Date: August 24, 2000 (Aether: December 27, 3906)
Place: Eastern Sky Bridge
Cast: Keegan, Khalid V (emits), Sumai
Scene: Messala forces engage those of Clan Serazen as they fight to defend the Eastern Sky Bridge from Varati rebels.

Eastern Sky Bridge:
      Ashur Masad explodes over the horizon in the east, bathing the short grasses of the valley in gold. Everywhere, hills reach skyward from the earth, like the spine of a dragon. The dragon coils around this little valley, two kilometers long and only five hundred meters wide. On either end, narrow passes lead into valleys beyond. On the western side, the pass leads over a small hilltop, and beyond that... the Sky Bridge. Few trees exist to obscure vision, so high above the tree line the pass is. The bitter cold and the sway of narrow grass stalks provide the only companionship.

The valley is alive with the first rays of morning. Ashur Masad rises in the east, exploding over the horizon and bathing the short mountain grasses in gold. With the new sun comes a dull, thunderous sound that rolls low throughout the hills. In the center of the valley, wyverns lope at an easy, careless pace. The riders upon them armed with lances twice the length of a spear, chuckle easily with one another, largely ignoring any possible threats they are meant to discover.

Sitting atop a ridge are the Messala forces, small as they may be in comparison to the enemy's, five hundred shield men with their great silver and navy shields and blades planted before them look down on the enemy scouts with cold, dead eyes. Behind them comes a roaring voice of their commander, full of power and wrath as it calls, "LOOSE!" and then there is the sound of three hundred bows being loosed into the sky towards the scouting party in the valley below.

Two hundred wyvern riders sit their mounts patiently as they watch the scouts beneath them. The gleaming silver of the Messala and their tiger shimmers in the morning sun as they fire only a single, merciless barrage onto the enemy's fore scouts. Sumai sits his own wyvern for a moment before calling, "LOAD," and the bowmen restock their bows with their tiny pricks of death.

The command to fire the volley echoes in the valley, wrenching the attention of the wyvern scouts away from one another to the hilltop immediately to their fore. As the hail of arrows rises in the cold mountain air, the wyverns begin scattering and wheeling to face the rear.

Riders jab the bellies of their steeds and spur them into a suddenly sprint. The powerful legs of the lizards explode into action, propelling the wyverns away from the arrows... but escape is no easy matter. The arrows rain down upon the retreating steeds, pelting rider and mount alike.

Two riders are knocked from their saddles. Another two slump lifelessly. The legs of the fifth's mount suddenly give, forcing the head of the animal to crash into the dirt -- rider and mount tumble to the ground.

Five riders escape unscathed save for a few arrows that have found their wyvern's thick, scaled hides but done little damage.

Looking at Keegan, Sumai says, "Now they know. All is as I would have it. Find a place to hide down trail a ways -- hide very well and wait for my signal. Listen to your lieutenants." The huge warlord turns his eyes to the retreating trail of dust and bodies, and then glances to one of his second lieutenants. "Have the archers mount their arrows with oil now. We will need their talents soon enough, and cock the trebuchets to prepare for the army's coming." The huge Warlord glitters in silver and navy as he slides from his wyvern's back to walk towards a ring of priests who are nearby.

Nodding at the command, Keegan murmurs to his brother before departing, "May His fire consume our enemies, Sumai -- we shall meet again over their fallen bodies." Brave words for one who paled so visibly at the sight of mere scouts, but he turns about without hesitation, mounting his wyvern easily, and signaling for his contingent to follow.

Without so much as a look back, the youngest of Messala brothers rides southwards, surrounded by one hundred men, eager to obey their liege and warlord.

Dust marks the retreating wyverns' passing. They race off toward the distant end of the valley, two kilometers away, where sunlight suddenly erupts along the steel blades of spears, a forest of them. The thunder rolling along the valley grows louder, a cadence purposeful and measured. The army of Clan Serazen nears.

In the fore march a thousand spearmen, followed by the bulk of the army, a mix of medium infantry and crossbow men. A small contingent of wyverns rides at the rear with the wagons of supplies.

"Tell the men to bang their shields for a while to cover the detachment's movements, not that their own army isn't doing that," Sumai commands his lieutenant as he kneels with the priests of Atar quietly, speaking to them with directions in his deep voice. "Those trebuchets have oil drums on them, they will be lit and when they land they will explode. You will use your fire to make the explosion more powerful, I want to see the heretics cry the Amir-al's name as they burn to their deaths.

"When the arrows are loosed, they will have small vials of oil alight on them. When they land, I want you to power the flame. Burn them where they stand, burn them where the crawl. When they are too close for trebuchets, we will push the wagons carrying our pitch down the hill onto them aflame. You will blow those up as well.

"They will show us no mercy, we will show them none. No exceptions. Not for women or children or cattle or their wyverns. This is our duty, we will die so that the bridge can be reclaimed and Khalid recovered to his rightful place."

Sumai looks each one in the eye with hard, heartless olive-brown eyes and then says, "Take your places and remember, we are they who never fail." He rises to move back to his wyvern and mount.

Moving quickly, the detachment all but disappears over the hills, fading from sight as well as mind. If the enemy was focused upon the main force, it could hardly have noticed them. Not that they would stop so close anyway.

As they move southwards, out of sight, Keegan arcs an arm in silence, and the force moves westward as well. Moving in a wide arc, they make their way with deadly efficiency, never breaking battle formation. Anything is possible. Twenty riders carry with them containers of kerosene and napalm, small fuses leading up and out, ready to be struck.

The Atarvani priests listen to Sumai's instructions with little in the manner of emotion. They chafe at the forceful directions, yet when their eyes watch the force approaching, they do not hesitate to grant his requests.

The Atarvani scatter slowly at a patient pace, moving among the troops and offering a few words meant to hearten, "The Amir-al watches us. You will be reborn to find a life of honor waiting for you."

In the distance, some agitation erupts among the advancing foe. The massive train slows and begins a ponderous reorganization, still a great distance away. The forest of spears stops and a full two thousand medium infantry followed by another thousand crossbow men begin to assemble in the fore. They start to march towards the hillock.

The infantry stretches the width of the valley in eight ranks of two hundred and fifty men. Behind them, another four ranks of crossbow men march. The remainder of the army creeps behind, unable to move around the vanguard now. Yet they keep a respectable distance.

"Shields at ready, prepare to receive arrows," comes Sumai's voice, unafraid and loud enough to be heard by almost all the men on the field -- those who do not hear can see the banners signals. The huge, seven-foot tall beast that is the head of Messala sits his mount steadily and quietly as he watches his archers go about hurriedly tying tiny vials of oils to their arrows and the flaming pitch is spread before them in a row so that they can easily light their arrows.

The front rank of soldiers heft their shields up and prepare to lock them, huge pole arms bristle from the second and third rank of soldier like some hateful porcupine, every second man bearing a huge shield to lift over his mate's head and shield them from any arrows that reach their high perch.

Moving quicker still, the detachment led by Messala lieutenants and the brother of their warlord continues its hasty trek. Keegan's dark eyes scour the land, and the position of the rising sun, judging time as well as distance. They will soon be in the pass where brush and rugged land rife with large rocks will hide them. Moving on with little clamor, the contingent moves.

The stomping of infantry grows louder as they near. Their shields clatter as the front rank raises them to just below eye level. The steel shields are large enough to cover the body from the nose to mid-thigh. The ranks behind the fore begin to close up, so that their shields touch the back of the warrior in front of them. Crossbow men linger behind, but still march forward, their weapons ready. One thousand becomes 700 meters, then 600... 500...

When they are of a range, the Warlord of Messala gives out the order, "TREBUCHET!" and with that, the two mighty towers set some few dozen yards behind the lines of men fire huge loads of scattered drums of pitch and oil.

Flaming already when the barrels come down on the ranks and near the ranks of the enemy force, the Atarvani priests -- and Sumai himself -- wield their fire magic to make the explosive effect all that much stronger. Savaging the ground and men that may be near it, leaving raging infernos in the path of those who intend to walk through the storm that is the burning hell of a battle field. The sound is tremendous, certainly heard for miles around with its force.

As soon as they are fired, Sumai calls, "LOAD TREBUCHET! HOLD!" He calls for archers and wyvern riders and footmen in the mail and plate armor.

At the sounds of the massive explosions, Keegan cringes upon his mount, and his resolve strengthens. "So it begins..." he murmurs quietly to no one, and he turns his head to grin wickedly into his ranks. "Continue quickly," he commands, his feet digging into the sides of his mount. Sumai will need us after this, come his silent thoughts.

Once the party reaches their destination, a hand goes up, and the group pauses. Moving quietly once more, they take up position behind rocks and such, the added camouflage welcome behind the hills as tendrils of smoke lick their way up into the sky, mingling with the screams of the fallen.

Keeping their eyes and ears open, the crossbow men remain behind the infantry, but not lagged. The air seems to hum to them as they advance, the gleams in their eyes showing that they are more than ready for this battle. Their formidable weapons are ready to be lifted to their shoulders and fired at a moment's notice. As the flaming volleys land with explosions, crossbows are lifted and aimed at the telltale red robes of the priests. They make wonderful targets.

One flaming missile sails beyond the ranks, but a load of explosive pitch impacts just in front of the advancing ranks. The load explodes, shaking the ground and showering burning fuel over the medium infantry. Twenty kshatri warriors disappear in the flames, another ten scatter wildly, breaking formation in their attempt to douse the flames that creep up their armor. The explosion leaves a hole in advancing ranks, but they march on still... 400 meters...

Behind the assaulting elements, the majority of the army group ponders along, having reached the center of the valley. The train stretches from the center to the far pass, where the supply wagons canter along.

Targets they do make wondrous ones of, luckily each has a shield man with him to minimize if not entirely halt the loss of life. Sumai has planned for the eventuality of crossbow men and bowmen. The saving grace of the enemy using crossbow-men is that their slow reload times will assure that his archers fire three or four times to their single shot, and with the oil attachments and priests, his archers will easily be twice as effective.

Once more, the shout comes, "TREBUCHET!" and once more, the roars of loaded pitch and oil spew forth death onto the field of the opposing army's ascent up the miniature mountain. Though, by now, they are certainly within longbow ranges, and Sumai calls, "DRAW!"

After just a moment, he calls again, "FIRE!"

With the vials of oil attached, the arrows are loosed towards oncoming force. Vast as it is, the Messala clan stands firm despite the heat and the insane numbers they face.

In the short one hundred meters that the infantry have crossed, another trebuchet load is flung upon them. Barrels of pitch rain down from above and explode in the ranks, ripping them apart. A full forty warriors are incinerated, with another twenty lost to panic in putting out the flames that refuse to be doused. The line struggles to reform, Kaimakam officers shouting at their men from behind.

At 200 meters, Kaimakam give the order to charge, and a full eight hundred warriors answer the call, charging toward the Messala ranks.

The arrows of bowmen begin to dart among the charging infantry, claiming lives, but not quickly enough. Fire erupts among the ranks from some unseen source, and the charging lines begin to falter, losing their cohesiveness, but charging still.

Many of the crossbow men scatter as the flames rage at them, but they regroup as quickly as they can. An unlucky few are caught in the flames and fall, quickly engulfed in the flaming pitch. Yet, many are left standing, able to fire once more in the priests.

Luckily, not all the crossbow men fired the first volley. Indeed, the others now fire at the red-robed and targeted priests. Knocking them out would at least tame the barrage of flaming barrels. While those who fired the first shots reload, the second wave fires, leaving a third yet to attack. Each crossbow man knows his order, so that the bolts are continuous.

Explosions ring across the hills, deafening indeed to those close enough to feel their heat. Smoke rises into the sky, high enough to be seen from all around. Keegan tenses, wondering if he will live through the experience. Prayers to the Amir-al fill his head, and find soft escape through his lips. The life of a warrior is empty without this, and so he has waited all his life. He will serve his God and king with his life, and die happily with that knowledge. Fierce is the faith of Messala, and the kafir will be punished for their transgressions.

Hatred wells up within him, pumping him with power. The air about him shimmers, a wave of heat pulsing over his armor. They will die, all of them. He will kill them one by one if he must. And so his hatred feeds the flames within, the infamous fires of Messala blood licking at his hands. But patient will tempers the fire, controls it, and contains it. And he waits.

Frowning as he sits atop his wyvern, Sumai watches the battle and takes a deep breath. "PREPARE TO RECEIVE CHARGE!" comes the great baritone voice of their most revered Messala commander as he yells, "MAKE THEM PAY DEARLY FOR YOUR LIVES!"

His wyvern snorts slightly and his elite guardsmen take on a grim demeanor. Sumai looks to the men running the trebuchets and calls, "RELEASE THE WAGONS!" And with that, dozens of men running those war machines get behind several wagons full of barrels of oil and pitch and push then down the hill as they throw torches aboard.

The wagons rumble down, gaining speed as they head towards the great, bulky ranks of the men coming up the hill at them.

Touching a lopsided rag, stitched with only middling skill that the great man holds in his panzer hand, Sumai whispers quietly, "This is all for you."

The remaining Atarvani begins to create great, vast booming explosions of blue lights from the wagons as several dozen casks explode near and amid the enemy forces.

The signal is given, blue light flashes, and Keegan rears up on his mount. "For our God and King!" he calls, waving his dual blades in both hands, gesturing for the hills. The assembly launches, wyverns and horses breaking into a sprint, over the hills.

"Stay together!" calls a lieutenant, flanking his warlord's brother. 'I will keep this one alive for Sumai' he thinks to himself as he regards Keegan, and the party moves with all haste.

Crossing the hill with abandon, the formation shifts, forming a loose ring of fifty men surrounding a smaller ring of thirty-five about that of fifteen. Barreling over the hills, they intercept the supply train a few wagons before midway, about 3/4ths of the way up the line toward the army. "Hit and move back!" comes the command as the air about Keegan shimmers and images bend in the heat.

The flaming wagons roll down the hill. The infantry lines charging up the hill break apart so that the wagons can pass through. Yet just as wagons reach the lines of infantry, they erupt in massive gouts of flame, exploding viciously. Liquid fire is thrown wide, reaching nearly to the lines of Messala forces. Hundreds of infantrymen are incinerated, and hundreds more scatter madly, trying to douse the flames with little success.

Others roll upon the ground, screaming. The front ranks of infantry hesitate, but enough Kaimakams remain to maintain the charge. Twelve hundred strong, they barrel upon the hill still and with a monstrous crash, smash into the Messala shield wall.

The barrage of new flaming debris and pitch knocks out more crossbow men, but the third volley has yet to go. Most fire at the remaining priests, a bold few aim at the ones shouting orders. Take down the commanders and chaos will ensue. Those crossbow men left of the first and second volley reload, lagging behind those advancing.

Seeing a few bolts coming at him, Sumai growls and lays himself low on the wyvern, against its neck. One shaft skitters across the back of his plated shoulder, which sparks and mauls the enamel upon his armor. "Damn," is the sole, growling complaint, then he claims, "WYVERN RIDERS BREAK!"

Now the final phase and his last hope to actually survive the initial contact of the enemy army's forces. Sumai releases his two hundred wyvern riders from the rear of the army.

They already know their orders and break into two groups of one hundred, moving to either side of the stoic Messala forces, now embroiled with their blood enemies. The intent is an easy pincer around and lance down any enemy that gets in their way until they can reach the enemy's Kaimakam and clear his head from his body. They ride fiercely and with determination, not to mention snapping jaws of their reptilian mounts.

Messala forces attack from behind, surprise lending them the advantage. The wagon they encounter first is hit hard, arrows arcing gracefully from mounted archers, raining down upon the guards. One hundred riders to protect an entire train of supply wagons leaves a lot of room for a unified force, and so they drive in hard. A container of napalm is lit, the fuse sparking dully as it is tossed from nearby in a strafing ride.

Men look up in time to see a swarm of the dark beasts lunging at their train, the creatures of their own lines snapping and screeching at those wyverns who dare make an approach. Shouts go out among those in the wagons; hurried, angry shouts mingle equally with dark curses as fires erupt and their men are destroyed before a counter-attack can begin. The stench of burning wood and charring flesh fills the lungs of those closest and they scurry back, hoping to avoid the same fate for themselves.

When the infantry collide, the battle becomes a hideous affair. Messala shields grind against Serazen shields, metal screeching. Spears jab at the assaulting Serazen viciously, harvesting death from behind a row of shields. Serazen fall in greater numbers than Messala, the work of the spearmen... but in the melee, spear shafts begin to snap quickly, cloven by swords or caught between shields.

The battle degenerates almost into a stalemate, yet the greater numbers of Serazen begin to collapse the Messala line, forcing it back.

By now, those left in the first and second volley have reloaded and fire upon the commanders. *click*.

The Messala bowmen return fire on the enemy archers with their faster longbows; they fire at will at this point, trying to fell anything on the other side of their allies shield wall. Their lieutenants keep them as focused on the crossbow men as they can, trying to feel the reloaders first and foremost. Crossbow men grind to a horrible halt if their loaders die.

Sumai watches for only a moment before he says to his elite guards, "To the flank. I am not a man to watch his own die while he sits on an easy seat." The huge monster that is the Messala Warlord turns his wyvern and sinks low on it while he gallops along the ranks of his lines behind him.

"FOR THE BLOOD OF THE FIRE! FOR KHALID! FOR OUR GOD!" his voluminous voice calls as his men ride behind him, drawing axes and swords, each of them getting personal preference. Sumai sweeps around the end of the Messala ranks to spin towards the Serazen troops with his initial charge of a lance and the weight of his meaty, deadly wyvern leading him as its hellish jaws snap viciously at any footman nearby. His guardsmen follow suit, fierce and seasoned warriors that they are, they have seen many battles and know how to care for themselves.

The Messala wyvern riders continue to press on towards the enemy's Kaimakam, killing what they need to but moving towards the general as quickly as possible. Two hundred began the ride, how many will remain at its end?

Keegan's force swirls outward, their own wyverns meeting those few nearby who dare to engage their might. The main army has engaged Sumai. Hopefully, this shall buy them some time, as sounds of battle roar in the air, distracting attention toward the bridges, and away from Keegan.

The force falls back, away from the major army, setting sights upon the next wagon. Fifteen archers loose bows upon the wagon, aiming at anything that moves, especially anything mounted. The second wagon is engaged, and kerosene flows before it is Keegan himself who lays a hand to the wood, and fire leaps up hungrily. "And so shall the wrath of Messala cleanse our lands of kafir, in the name of the Amir-al." Fierce devotion drives him on, and the party moves toward the back of the train.

Sharp beaks snap angrily, attempting to rip at the flesh of anything that comes near, that dares to threaten the wyvern set on guard. Wagons erupt into golden orange flames, shooting thick black columns of smoke to the heavens. Commands are continually shouted and archers launch a counter-attack, sending arrows flying in the direction of the Messala attackers. Preparation is lacking, curses are heard more than orders as the burning wagons are abandoned for those still intact.

Another volley of arrows follows the first, in greater numbers this time. A surprise attack can remain as such for only so long.

Crossbow men fall under the volley of arrows, but it seems to barely make a dent in the force, for if one goes down, another takes his place. The third volley fires upon the approaching wyvern-riders, the bolts whining through the air towards their targets. The wyverns are now the concentration of the crossbow men... a large section of the third volley fires upon them.

The ends of the Serazen lines begin to buckle as wyverns rake the flanks, yet the center presses on still. Most of the spears have been sundered, and now the battle has degenerated into sword against shield. The effort of such a battle is enormously fatiguing. Men from both sides fall to their knees from the strain. The numbers of Serazen, reduced to nine hundred effective warriors, still pushes the Messala force -- half its size -- backward.

The Messala lines seem ready to burst when the surviving Atarvani Priests make their presence known once again. Almost randomly, Serazen warriors explode, showering their comrades with gore.

Slowly, the advancing center stalls as more and more Serazen explode. The flanks of the Serazen lines dissemble from buckling to disorganized retreat, stumbling back towards the safety of the crossbow men.

As arrows are loosed, shields are raised above heads in an umbrella attempt to slim losses. "Together!" shouts the Kshatri leader even as a lieutenant lifts a shield above his head.

The arrows rain down, whistling through the air about them as they land with more than one audible 'thunk' in the ground. Many bounce forcefully off shields, scraping metal, and an unfortunate number strike flesh.

Six men fall, arrows protruding from various place in their bodies as they scream, and three wyverns receive grazing arrows to their flanks, their wild cries piercing the air about them as their riders strain to keep them under control.

Two wyverns fall, their legs red with blood as they buck and scream, throwing their riders. And yet the force moves on, returning fire when possible as they escape the main force of archers.

The next wagon is engaged, and ninety-two warriors overpower its guard quickly, some looking back momentarily to assess what will come after them.

"For our God and King!" cries Keegan as he spurs his mount, lifting a blade to cleave the head off a Serazen guard. Fresh blood taints his weapon, and the heat rolls off of him in palpable waves.

The next wagon is taken in much the same manner, their close proximity proving a benefit to Messala ranks. "On guard!" cries a lieutenant as he motions with his sword, and another barks commands.

"Draw!" Archers, blissfully still unharmed, for they are the most protected, lift loaded bows, aiming low, due to close quarters. "FIRE!" comes the command, and arrows are loosed into nearby forces, adding their shriek to the cacophony of noise.

Oh, praise Khalid no loyal Atarian would join the ranks of the rebels. The magic is his only real advantage and Sumai knows this very well -- without their powers this battle would be over already. Sumai and his elite guardsmen press on the retreating Serazen force, his axe swinging viciously down on any man that it can reach, his lance shattered, impaled through an enemy soldier or two. His wyvern is guided by his knees, like a warhorse would be, it lunges and bites at the enemy soldier, beak dripping with gore and blood as its plated sides and body are rarely attacked.

His guardsmen press with him, some fall, very few though. "FORWARD, FORWARD MESSALA! KILL THE TRAITORS! THE GOD-KING SMILES!" the great Warlord calls as his loyal Atarians begins to destroys the enemy ranks with their power, shield-men remain with each priest to protect him as well as can be helped.

The longbow men continue to rain the own special version of death down on the enemy archers, however ineffectual it may seem, each man who dies is a man who the loyal followers of Khalid will never have to suffer breathing again.

More red showing itself? Some of the crossbow men actually grin. That red shows up so well... such a fine target. A multitude of the first volley fires at the priests... blasted fanatics. Serves them right! Some of the bolts are saved for the wyverns as well... they're not forgotten.

Crossbow bolts join the arrows in their flight toward the Messala warriors attacking the wagons, their numbers greatly increased over the first volley. Curses lessen only slightly while commands to fire and attack ring over the train.

Wyverns are mounted and they and their riders press into the battle while others storm at the invaders on foot, falcares waving like deadly serpents decorated with the sun's golden light and the darkening crimson of blood as attacks are made.

A wyvern rips into the flesh of another, sending the beast's terrorizing scream into the air of battle. Men jump over the lifeless bodies of their fellow warriors who now bathe in their own blood, but the attack continues onward.

The lines of Serazen suddenly collapse, broken by the combined weight of the wyvern charge and the power of the Atarvani. Rather than sprint for the safety of the crossbow men and the six thousand warriors beyond, the exhausted Serazen infantry stumble as if in a daze -- their strength near depletion. They retreat slowly, yet it is as fast as their legs can churn.

"FALL BACK MESSALA, OUR JOB IS DONE THIS DAY!" Sumai calls, and the Messala banners wave for the retreat to begin. The archers stand and begins to cover the retreat as the slowly draw back themselves, the wyvern riders sweep in to harass a few of the troops and some of the enemy, but they don't dally long under the barrages of the enemy crossbow men. The trebuchets that were once used are now set alight, too long to break down and they shan't be left for the enemy.

The Messala army, wounded and battered, begins to leave the field in an orderly manner with their shields covers themselves and their allies as well as they can. They too, churn at a pace equivalent to a man who's run a marathon twice in a day, but fall back they do under the careful pickings of the longbow men.

Sumai himself rides along looking for wounded men who have survived to pick up with his wyvern, back heavily armored just in case. The armies disengaging slowly from other with a few more fists swung to leave smaller, less hurtful bruises.

Swinging his dual blades like knives through butter, Keegan and his wyvern soar through their assailants like lions through a herd of zebra. Steel meets flesh as beaks rip apart armor and bone, and the force moves quickly back, sacking wagon after wagon. Almost to the end, thinks the young man in charge, though whether he means the wagons or his life is up for debate.

Kerosene flows as napalm is thrown, and wagons go up in smoke and violent flame. "Guard!" comes the call as shields are lifted once more, and arrows rain down. Surprised, three men fall as crossbow bolts soar through defenses, and two wyverns falter. But the group moves on, their numbers under ninety. Over ten men, and many more will be lost.

Engaging those before them, the Messala contingent moves forward, felling disorganized Serazen men left and right. But numbers are against them, and more arrows rain down. Two archers are taken, as well as six men, and riderless wyvern strike out at anything close by. Screaming, men go down amidst a bath of blood, and slowly, Messala forces torch another wagon. Footmen greet them toward the rear of the train, and Keegan's voice calls out, "For our clan!"

Cries of Messala and Khalid echo through ears as the contingent breaks formation, sprinting all out away from the archers behind, and sweeping through the rebel sentries.

Exhausted, the Serazen infantrymen do not pursue. After their brief, stumbling sprint from the hilltop, a great many of the infantrymen collapse, remaining where they lie without stirring once to regain their feet.

The second volley of crossbows fires at those retreating... why not get at a few more so they can't return and attack? Still, it's the priests and wyverns that are the main targets. If they can decrease that faction, they will feel their duty done. The third volley begins to back up and help those at the wagons... should they need it.

Bones crunch and the air is filled with the metallic scent of blood and the thick clouds of smoke that pour from the burning wagons and men. Warriors fall and are ripped at by the wyverns, but they inflict damage as well, infuriated by the attack and filled with blood lust. Blades swing, almost wildly, shooting patchy rays of light from their blood-bathed blades.

One of the blades reaches out, its wielder on the ground, and aims for the leg of a wyvern, hoping to bring down beast and rider at once.

Bolts fly into the melee, seeking unprotected flesh, seeking to further reduce the small numbers that destroy their supplies.

And the longbow men of Messala continue to fire shots at the enemy's crossbow men as they make a slow and steady retreat. Those lousy crossbow men were the thing that did most of the damage to the Messala forces. But, eventually, all is disengaged and the Messala troops aren't given much of a chance to rest as they are commanded and ushered into the nearby hills, where it would be suicide to follow them and be killed by traps and landslides they will inevitably set up to forestall passage.

"Together!" comes the cry as Messala forces to the rear of the army gather, foot soldiers falling left and right as blood stains vision as well as gear.

A wyvern cries as it is hamstrung, going down hard as its rider is impaled by a crossbow bolt. "Engage!" The last of the wagons is overtaken, with much loss of life, and concubines as well as servants are impaled, beheaded, and burned.

Screams and shouts of fear and fury echo all about as all is consumed in flames. "By His Fire!" roars the young leader as the lieutenant prods him on.

As the last of the wagons is consumed, napalm is tossed all about and behind the force as more men fall. A ragged thirty warriors by the time they escape the flames, the Messala forces combine, and with one signal, race away from Serazen forces, toward the south, and the shelter of the hills.

FIN  

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