The sun was still too bright, and Alcello was still gasping for breath as he glared at the two hoplites closing in on him. He was oblivious to any of his new companions, or of any of the other hoplites, his only focus was the two soldiers that faced him. They were within paces of him when one of the men was suddenly sent sprawling to the ground, weapons falling forgotten to the floor as he desperately clutched the shaft of the spear that had punched through his gut. 

Alcello didn’t have time to look for the thrower of the spear, and even as he watched, the struck hoplite began clambering to his feet. Before the soldier could gather his weapons again, he was dead. An olive skinned figure, standing a few inches shorter than Alcello, his forearms and face shrouded by wraps, stepped from the dust. A long, curved blade flashed in the light for an instant, slashing open the downed hoplites throat. The body sprawled back to the dirt, blood already staining the ground, but Alcello had no time to celebrate. The remaining hoplite, still advancing despite the gash in the side of his neck that had already soaked his armour with blood, lunged forward, his spear tip driven towards Alcello. 

The thrust was weak, the soldier’s strength draining as quickly as the blood pouring from his wound, but Alcello was still winded, his movements slow, and he barely managed to knock aside the spear. Another thrust, but again Alcello was able to knock it aside. The balance of the fight was quickly turned in the Mennonite’s favour, as he caught his breath, the ringing in his ears faded, while the hoplite only got weaker, even the coursing adrenaline unable to keep his body moving. Alcello managed a weak smile as the third spear thrust, almost feeble in it’s strength, and the kestaphos easily grasped the shaft of it, and with one quick move pulled it from the hoplite’s weak grasp. 

The Kothar soldier staggered forwards, his strength all but spent, and as Alcello stepped to the side, the hoplite fell to his knees, the shield clattering to the ground. Alcello was a merciful man, and he didn’t hesitate, shifting his grip on his sword before driving it down through the back of the hoplite’s neck, killing him outright. Placing his foot on the centre of the dead man’s back, Alcello wrenched his blade free, wiping it clean for an instant on the bloodstained cloak of the soldier before turning to survey the chaotic scene that surrounded him. 

He saw the ranks of more hoplites, hardened warriors in dark armour. He heard the horn as it echoed over the cacophony of battle that was swelling all around them. He saw the hulking champion, the crimson cape, the already blood-stained kopis clasped in his hand. Alcello had already sheathed his sword, quickly reaching for his bow, when Farrin turned to him, and Alcello hesitated. 

Taking the reins pushed towards him, Alcello nodded quickly, reaching a hand up to try and calm the panicking horse as he carefully listened to Farrin’s instruction, committing them to memory. Tucking the jewelled dagger into his belt, Alcello carefully took the gem, cradling it with his free hand as he watched Farrin turn towards the champion, pulling his sword free as he met the challenge. 

Alcello moved quickly, his thoughts focussed as he retrieved his cloak, pulling it about himself before mounting the wild-eyed horse. His movements were natural to him, he had been all but born onto a horses back, spending his childhood in the saddle, as any horsemen of Mennon did. Pulling the horse about with a quick pull on the reins, Alcello gave out a wordless cry as he squeezed the panting torso of the horse between his knees, pushing it onwards. 

The hooves pounded on the dry dirt as the horse galloped through the towns narrow streets, away from the crash and roar of battle. He did not turn to see if any of his new companions were following him, he did not even turn to see Farrin’s fate. He had his mission, and he pressed his body low against the horse as it carried him towards Roshad.