'd done in the name of keeping the White Hands together. She was used to it. No, she was more worried about someone like Major Bayaz or Trooper Rommath using an incident like this as an example of Myranda's unreliability and willingness to abuse her position. She was the newest lieutenant in the Gray Winds at the moment. Myra didn't know Claes Astra well, but she seemed like the type of woman who'd trust her veterans over some newcomer she met a week ago. In addition, antagonizing one's allies, especially without a good reason, was never a wise decision right before a major battle. Besides, if she was dismissed from the Gray Winds, Myra's horrible luck almost guaranteed she'd end up as a red sash in the Seventh Penal Battalion.

Of course, if that came to pass, then Myra would probably just kill Captain Tressida. Respect for the chain of command didn't necessarily mean you had to act like an utter fool. Especially when you might end up stuffed full of poisonous berries.

Frowning and scratching at her right ear, the elf was pulled from her reverie by Trooper Pyral lightly tugging on her white lion skin cloak. Blinking and glancing at the elderly hired blade, Myra followed the Tolosi's outstretched finger and saw the penal battalions were already across the Widow's Tears. The general's orders explicitly stated the Forlorn Hope needed to hold their position until the red sashes made it to the other side of the river since they'd be visible from the Imertian Walls of Tolos. Finally, it was time to get moving. 

Cracking her knuckles and winking at Trooper Pyral, Myranda said, "Well, Trooper Pyral, I'd say it's high time ter sound the charge, eh? Make it nice an' loud."

Tugging at his bushy white mustache, the sword-for-hire nodded and placed the silver horn, which he'd polished thoroughly while waiting for the penal battalions to depart, against his wrinkled lips. Trooper Pyral blew three quick, deafening blasts and inclined his balding head respectfully towards his commanding officer. Myranda unsheathed her black iron longsword and, with a cry of mingled joy and relief, dug her heels into Blackheart's sides. Her platoon, which was arrayed in two lines behind their leader, roared lustily in reply and began to canter out onto the dew-soaked plain. 

The rising sun sent spears of blazing color, like flaming bolts launched from a ballista, across the dark blue sky as the mercenaries coaxed their mounts into a gallop. The sound of twenty-four horses, and Trooper Mogdan's determined hill pony, thundering across the grassland was like an oncoming hurricane, powerful and deadly beyond reckoning. Myranda's sword glittered in the sun, and she kept it pointed at the walls of Tolos. Beautiful, it was all so damnably beautiful. 

This was what the elven berserker had been waiting for since she'd first agreed to serve in Oromis' army back on the Hamrock Isles. A chance to take part in one of the greatest, if not the greatest, battles of this age or any other. This would be the day that marked the beginning of the Siege of Tolos. The time before the start of a campaign filled some men with dread and self-doubt as their thoughts turned to their homes, their wives, or their children. For Myranda Tavellan, the waiting was almost painful because the anticipation was so thick she could cut it with her longsword. She was like a glutton spotting a savory dessert that wouldn't be served until the end of the meal. Or an alcoholic rummaging in his purse to see if he had enough coins to buy his first ale of the night. Or a young whore, her eyes still wide and innocent, welcoming her first customer into her chambers. It was a breathtaking, euphoric, and all-encompassing feeling that haunted the elf's nights and stole the joy from her days.

And then the Forlorn Hope plunged into the Widow's Tears.

Refreshingly cold water splashed into Myranda's face as Blackheart raced across the shallowest part of the river and onto the opposite bank. The elven warrior smiled and gave a little salute to General Astra's impressive foresight. Part of the orders given to the red sashes commanded them to find a wide stretch of the Widow's Tears where the water wasn't too deep. Not only would this make their own crossing easier but it would ensure none of the Forlorn Hope's horses foundered during the charge. It worked flawlessly. All twenty-five Gray Winds, with Myra whooping happily at their head, reached the other side of the river and continued galloping towards the Imertian Walls. 

As the platoon crested a grassy ridge, the hulking elf saw the red sashes ahead of them throwing their grappling hooks at the battlements, though most of the iron hooks fell short and had to be tossed again. Once they'd successfully forded the Widow's Tears, the general wanted the convicts to scale the stretch of walls nearest to the gatehouse and wreak as much havoc as possible while slowly pulling any defenders away from the Sun Gates. The further they pushed into the city itself the better. Of course, the criminals would leave their grappling hooks behind so the Gray Winds could reach the gatehouse, butcher any Etruscans inside, and open the Sun Gates for the rest of Claes' troops.

As Myra bounced up and down in Blackheart's saddle, she muttered a quiet prayer to Grim Bardolan, the Tolosi god of warfare and bloodshed, to keep Sweet Thond safe as he scaled the Imertian Walls. If the stories her father had told her as a girl were true, there were sections of these walls that were no taller than a man. Unfortunately, the gatehouse was located directly atop the Sun Gates, and the walls were highest around the legendary wooden portal leading into the City of Kings. Nothing in life was ever easy.

Sighing and hoping she'd get a chance to see her tiles partner after the siege, Myra reined her horse in and dismounted, her eyes drinking in the sight of the impressive barrier of bluish gray granite blocks standing between her and her goal. As she looked up to the top of the Imertian Walls, the elf saw the last of the convicts pull himself over the battlements before vanishing from sight. Ignoring the quiet pitter patter of drums in the back of her head, the elven warrior turned away from the walls just in time to see the rest of her battalion dismounting quickly, their eyes already darting from one grappling hook to another. 

"Listen up, ye lot," Myranda snapped, her raspy voice straining to make itself heard while also keeping quiet. "I want ye ter start handin' yer mounts ter Troopers Folant, Tabex, and Gaius. They'll take 'em ter that ridge we jest rode over an' make sure they don't run off while we're busy gettin' these gates open. We'll need the horses again afore this siege is over, I can tell ye that much. Once yer mounts are taken care of, I want ye ter find yerself a grapplin' hook an' start headin' on up. Make sure ter give the rope a good tug afore ye start climbin' 'cause not all o' them are gonna be attached properly. Got it? Good. Let's get movin', ye runts, we got a job ter do!"

The hulking elf practically shoved Blackheart's reins into Viator Tabex's waiting hands as she began searching for a sturdy-looking grappling hook. The other members of the Forlorn Hope were already swarming around the towering Trooper Folant, who cackled and told filthy jokes as he gathered his companions' mounts, while the two smaller sellswords began pulling the beasts towards the ridge Myra had mentioned. Relieved of their horses, the Gray Winds started prowling around the base of the Imertian Walls, tugging at the grappling hook ropes to see if they were properly attached to the battlements. Almost immediately, several hooks were pulled down and the hired blades darted out of the way to avoid having their skulls smashed by the falling iron siege tools. Dying before the actual fighting started would've just been embarrassing.

Without warning, a body clad in an Etruscan tabard went flying over the walls. His head was missing and blood flowed freely from his appalling neck wound.

With the drums starting to beat louder and louder in her skull, Myra bared her teeth and yanked on the rope closest to her, which held firm after several more tugs. Considering she was bigger than most of the men under her command and her leg-guards and sabatons were made of black iron, the elf knew she needed a sturdy rope and a well-attached hook to reach the top of the Imertian Walls. As she placed one foot against the wall and pulled herself up, Myra tried to remember if she'd ever been bothered by heights. She couldn't say. The elven warrior noticed Trooper Pyral, who was starting his own ascent to her left, was sweating like a madman, his eyes fixed grimly on his destination while he muttered something that sounded like a prayer to Oromis. Clearly, the elderly mercenary didn't enjoy heights at all. Myra was just too eager to get to the fighting after all this waiting to worry about how she got there. 

Grinning fiercely, the elf continued to climb, ignoring the occasional creaking of the rope, and she saw the rest of the Forlorn Hope platoon was already off the ground and on their way up. One clanking footstep after another, accompanied by the steady sound of her breathing, created an almost soothing metronome as Myranda's journey to the top of the Imertian Walls wore on. The morning breeze, which smelled of fresh grass and stone dust, ruffled the elven berserker's tangled hair as she finally pulled herself over the battlements. The sun was well and truly up now and, deciding to ignore the gorgeous view of Tolos to her left, Myranda faced her target. The gatehouse was a squat, ugly structure made of the same bluish gray granite forming the Imertian Walls, though the building wasn't in the best condition.

Smirking and brushing herself off, the elf unhooked her spiked buckler from her back and got it situated in her left hand while she waited for the rest of her platoon. By the time Trooper Mogdan, his stubby legs kicking furiously in the air, practically fell on his face coming over the battlements, the sounds of fighting could be heard echoing through the city proper. The Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Penal Battalions were on the move and doing an excellent job of keeping the Etruscans distracted. A few bodies, including one or two unfortunate red sashes, scattered along the walls were a mute testament to the criminals' abilities despite whatever methods their captains used to control them. Just another reason to make sure Captain Tressida and her sycophants paid for their crimes as soon as possible. If these men weren't suffering from the effects of ingesting athnac berries who knew how much more effective they'd be? And how much more dangerous.

Myra's musings were interrupted by the jangling sound of Trooper Rommath pulling several gold coins out of a purse hanging from one of the dead soldier's belts, though the human mercenary froze when he saw the elf glaring at him. "Now ain't the bloody time fer lootin', Trooper Rommath. Save that shit fer after we take the damned gatehouse. It ain't like these lads are goin' anywhere, right?" Myranda snarled and the sword-for-hire grimaced but did as he was told. 

Clearing her throat, Myranda said, "Right, everyone made it up? Good. We need ter get our arses inter that gatehouse, then. I want three o' ye with bows ter stay out here after we go indoors ter watch fer reinforcements. Once we take care o' whoever is inside the gatehouse, another three o' ye will watch the doors on the other side o' the buildin'. I think we can also...Trooper Maladar, what the fuck are ye doin'?! Stop, ye fuckin' idiot, yer gonna get us all killed!"

But the southblood elf, his falchion drawn and ready, kept running towards the gatehouse like he was planning to take the building by himself. He briefly looked back at Myra, his tattooed face a mask of utter disdain, before kicking open the door and vanishing into the granite structure. Twenty-one shocked mercenaries turned to stare at Myranda. The situation might have been comical if she wasn't so angry. Grinding her teeth in frustration, the hulking elven warrior lowered her head and charged towards the gatehouse, leaving the rest of her platoon to straggle along behind her. She was going to make that arrogant son of a bitch pay for this. That look on his face might as well have been a sign saying 'Fuck you, northblood, I don't take orders from someone who isn't from Xochimilco.' Spitting over the side of the Imertian Walls and praying Tlaloc's pride wouldn't cost them this battle, Myranda said, "Troopers Vessarian, Calixto, and Munia, ye three are gonna watch this fuckin' door with yer bows, got it? Everyone else is comin' inside with me." 

When Myranda and her platoon barged into the gatehouse, they were greeted by a rather unusual sight. 

Trooper Maladar, his bronze falchion dripping with fresh blood, was standing over a dying soldier while several terrified and half-dressed Etruscans stared at him with open mouths from a landing on the other side of the room. So much for stealth, though Myra hadn't really believed they'd be able to open the Sun Gates without fighting somebody. The scarred elf started to walk towards Tlaloc, though she wasn't sure if she wanted to beat the crap out of him or move him back into formation, when the sound of heavy footfalls on the staircase behind the Etruscans stopped her in mid-stride. After a few moments of tense silence, a colossal man gently pushed his way to the front of the gaggle of soldiers on the landing. This particular Etruscan was huge, his muscular body straining the confines of his finely crafted leather armor, and an obnoxiously yellow cloak was draped carelessly across his shoulders. 

The giant's red beard bristled as his stern blue eyes roved over the mercenaries standing on the other side of the gatehouse. With a surprisingly polite cough, the huge Etruscan laid one meaty hand on the shoulder of a stupefied man-at-arms with his pants around his ankles and said, "Tommen, pull up your pants and stop staring. I want you to go ring the alarm bells because we're obviously under attack."

"Yes, Watcher Herrod! Right away, sir!" the soldier said as he yanked his pants into place, buckled his belt, and dashed through the doors closest to the stairs. The muscular warrior, whose name was apparently Watcher Herrod, turned his attention back to the Forlorn Hope members cautiously fanning out and filling the gatehouse. The Etruscans were outnumbered two to one yet the red-haired man grinned and unslung an engraved iron warhammer from its resting place on his back. He let the hammer's head, which was forged in the shape of a roaring dragon, bang loudly against the gatehouse's wooden floor.

Myranda realized she was smiling back at Watcher Herrod, and her grin was so wide it was actually making her face hurt. The drums, which had gone quiet for a few moments, were suddenly thundering in her ears and she felt hot and cold all at once. This was it. This was one of her favorite parts of battle. When she'd still been Pajaan's lover, the elf allowed the cultured Jadisi man to drag her to several courtly dances in Clan Miridon's clanhold, though she'd rarely enjoyed the tedious, self-important affairs. However, she'd always been interested in how the various nobles picked their dance partners, because they always seemed to put a great deal of thought into it. For instance, a member of Clan Miridon might choose to dance with someone from a neighboring clan to show they were allies or shared a bond of some kind. On the other hand, a low-ranking clan member might offer their hand to a more influential kinsman in hopes of currying their favor. Of course, this daring maneuver left them open to potential rejection and public humiliation. Certain clan members only danced with men while others refused to dance with men. It was all very intricate, and, according to Pajaan, you could tell a great deal about a person depending on who they picked.

Myranda didn't have time for all that nonsense. She chose partners who would challenge her. Like Zenobia "The Blade" Quithas. Like Pajaan Farimi, now Pajaan "Goldenhand" Farimi. Like Claes Astra. Like Watcher Herrod.

"So, brigands," the fiery-haired Etruscan boomed as he leaned against the handle of his warhammer while the men under his command struggled to get into fighting stances, "you wish to open the mighty Sun Gates of Tolos, I assume? Well, know this, you gutless bastards, I am Watcher Herrod Eugal, and I have guarded this gatehouse for nearly ten years. I will crush every...last...one of you because I am the glory of the Prophet. His divine hands have blessed me so I may continue to do his bidding no matter what harm befalls me. Every man, woman, and child in this city will stand defiant against you, cowards, because the Prophet is with us. Soldiers of Etruscia, destroy these animals! For the Prophet and for Tolos!" With a hoarse cry, the Etruscans surged forward and the Forlorn Hope platoon met them, their shouted curses and howls of pain creating a maddening din that seemed to fill the gatehouse.

But Myra only had eyes for Watcher Herrod Eugal. The hero. The man who was clearly an inspiration to the blubbery, worthless degenerates staffing the gatehouse. He had to die. And she was going to be the one to do it. Who better?

Letting out a wordless, animal howl, Myranda hurled herself forward, shoving a shocked Trooper Maladar to the ground as she barreled into the fray, and lashed out at Watcher Herrod with her longsword. The "glory of the Prophet" batted the cut away with his warhammer's handle and went into a series of short, chopping strikes intended to bludgeon the elven warrior's defenses. The imposing Etruscan's craggy face was contorted in a grimace of concentration and his muscles bulged as he put his heavy iron weapon through its paces. The scarred elf thought it was hilarious. The human would have better luck trying to hit a candle flame or a fish in a stream. He was fighting Red Myra now. She didn't allow any blows to connect unless she wanted them to. Usually.

Ducking to one side and narrowly avoiding a clumsy backswing from an Etruscan soldier's shortsword, the hulking elf punched out with her spiked buckler and managed to pierce the titanic warrior's beautifully dyed leather armor. The red of the man's blood created a nice contrast to his pale blue armor. Herrod snarled in pain and tried to bring his warhammer down in a brutal, crushing strike. Cackling in delight, Myranda stepped aside and the blow slammed into the wooden floorboards of the gatehouse with enough power to smash several planks. Here was her opening. While Watcher Herrod was fighting to get his hammer out of the floor, Myranda was going to carve him up like a butcher with a fresh side of meat. At that moment, a wailing Etruscan with a bloody stump where his left arm used to be staggered between Red Myra and her prey. He'd have to die too, obviously. 

The elf ran the one-armed soldier through with a single, practiced movement. His face screwed up into a look of dazed confusion as he slumped to the ground. The human's blood splashed across Myranda's face. His hot, cloying blood. His sweet, wonderful blood. It was like heated metal in her mouth. It was like the sweetest ale she'd ever tasted. From what felt like very far away, Myra heard someone muttering, "Thank you, thank you, thank you" over and over again. Who was that and why didn't they just shut up?

Oh wait, she was the one talking.

"I am the glory of the prophet, you long-eared bitch! You shall pay for every drop of Etruscan blood you and your dogs have spilled!" Watcher Herrod bellowed as he stormed forward, his hammer swinging towards Myranda in a classic scything attack. Myra avoided it by taking two quick steps back. Pathetic. The blood leaking quietly out of the wound she'd inflicted earlier seemed to whisper to her, telling her Herrod Eugal's secrets and hidden desires. He wanted her to kill him so very badly. His need was written all over his suntanned face. Myra's bloody, unwavering grin widened to the point where she thought her face might shatter like a pane of colored glass. The insanity of battle swirled around her as more Etruscans, including several who were wearing leather armor and armed with pikes, hustled down the stairs. They were greeted by the sight of their few remaining comrades being cut down by the Forlorn Hope platoon. The stench of blood was everywhere, an inescapable perfume so intense it was nauseating. The Gray Winds, seeing the reinforcements on the staircase, raced forward, leaving Myra and Watcher Herrod to finish their battle alone. 

Holding up her buckler, Myranda threw herself bodily at Watcher Herrod, her shoulder slamming into his stomach with enough force to drive the wind from his lungs. The red-haired Etruscan managed to shove the elf away, clipping the side of her head with the handle of his iron warhammer. Pain seared through Myranda's skull like a familiar song whose words she couldn't quite remember. Oh wait, yes she did. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill ye, ye red-haired fucker! I'm gonna rip out yer damned guts and read me future in the pools o' yer fuckin' blood! Yer already dead. Ye jest don't know it yet!" the elven berserker roared in a mad, singsong voice as she took two warhammer blows on her shield, which forced her to her knees. Exactly where she wanted to be.

Giggling hysterically, the elf's sword whipped out and sliced through Herrod's right ankle. Shrieking in pain and despair, the Etruscan champion fell to his knees, his warhammer falling to the ground with a loud clanking sound, and Myranda sprang up, positioning herself behind him so her blade was resting against his throat while her shield guarded his head. It wouldn't do if someone else took her kill. "Now, Watcher Herrod, I'm confused. Can ye tell me who ye are again, hm? What yer fancy title is an' all that? I forgot in all this craziness, ye know," Myra whispered softly, her eyes narrowing when she saw the big man was whimpering and blubbering like a scared little boy.

"Pl-pl-please, milady, have mercy on me. I have a wife who is heavy with child and I don't..." Watcher Herrod started to say, though he stopped immediately as Myra dug her blade deep enough into his thick neck to draw blood. The elf could practically taste the Etruscan hero's fear. It was delicious, far better than any drink or food she'd enjoyed over the years.

"No cryin', ye big fuck, no cryin' now. I want ye ter tell me, jest like ye did afore we started fightin'. I want yer ter tell me who ye are, Watcher Herrod. Say it nice an' loud!" Myra screamed and the wretched Etruscan flinched like the coward he truly was. Funny how battle always seemed to reveal the truth about people. Just another reason why Red Myra loved what she did so damned much.

"I am the glory of the Proph-!" Watcher Herrod started to say, but he was cut off by Myranda's sword slicing through his sinewy neck. With a vicious yank and a loud snapping sound, the elf set down her shield while holding up the severed head of Watcher Herrod Eugal in her free hand. Myra let out a scream of primal victory as thick streams of blood cascaded down her arm and splattered all over her gaunt, scarred face. She looked like a demon from a child's storybook. Or something much, much worse.

"Here's the glory o' yer fuckin' Prophet, ye damned fools!" Myranda roared triumphantly, and the remaining Etruscans wailed in horror at this blood-soaked fiend who'd slain their champion.

Suddenly, a squirming, thrashing body smacked into Myra's back and knocked her to the floor. Not a very dignified end to her proclamation. Grunting in consternation, the elven berserker looked to her left and saw Trooper Rommath staring at her, a wide smirk on his pale face. He wasn't fighting anyone, though the hulking elf was certain he'd been in the process of overpowering a young Etruscan soldier armed with a shortsword and dagger moments ago. Obviously, the weaselly bastard had pushed his enemy into her, hoping the Etruscan might be competent enough to kill the inattentive elf. Ironically, the only thing keeping Red Myra from butchering the smug Tolosi where he stood was the bastard he'd shoved at her. Cursing loudly and snarling like a rabid animal, the elf rolled out from under the Etruscan and, ignoring his pitiful pleas for mercy, tossed Watcher Herrod's head aside. The other Forlorn Hope members had finished their own fights and were watching, many with unreadable expressions on their gore-splattered faces, as Myra calmly gutted the fallen soldier. 

Silence descended on the gatehouse once again. Nearly twenty-three dead Etruscans, including their headless leader, lay scattered around the room. Some had been reduced to little more than piles of meat while others were still mostly intact. Only one of them was missing their head.

"What are ye lot standin' around fer, eh?!" Myranda shouted at her soldiers, the thundering drums in her head falling silent and leaving her hungry for more. More violence. More bloodshed. More death. For the love of the First Emperor, why did it have to stop? Baring her teeth and trying to refocus, the elf said, "I said I wanted three more o' ye with bows ter get yer arses ter the other doors, didn't I? We don't want more Etruscan reinforcements comin' up here ter fuck us up the arse. Move now afore I make ye move." Three Gray Winds, including a trembling and pale-faced Larius Pyral, sheathed their bloody swords and unslung their bows. As the archers walked carefully through the carnage, Myranda walked over to an old, rust-covered lever set into the wall beside the staircase and pulled it. It was the only lever in the gatehouse so chances were good it controlled the Sun Gates. The sound of heavy stone counterweights groaning as they moved slowly into new positions echoed throughout the gatehouse, and the entire building shook as the Sun Gates creaked open.

Wiping some of the viscera off her face and wondering where her shield had gotten to, Myranda saw Troopers Maladar and Rommath standing over Watcher Herrod's corpse. It took all of her remaining strength to resist the urge to go over there and kill those two. There would be time for that later. After all, you could get away with almost anything during a battle. Taking a calming breath, the elven warrior started searching for her shield in earnest. She would definitely need it before the Siege of Tolos ended. Myra tried to pretend she was so focused on finding her buckler that she didn't see the looks of disgust, horror, and fear on the faces of her "loyal" men.

Not everyone could handle fighting with legends.