Sergeant Stef Reimos forded through the chest-deep waters, his wet cloak dragging behind. When the Band had come upon this fast flowing river, Reimos had been stunned to see this clear, flowing tributary in the heart of the Blasted Land. But, the Red Hands quickly accepted this at face value, as a barrier to hold off any pursuit. Whoever the hell was in charge had decided they should cross, but personally, Reimos didn’t believe a couple meters of water would slow down the Horde they were fleeing. And speaking of which.

“Who the hell is in charge, Tayren?” Reimos asked the soldier.

“How the hell should I know. It’s either Al’Vader or Arcanum. And they’re welcome to it.” Tayren grunted.

Reimos glanced down at the fast-flowing water churning around his torso. It looked cool and clear, an anomaly in the core of the Black Lands. His throat was parched from the long march, and he was tired of the flat water they’ve been receiving as ration, which was not a lot. He cupped some water his hands and raised them towards his face. But he immediately halted as the once clear water in his hands turned completely black. He stumbled a step, caught his balance, and shook his hands free of the inky fluid.

“It’s a bloody illusion.” Reimos grimaced. He felt more comforted as he finally stumbled onto dry land, out of the water-that-was-not-water. Reimos tugged his cloak off, and twisted the soaked cloak free of the water. The falling water turned black in mid-air, oozing down into the soil.

He draped his cloak over one shoulder, and glanced to find the rather soggy Zephyr Hawk Banner of his legion hanging limply over a branch of a sapling. He motioned his squad after him, and set off towards a viable camp spot. Satisfied at a dry sandy area, he grunted a command, and stripped himself of his wet clothes, unable to abide having the foul water tainting his skin.

He removed all his clothes except his trousers and laid them on the ground to dry. At least he hoped they would dry. He looked around to see most of the soldiers doing the same, with most of the veterans lying down to catch some sleep. He saw that Cordin Brogan was carefully rubbing his sword with salt, and walked over to the tyro.

“Lo, soldier.”

“Sergeant.” Cordin carefully laid his sword down, and stood up to attention.

“You did well back there, as well as a raw could. They train you after you joined?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I have some time on my hand. Hell, the generals still haven’t even made up their mind on who’s in charge. Let me see what you can do.” Reimos wielded his sword in a loose grip.

Cordin licked his lips and grabbed his blade as well. Reimos gave a couple of casual thrusts, which the tyro blocked to a sufficient extent.

“Now, soldier, not bad. But you’re fighting a man, and a man is a world’s difference from a spawn. I’m sure you’ve had experience with that already.” Reimos snapped his sword forth, which was barely parried.

“Trollocs, as you’ve seen, are rather large moody creatures. They’re unnaturally strong, and can smash your skull open with a bare fist. They can outrun a horse, and have hides that can deflect steel. You want to live, you stay fast, stay agile. Unless you want to be hacking away all day, target three areas. The throat’s unprotected and quick kill but the hardest to hit because of the height. The second is through the armpits. The third is their legs.

“You can attack their chest if you wish, but make sure your blade is angled between the ribs and to one side. But, I’ve yet found a Trolloc without a breastplate.” Reimos begins to rotate his sword casually.

“Watch out for their bloody strength. You try blocking their blows the way you’re doing to me? Well, comparing the muscles in your wrist to, say, the shoulders of a Trolloc. Like blocking a smith’s anvil with an egg.” With all his strength, Reimos spun, and slammed his sword down on Cordin’s. The tyro’s blade bounced off the ground and skipped through the air, digging a trench into the sand where it landed. Cordin flinched, rubbing at his wrist.

“Angle your sword enough so their blows are deflected away from you. Use their brute strength against them. Like that Order of Black Moon; those crazy empty-hand warriors in Aegar. Though, give me a sword anyday.” Reimos kicked up Cordin’s sword and tossed it back to him, “But dodge whenever possible. Avoid it. Even a glancing blow can snap your arm.”

Reimos slammed his sword down again, but Cordin parried it aside correctly. The kid seemed to have gotten over-enthusiastic, thinking he could give his tutor a move of his own, snapping forward with Reimos still overextended. Reimos twisted his body, bringing his hilt around to send Cordin’s sword flying again.

“Cute.” Reimos grinned, “You might want to have a better grip on your weapon. Well, I’m going to get some shut-eye. You’re showing improvement.”

“Thank you, sir.” Cordin retrieved his sword and started to wipe the blade with his red cloak.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!” Reimos exploded.

“Sir?” The young man seemed confused.

“Never use your cloak to wipe your sword. Hell, tear it up to bandage someone’s wounds, to save a life. But that cloak is the symbol of what you are here for. You get one bloody cloak, and you better treat it with bloody respect.” Reimos slowed to catch his breath, and then spoke softly, “You want to keep your sanity, son. That’s Manetheren you’re carrying on your shoulder and back. That’s bloody Manetheren.”

Reimos turned and left without another word, his sword trailing in one hand.

Diest Arcanum met eyes with the generals gathered around, Tryth, Warsal, Blane Cathon, and Vanin. Less than half of the commanders that the Band had begun with. A single torch stabbed into the earth within the circle of men, casting flickers on the dour faces.

“Who is to lead now that the Marshall-General is lost?” Major General Vike Warsal asked bluntly.

“Lieutenant General Stren al’Vader will be taking command of the entire Band. I accede to seniority.” Arcanum nodded to the older man.

“Thank you, Diest.” Al’Vader cleared his throat, “Due to the massive loss in Getty’s...Drogan Tryth will be raised to Lieutenant General, taking over Zephyr Hawk Legion from the presumed dead Hill. His 50th will be joined with Warsal’s 37th. Stragglers from other banners will be temporarily formed up as a company under Blane Cathon.”

The late Marshall-General’s cousin nodded to his new assignment, and the rest of the major generals acquiesced to the new positions. Al’Vader continued, “The latest scout report states that the body of Shadowspawn from Getty’s Canyon are some leagues away. They have organized themselves, and will arrive, at best estimate, in the morning.

“That will give us somewhat of an advantage. As we all know, Trollocs will have difficulty seeing with the dawning sun in their vision. Furthermore, we have placed that...river...between us, but it seems that we are bracketed in the back by steep cliffs. And there’s no Getty’s Canyon this time for us to cross. The only way in—and out—is crossing that river. We will make our stand here. After all, we have nowhere to run. General Arcanum will provide you with the battle details.”

“Zephyr Hawk Legion will form their infantry lines along the river, with First Legion in reserve. My Thunder Legion will be providing the support with our cats. We will have field works at the edge of the river, and in the river itself. We will be outnumbered; even worse than Getty’s Canyon. But we will be prepared,” Arcanum added grimly.

“Have your men split into shifts on construction of the fieldworks. Normal communications cipher. Dismissed.” The new Marshall-General ended the meeting. The lower generals melted into the night, leaving Al’Vader, Arcanum, and Tryth behind.

“Major, any suggestions?” Arcanum asked a shadow entering the sphere of light, revealing himself as Drov Borsy.

“E-Corps supplies are at an extreme low.” Borsy addressed the three generals, “Our entire arsenal consists of a few wagons of ‘trops. We will be able to facilitate the construction of the fieldworks, a barrier of fire-hardened stakes, at least a general version. We have some naph and brew as well.”

“I have some carts full left.” Arcanum said, “Mostly Witch’s Brew, but some Naphtha as well. Might as well use them here. They’ll be no retreating this time.”

“Perhaps. The Engineer Corps still has some cards up our sleeves, as the late Cathon used to say. Something we can create rather quickly. Just need to cannibalize some supply wagons, proofing caulk, and lots of naph.” Borsy winked.

“Good. Surprise me.” Al’Vader grunted.

“Oh, and we have sieved the water from river.” Borsy unplugged a water skin and poured some liquid out onto a pan. In the flickering torchlight, Arcanum could see the filmy water swirling, and he blanched at the smell emanating from it.

“We did our best to make it edible, short of distilling it.” Borsy emptied his skin and capped it, “It tastes like dung, smells like dung. But it isn’t dung. Though, you can’t take my word on it.”

“Dismissed, major.” Al’Vader said, tipping the pan over with a foot, spilling the water into the ground. Borsy gave a quick salute and left.

Al’Vader spread a large map on the ground, hastily surveyed by Borsy’s E Corps, and the generals began to plot the strategies of their defense. As the commanders brooded over the plan, Arcanum couldn’t help but remember that no strategy survived contact with the enemy. As the generals deliberated over the map, messengers came and went, delivering progress reports and orders, flitting to and forth like moths to a flame.

Sometime later, Arcanum rubbed his eyes tiredly, and excused himself for a breather. He walked into the night to rest his mind and personally see the preparation. He had often felt useless with numbers and such (unless it pertained to his precious machines), and would rather physically interact with his men.

With any sort of fuel in short supply, the camp was drenched in darkness, and Arcanum felt a shield of anonymity surrounding every shadowy figure in the camp, including himself. As he walked through the encampment, men who would avoid the general in the daylight, would start up conversations with Arcanum, who found it rather refreshing.

Half the soldiers was asleep, the other working feverishly away. When Arcanum arrived near the river, he could already see the skeleton of the fieldworks stabbing forth from the soil. Arcanum could count around five rows of fieldworks, each a wall of stakes jutting out of the ground at an angle towards the river. Four reserve fieldworks, Arcanum noted to himself, for when the first wall fall.

Arcanum weaved his way through the narrow opening of the fieldworks, arriving at the waterfront. He could make out large, dark shapes bobbing far out on the river, which startled him at first.

“What are those things?” Arcanum pointed out those floating figures to a faceless soldier working nearby. The man seemed to peer up at the general’s face, but apparently did recognize him.

“Some toys the specs cobbled up. Hulks of wagons, proofed and caulked.” The soldier returned to his work.

Arcanum digested the man’s statement slowly, remembered Borsy’s earlier plan, and wished that he had learned more of the details. He studied the floating wagons for a time, but unable to see them clearly, he walked on. He came upon an engineer working a miniature catapult, firing caltrops into the river. When those sharp-headed steep traps landed in the river, they sunk to the bottom to lie in wait for the foot of a Trolloc. By now, the entire riverbed should be almost entirely blanketed by a coat of sharp spikes. Seeing the man work the mini-catapult, the Thunder Lord immediately asserted his birthright to all ballistic machines, and began to correct the man’s inefficient usage, much to the engineer’s annoyance. Finally, the man ran out of caltrops, and scurried away quickly, leaving the trop-flinger behind.

Arcanum studied the far shore, lost in thought. The darkness was a cloak of protection, for the dawn will herald the arrival of the Shadowspawn horde that had destroyed more than half of the soldiers of the Light. He glanced to the east, and saw the faint pink haze of an approaching day. He could almost hear the heavy footsteps of the Trolloc Horde approach.

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon rode quietly at the head of the other half of the Band, which mimicked their leader’s hushed conduct. For all eyes drew up northwards towards the spire of Shayol Ghul, a destination many believed to be final and fatal. The Band of Red Hand crawled forth silently like a stalking jungle-cat, creeping upon its larger foe, claws and teeth bared to strike. It was also a silent mourning for those souls believed lost in Getty’s Canyon, but whom were actually now preparing their defenses and fieldworks.

Cathon felt the outline of his bandages covered by his shirt, and studied the lay of the land spread before him. Brooding, he glanced around, his dark eyes sweeping the land. Much of the Blasted Lands was shrouded in darkness, and shadows stretched across the ground from the pale light of the rising sun.

“Nathen.” Cathon suddenly broke the brittle quiet, “Do you know the story of the founding of Manetheren.”

“I do not believe so, sir.” The adjutant replied, arching his eyebrow.

“It is a story truly all should know. The world was shattered by the Breaking, as you know. Then came two brothers, carved from stone by lightning, and life breathed into them by the Eternal Wheel. They were raised by a wolf bitch, and grew up running with their wolfbrothers. They were named Jerii and Jaralus, or it is said, who around a band of men and women was formed, a covenant, if you will, against the rising chaos. And the two brothers lead their people into our land, and they came to a place of seven hills. And an eagle, Caldazar, flew overhead, and the brothers knew the sign.

“They made sacrifices to that raptor, Jerii burnt his people’s grain and fruits, offering stability and strength to Caldazar. Jaralus slew a great hart, whose majestic antlers bore all the colors of a rainbow, and laid the heart and entrails before him. The red eagle alighted before Jaralus, and accepted the man’s gift of flesh and blood.

“Jerii, incensed by Caldazar’s rejection, scorned Caldazar and his brother, and left westward. Some of the First People went with him, crossing the mountains to the west, dissolving into the barbaric bands soon to be Safar. Jaralus stayed and where Caldazar landed, built his City Upon The Hills, but known as Jara’copan, City of Jaralus, where it reigned as the capital of the Manetheren Empire for three hundred years. The capital was later moved into the Mountain Home with the advent of the Great Flood that inundated the world.” Cathon finished his tale, and glancing to see Nathen Austern’s reaction.

“That is quite an interesting tale. Foundation-myth I think it’s called. What brought up this mythical side, Lord General?”

“Caldazar flies with us once again.” Cathon laughed deeply and gestured to the side. Nathen turned his head to see a red eagle perched upon a boulder, its intense eyes meeting the adjutant’s gaze. It swept its immense scarlet wings back, and soared into the red-hued sky, circling above the Band. Cries and shouts came from the ranks, as men began to notice the fierce but undeniably noble creature above. When all the heads had turned upwards, the eagle gave a shriek, and glided westward. A second red eagle joined its kin, weaving through the air, westward.

“We go west!” Cathon called, “This tide has turned on this full sea we are now afloat. The Band will be united once more.”

Life began to infuse the Band of Red Hand, the patched and tattered banner of Caldazar was held forth with a new veal. The red jungle cat changed directions, stalking westwards after Caldazar, hope rekindled.