Farrin watched with knitted brow as is new group cut through the Hoplites. His own hand was making work of the lashings of one of the horses in the stables, the frightened movement of the horse making everything difficult. As the last of the hoplites were cut down, Farrin’s fears were made reality: the bronze helmet of one of the Kotharians rolled off as the body slammed into the bloodied dirt, revealing a youthful face, no older than fourteen or fifteen winters. A horn blew and Farrin snapped to attention, his face looking back towards the town.

	“Hold fast, most of these were green, tempted by loot to abandon the bulk,” Farrin shouted over the ever growing cheer in the distance. Slowly a black line of soldiers began to ooze through the buildings of the town, the grunts of unified movement matched by a harmony of steps. The enemy was closer than expected, with some Kothar soldiers spilling out next to the stalls, a mere stone’s throw away, each chanting a single name.

	“Torros! Torros! Torros!”

	The champion whose name they chanted walked in front of the soldiers, a tattered red cape snapping in the wind, and a spear pointed at Farrin. It became apparent that without a good distraction, the Kothar were close enough to gather their own horses and chase down the group if they had wished.

	Farrin quickly turned to the closest member of his group, Alcello, and handed him the reins of the horse he had just untied, “Ride for Roshad, find the Silesian named Yua’ad in the great library, and give him this.”

	The old man procured a jeweled dagger from his belt and handed it to Alcello, “tell him to take you to the second gem, he will trust you.”

	Farrin took Alcello’s other hand and palmed the gem into it, “You have an old Kestaphos’ trust, Yua’ad will fill in the rest.”

	With a gentle push Farrin nodded at Alcello before turning to the approaching Torros and unleashing his own blade from its scabbard. Pointing it at Torros, Farrin yelled, “Let Lekos decide who deserves to live among us!”

	Torros bellowed back from across the dusty street, “I accept your challenge, old man.”

	Farrin swung his blade a few times and began his walk towards Torros, the other Kothar soldiers stopping in their place to observe what would be a massacre of the highest caliber, and in the name of Lekos to boot.

	The old Kestaphos raised his blade in an unusual ward, unseen far from outside the lands of Silesea, “by Ill-” Farrin was cut off as a stampede of horses shook the ground, a wave of Mennonites breaking out of the plains to the west and spilling into the town, lead by a line of shimmering Kestaphos, lances angled. The old hero cringed as he heard the unmistakable slam of the two armies and the screams of the horses. Bodies went flying into the air, some ripped off of horses, others pounded out of the simple shield wall the Kotharian’s managed to form. Despite this, Torros stood unharmed, his eyes glaring like a devil’s at Farrin.

“Fools,” Farrin muttered, he craned his head towards his group, “Leave!” 

Without another word the old man charged into the new fray. He ducked under a swinging shield, slicing at the knee of the offender as he slinked by. He dodged to the right, avoiding a spear tip, and as a Kestapos lance nearly struck him in the head, he rolled. 

The old man tumbled between the piles of the slain and the forest of fighting men around him, sliding his handless arm through the loop of a Mennonite cavalry shield. Rising quickly back to his feet, he raised the leather bound wooden shield, a great thwack sounding as a Kothar kopis chopped into it. 

Farrin looked past the shield to the arm holding the kopis, the arm of Torros. The man’s face was twisted with the rage of battle, blood speckling his tanned skin. Farrin yanked his shield to the side in an attempt to disarm Torros, but the seasoned warrior held fast, ripping the blade out of the shield in time. 

Torros swung again, but Farrin slipped to the left. He punched out with the shield, but Torros leapt backwards, only to spring forwards again with his blade. Farrin caught the iron with his own sword, the blades sliding off each other with a vibrating clang. Another Kothar soldier thrusted forward with his spear, but Farrin managed to step into it, knocking the spear to the side with his sword. Before Farrin could counter strike, however, Torros swung his blade at the back of Farrin’s leg. Quickly the old man slapped the other enemies spear with his shield, forcing it at an angle to parry Torros’ strike. The Kothar soldier swung with his shield arm, but Farrin ducked, rising up to strike Torros, who spun away from Farrin’s sword. 

A Mennonite stabbed at Torros as he escaped Farrin’s swing, but Torro’s quickly hacked his kopis into the soldier’s exposed inner elbow, severing it all for a length of stringy muscle in an explosion of scarlet. The Mennonite’s attack fell limp, and Torros spun behind the screaming man in time to use him as a living shield against a Kestaphos’ lance. 

Farrin leapt from the fighting masses, his blade leveled at Torros’ neck. The Kotharian managed to catch the blow in time on the bottom of his blade, Farrin’s sword cutting a notch into the edge of his kopis. Farrin swung backwards, his blade slicing an unexpecting Kothar soldier who was approaching from behind, the Silesian metal sinking into the soft exposed flesh of the neck. The Kothar gurgled as he fell to the ground, Torros not missing a beat and stabbing at the exposed Farrin. Farrin shifted to a side stance, catching the kopis on his battered shield. Farrin took the second of control to lean forward and shove Torros, who fell backwards into the fray. The old man gritted his teeth, leaping in after Torros as both Kothar and Mennonite soldiers overtook any chance for Farrin to escape the battle, their own eyes set on survival in the ever growing mist of blood and gore.