Diest Arcanum dove for the floor as forks of lightning stabbed in among the cats. Arcanum growled and pushed himself up, dusting his cloak. He surveyed the damage, counting two cats incapacitated but salvageable, and five men down, unsalvageable.

The cat crews not in the vicinity of the Dreadlord’s fury continued to hammer at the Trollocs charging in from the south side. Those who had dived for safety before the lightning hit quickly returned to their stations.

Crouching, Diest Arcanum peered through his watchglass, which now sported a crack on the viewer. He cursed the appalling position his Thunder Legion had to make do with. It was a small rising, a disgrace to the name of a hill. He cursed the rocks raining down upon him from above. And he especially cursed that Light-forsaken Dreadlord.

Fuming, he finally found the Shadow General, unmistakable in some sort of silk black coat, glittering with gold and silver stitching. He was near the very back of the Trolloc horde, staying safe while his troops threw themselves at the beleaguered Band. He waved his arms in the air, and a bright flash heralded a new bolt of lightning. But before this one struck the troops, it struck an invisible shield, careening off, crackling into a side of the canyon.

“The bloody Aes Sedai’s finally doing something.” Arcanum muttered to himself, then quickly glancing around to make sure she was not near. He looked back at the Dreadlord, who was preparing for another strike. Personally, Arcanum thought, Dreadlords may be powerful, but for a General of a Horde, he wasn’t terribly bright. If it was him in the same position, he would have stationed himself on top of the canyon walls, where siege engines could not touch. Perhaps, the Dreadlord thought he was safe where he was. It was Arcanum’s job to disabuse him of that notion.

“ALL CATS! ONE SLACK! FULL-RANGE! 12TH ROTATION!” Arcanum bellowed, “The first to take down that bloody darkfriend gets a bloody ribbon!”

The cat crews near him moved to action quickly. The boulders (helpfully supplied by the Trollocs at the crest of the canyon) were loaded, the observers made adjustments to Arcanum’s approximation, and the catapults fired. Within seconds of Arcanum’s command, titanic missiles were soaring through the air.

“Channel this.” The Storm Lord spat on the ground. He brought his watchglass up just in time to catch the Dreadlord’s expression as the boulders descended on him. Arcanum could make out a look of surprise and the Dreadlord’s hand rising as if to ward off the boulders. Arcanum was caught off guard when one boulder abruptly changed direction in mid-air, slamming into a knot of Trollocs nearby, but leaving the man intact. But even that did not save the man from the five other boulders slamming down onto him in quick succession.

Arcanum’s look of satisfaction began to turn grim as he took a survey of the battle. The Band’s perimeter was beginning to shatter and in fast retreat, as they were forced back by greater and greater numbers. Arcanum estimated that the Band was outnumbered ten-to-one, and even Cathon’s legendary luck (which Arcanum scoffed at) could not save them.

Suddenly tongues flames flayed the top of the canyons, causing burnt out corpses to tumble down the sides, and the rest of the Trollocs perched there to withdraw. Without the need to protect the Band, the Aes Sedai was apparently going on the offensive. Though Arcanum was glad the bloody nuisances on the walls of the canyon were smote, he knew they were still only nuisances, and would not affect the course of the battle.

“Lieutenant General!” Nathen Austern, Cathon’s adjutant, called from horseback, “Take your Legion out to safety, in any way you can. The Band is ordered to retreat!”

“We will do NO SUCH thing!” Arcanum boomed, “The Band does [I]not[/I] back down.”

But Austern had already galloped away, relaying the same order to the other commanders.

“Cathon leads us on this suicide mission and now retreats at the first sign of trouble?” Arcanum shouted, “Men, stay at your positions! THIS IS AN ORDER. Dignity in death! FOR MANETHEREN!”

Arcanum clenched his teeth when he glanced through the watchglass. Both perimeter lines were disintegrating. To a layman, it appeared the Band was dissolving into utter chaos, but Arcanum saw with grudging pride the red-cloaked soldiers breaking apart into squads. A huge movement of red in his peripheral drew his attention. Entire banners of cavalry had formed up, and were now smashing their way through the Trolloc ranks. Like a giant spear, they carved their way through bodies, the infantry following in the wake.

The Band was breaking out, no matter the cost, and it looked like Arcanum’s Legion will soon be the only soldiers remaining.

“Where are you going?” Arcanum growled at a soldier hitching up his catapult to its packhorses. The soldier looked up. Blake, Arcanum recalled.

Captain Cydin Blake stood up, “Retreating, sir. The Marshall-General has given us the order, Lieutenant-General, sir.”

“If you will not man that cat, Captain. I will do it. Not. One. Step. Back.” Arcanum stared down at Blake.

“Sir, we will not win this. Dying gloriously will not help Manetheren in any way.” Blake returned the stare. With his side vision, Arcanum saw others beginning to hitch up their cats as well.

“THIS IS MUTINY.”

“This is common sense, sir!” Blake shouted back, “Look for yourself. Sir! This isn’t just you; it’s the men who serve under you who will die. When they do not need to. Sir.”

The general locked eyes with his captain for a few long seconds. Finally, Arcanum gritted his teeth but glanced around. The defensive perimeter was almost entirely gone, as more and more red cloaks broke through the Trolloc horde. Whatever one can say about Arcanum, he may be a brave bastard, but he was not a stupid bastard.

“Hitch it up and break us a hole on the north!” Arcanum shouted and then looked back at Captain Blake, “As you were, captain. This is all on your head, soldier.”

“Sir! Understood.” Blake nodded and saluted, “If I may speak. The Naphtha. We won’t be able to cart off all of it.”

“Flesh burns.” Arcanum nodded grudgingly, “Load up half, fire the others. We break through the north.”

At Arcanum’s orders, fire pits glowed as torches touched them, soaking up their flames. The clay barrels of Naphtha were efficiently loaded upon every catapult, and spun to face the north. The loaders smashed open the tops, and touched the torches to the frothing black liquid. The releases detached and the cat-arms snapped forward.

A glittering sparkling rainbow seemed to arch through the red sky, as the catapults delivered their gifts.

To the north, the Band’s charge seemed to have bogged down, with their foes recovering and standing their ground. The Trolloc were on the verge of pushing the red-cloaked soldiers back, when the heavens showered burning fire upon the ranks of the Horde. Whatever the Hand of the Storm Lord touched burst into unquenchable flames, spreading like a plague. The ranks of shadowspawn dissolved into utter chaos, terror completely replacing fury. Fire is one of two things known to subdue bloodlust, the second, death.

The Band’s rush renewed, hacking their way towards the safety of the northern edge.

Arcanum’s Thunder Legion began to move as well. Packhorses and soldiers strained and dragged the fleet of engines northward towards safety.

“Sir, we don’t have enough horses.” Blake called out.

“Where in bloody…” Arcanum’s eyes caught the crushed bodies of the steeds buried under boulders thrown from above. Then the general glanced southward and cursed again.

“We’ve lost the entire south!” Arcanum swore. He could only see snatches of lone defenders as the Horde smashed over them. The Field HQ collapsed to the weight of the shadowspawns, and the banners burned and fell. This was not good news.

“We must leave these.” Blake shouted.

“They’re not getting my bloody cats.” Arcanum glanced at the engines to which Blake was referring.

“But sir…”

Arcanum grabbed a Naphtha barrel from the last wagon, and kicked it over to the stranded catapults. He drew his blade, smashed open the barrel with the hilt, and kicked it over. The pool of black naphtha spread, spilling over all of the siege engines. Arcanum saw that one of the engines was Aclare. A bloody shame.

Arcanum grabbed the last remaining torch from the nearest fire pit, and tossed it into the pool of combustible. He shielded his eyes from the roaring flame, and gave the burning heap a salute. A fitting pyre for his finest soldiers.

Arcanum and Blake left the blaze behind, helping to push the fleeing catapults along. The Trollocs who had overrun the southern perimeter approached, but was warded off by the rear guard. Many of the spawns broke away from their attack to loot the supply wagons left behind.

Ahead, the Band of Red Hand broke through, Thunder Legion trailing behind. The disordered Trollocs regrouped fast, and snapped at the back of the retreating army, which at the moment consisted of Arcanum’s legion. Though the Band had suffered a heavy loss, they fought in an organized retreat away from the canyon, discouraging pursuit with a heavy hand and a heavy blade.

Arcanum sighed, walking besides his remaining fleet, his horse lying somewhere in Getty’s Canyon with a broken neck. He knew what he would say to Cathon when he met him next.

A horseman came galloping back towards Arcanum, who recognized the lean bony rider as General Stren “Bastion” al’Vader.

“Ho, Diest, is this all?” Lieutenant al’Vader asked as he near.

“More or less, we had to abandon some engines. I need to speak with Cathon.”

“So does everyone. But we can’t. He was at Field HQ.”

“HQ got overrun, Stren. South perimeter went under.” Arcanum said.

“Than, Diest, you and I. We are the only generals left. We’ve lost more than half the Band, and we’ve got no commander, and we’ve got nowhere to go...” Al’Vader spoke softly. He glanced up at the peak of Shayol Ghul, and sighed, “We’ve got a reserve horse if you need it. We’re in for a long journey.”

The survivors of the Band of Red Hand limped westward, leaving the disorganized pursuit behind.

Lawe Cathon winced as Airene dabbed at his chest wound with a moist cloth. He tried to push himself up, but the Aes Sedai firmly kept an iron grip on his shoulder.

Cathon gave up and lay back, as she began to dress his wounds. Airene had dark circles around her eyes, and her dark hair hung down in limp strands. The general knew she was completely exhausted if she had to rely on old-fashioned healing.

The details of the previous day swam in his mind. The call to retreat. Airene’s lashes of fire beating back the shadowspawns, and his men swarming through the gap. Cathon had hoped those at the northern end had made it out as well, but the last seen he saw as he broke free was the Horde swarming into the hole the Band had blasted through. A glancing blow to his chest had dropped him, but Austern had dragged him out. They had to leave anything they could not carry, the tents, the supplies, everything.

Cathon sighed, “All my fault. My entire bloody fault. I should’ve known it was a trap.”

“I should’ve felt the shadowspawns.” Airene noted, “If I was not preoccupied with my own problems. But that much Trollocs so near should have raised my alarm. The Dreadlord had done something. Something the Tower knows not.”

“It was my decision, and now, ah.” Cathon grimaced, “You should get some rest, Airene. I’ll survive.”

“I’m tougher than you think, Lawe.” She bound his wounds and stood up, “there are more injured to see.”

“I need to see my men.” Cathon struggled to his feet.

“Do what you will then. It is your life.” Airene walked away.

Cathon swept back the damp hair from his eyes, and gazed around the camp. With all the tents lost in the valley, the men had bivouacked on the bare ground. Fortunately, the weather had since made tents obsolete. One of the few and only advantages of the Blasted Lands. The sun had set, but the earth was still searing hot. Darkness, unrelieved except for a waning moon, set over the camp, reducing soldiers and horses to black shadows.

“You’re up, Marshall-General.” Major General Jot Diadrem’s voice drew Cathon’s attention.

“Where’s the others.” Cathon glancing to see only General Seth Notar with Diadrem.

“Al’Vader, Glene Hill, and Diest Arcanum have all been missing since Getty’s Canyon, sir.” Nathen Austern walked up. The two remaining generals nodded grimly.

“Bloody...” Cathon massaged his temples, “What’s the situation.”

“We have the majority of Black Moon and True Blade. We have half of Hill’s Zephyr Hawk and some of al’Vader First Legion.” Austern said.

“I have taken the survivors of Zephyr and First into True Blade.” Diadrem added.

“At the current count, we have a little more than a hundred thousand men left. Roughly half. Two thousand injured, but thankfully, with the healers and Airene Sedai, the majority will survive. The rest, about eighty thousand men, including Generals al’Vader, Hill, and Arcanum, are presumed to be casualties.”

“No, they survived.” Cathon grabbed a rumpled white shirt from the ground and drew it over his body. He glanced up to dubious looks.

“They survived. They must have broken through the North side. They are good men, skilled in survival.” Cathon picked up his battered cloak and hung it around his shoulders, “We march for Shayol Ghul again.”

“Cathon, is this wise?” Notar asked doubtfully.

“We’ve suffered a grievous wound today, I do not deny this. But we will heal, and we will strike back. The Shadow thinks it has won. We will teach them differently. And if the other half of the Band still survives, which I believe with all my heart, they will continue the attack.”

“Sir…” Diadrem began.

“It is your right to advise.” Cathon cut him off, “You have advised me. But I have decided. We will continue our attack on the Black Bastion once more.”

“I understand, general.” Diadrem replied, “And the Creator willing, you be right.”

“Austern, what is it you need?” Cathon asked his adjutant.

“Scout reports a fist of Trollocs approaching from the north. Nothing serious, perhaps a hundred. A splinter group from yesterday most likely, eager for loot and blood.”

“Notar, lead a banner of your best cavalry. Wipe those raiders out. All of them. Bring their heads back on pikes; we need a morale boost.” Cathon glanced up at the black sky and the blacker spire of Shayol Ghul, “We ride tomorrow morning. Send scouts out to find a path across this…in lack of better words…this Blasted Land.”

“Sir.” The two generals saluted and walked into the night.

“What is the account on supplies, Nathen.” Cathon asked, glancing up at the clouded sky.

“We managed to pull out a third of our supply wagons. The rations will be thin, and we only have enough fuel for firepits at the siege. No campfires, but in this weather, we’d only need it for perimeter lighting. We might survive with what we have. We might not. Sir, are you sure this plan of yours is still prudent?”

“We can only hope so, Nathen. We can only hope so.” Cathon laughed dryly, “It will be the only way we can live with ourselves.”

In the distance, Notar’s cavalry galloped away, a single torch among them, from the pitch black camp into the pitch black night.