In a time of perpetual war, the peace and serenity provided by the whistles and melodies of birds high in the golden autumn canopy was a pleasant and welcome one. Deep in a forest, somewhere in Ruvia, it felt that it had not been touched by the brutalities and miseries that plagued this war between the empires of Isovine and Ruvia.

As one bird tweeted, its echo caused a response from another equally enthusiastic bird, likely telling their tales of their preparations for the coming winter. The echoes caused a rippling effect of other welcoming choruses of tweets encouraging a young man sat at the base of a tree to look up, appreciating their energetic and beautiful songs.

His ginger locks dripped leaving his freckled childish features moist from the showers that befallen not long before. Looking up to the sky, he imagined a rainbow shining down and smiling towards him eager to give a reminder that the showers were gone, and the sun was blushing brightly.

For hours he had sat in the mud, propping himself up against the impressive tree that bore his weight, the rains, even in their brief nature had left him cold and uncomfortable, but his eagerness to succeed was enough to endure the unpleasant with the pleasant.

The cold and damp did not bother him, though. For twenty winters he had graced the earth but he had travelled and endured much. From horrendous deserts to horrid marshlands, he had seen it all, a little rain would not harm anyone.

A clank disrupted his train of thought and also caused some startled birds to flutter away hastily. Glaring along the treeline where several other men hugged up against the sloped trees, a man to his side raised his fist towards the sky, instantly causing a response from the culprit who had caused the noise.

"The men are restless, Sir Peyton." his compatriot commented before staring towards Sir Peyton's freckled face.

Sir Peyton's blue comforting eyes showed no malice despite their previous glare. "Jeffords, I know the men are cold and hungry, but they must endure. The intelligence on the convoy is sound, therefore, until it arrives, we wait."

Jeffords nodded before taking his position behind the tree once more, "Aye, milord."

Sir Peyton looked around at the fifty or so men who all were sat uncomfortably behind the various trees and bushes, before looking down the slope towards a makeshift road. His thoughts became somewhat impatient, knowing that waiting too long would be putting some of his men at risk of hyperthermia or gangrene. At some point, he would need to choose between his duty and his men. The scorn he would receive after allowing Ruvian soldiers to supply the front lines before the winters arrive would be costly. At least he would still have his men.

Another set of birds ascended quickly into the sky before the sound of hooves in the mud could be heard in the distance.

"The scouts," Sir Peyton commented as Jeffords gave the signal for silence to the waiting troops.

Peering around the side of the tree, he watched and waited as the clopping and squelching of hooves grew louder until two riders came into view. Two Ruvian riders, eagerly scanning the road and its surrounding area for any potential attack.

Sir Peyton had trained his men well, ever since he was assigned them two winters ago. They knew the importance of complete silence and they knew exactly what was expected of them in the circumstance. He also knew that if anyone failed in their task, they would be quickly outnumbered by the impending security force travelling just behind the scouts.

The scouts slowly rode past his position, looking directly up towards him. He remained still, peering just enough to keep himself out of sight. Feeling his heart pound in his chest, Peyton knew the irrational excitement that he was feeling was unwarranted. Unless they had superhuman eyesight, their scanning would be pointless.

Squelching onwards, the horse's hooves continued to progress forwards. The riders continued to look around to examine the various flora, but as far as they were concerned, they were alone in the forest.

"Archers," whispered Sir Peyton as Jefford signalled towards several men looking down towards the riders. With one quick motion, they stood and released their arrows. The riders, startled by the action, could not respond in time as several arrows rained down on them ferociously. Falling to the ground, they rolled around in the mud trying to grasp air, instead, they choked on the blood filling in their diaphragms desperately trying to cling to what life they had left.

"Well done," Sir Peyton said to his right-hand man Jeffords. "Send some men down to ensure they suffer no more, and then move their bodies out of sight. Take two more men, our best riders, to take the horses and ride back to the camp at Bleufontaine."

"Ride back, milord?" Jeffords asked, his gruff voice confused but alert.

"I don't want the convoy to suspect a thing. Hopefully, they will believe that their men are still scouting on ahead."

"Aye, milord." Like a machine, Jeffords stood up briskly and ran over to a group of men to fire off instructions. Before long, those men were performing their tasks, and Jeffords was once again beside his liege.

Sir Peyton revelled in his men's efficiency. Undesirables, from various outfits of the Imperial army, bought together by the grace of Sir Peyton Whitehill. His eyes scanned over the men, originally destined for death for their inappropriate actions. Thieves, murderers and deserters, given one last chance to fight in a war they did not care for and an Emperor they felt had failed them at every turn. When Peyton found them, he saved them from execution and gave them all a purpose. They did not need to fight for the Emperor who meant so little to them, they needed to fight for each man standing next to them.

As he heard the snort of the horses before they rode away through the forest, he turned to the worst man of them all. Jeffords. Raised as a thug and enforcer in the city of Ravenscourt before being pressganged into the army. After attempting desertion and killing his pursuers, he was caught and sentenced to execution by the wheel.

Just as he had then, Sir Peyton saw something of a leader in him, yet now, his temperament had been calmed and the soldier within him had flourished. If Sir Peyton Whitehill did not achieve anything else in this pointless war, that would be enough.

His stray thoughts returned to the road as the clunking sound of metallic armour could be heard in the distance. With each crack of iron on iron, the reverberations became more intense and it would not be long before the convoy would be passing through the area.

The sound of iron caused Sir Peyton to feel somewhat naked, as his decision to remain without his armour was necessary for the success of the mission. He needed to remain concealed, and the sight or sound of iron would undoubtedly put the enemy on edge. As it stood, they were marching directly into a trap.

Once again, peering around the tree, he examined the various soldiers and horsemen walking through the centre of the forest, surrounding at least ten carts and flanked by two Ruvian Chevaliers. His men were easily outnumbered two to one, however, the forest, steep slopes and soaked muddy ground would make the horsemen and soldiers incapable of traversing easily around the soon to be battlefield.

Sadness washed over him, whatever was about to happen, though, he would undoubtedly lose some of his men. Peyton took hold of a pendant, wrapped around his neck. Shaped as two semi-circles that intertwined with each other before splitting apart into a two-headed serpent staring directly at each other. Its metallic silver touch was cold and smooth in Peyton's hand and as he rubbed it carefully, it brought him a small sense of comfort. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on its small engravings and spoke softly "Khuthos, God of war, I ask you give my men the strength and courage to fight with ferocity and honour in this battle ahead. Austineth, Goddess of the hunt, I pray that my men all aim true. Igen Goddess of healing, I pray that you protect my men with your ever-watchful eye and Qhyagi God of Death, I ask that if this our last moment, that my men be worthy to dine in the greats halls of the honoured. Adverbial phrases mægden hîe bêon, so may it be!"

Peering for one last time, Sir Peyton watched as a third of the convoy had already walked past, with another glance to his right, he nodded to a couple of his men who quickly cut through a rope next to them.

There was a creak, and a massive crash as a tree fell unceremoniously to the floor, crushing some of the soldiers at the front underneath its huge bulky trunk.

"ARCHERS!" Jeffords called causing a number of his men to stand from their muddy hiding positions.

As arrows rained down on them, the enemy soldiers looked on confused as so many fell before they could react. The chaos was enough to eliminate a good proportion of the guards before one of the Ruvian Chevaliers rode up the convoy spitting angry commands to regain order.

Sir Peyton watched at how quickly the Chevalier had organised his troops. The mixture of frustration and awe at his nemesis organisation almost took his mind off the prize. Within moments, the falling Ruvians were facing the slope towards Peyton and his men. Peyton's command needed to equal this threat, otherwise, they would be overwhelmed by the numerically superior foe.

"PREPARE FOR ENGAGEMENT!" shouted Sir Peyton, his voice of authority far exceeding that of his years, "FORM LINE!"

Drilled to perfection, his men fired their last arrows before huddling together in one cohesive line along the ridge. As their wooden shields cracked together, their axes and swords smashed ferociously against the shield frames. The sound of anger from their weapons made it appear that their force was doubled in size.

With the Chevalier screaming orders for his men to ascend the slope, Sir Peyton reached into the mud by his side and grabbed ahold of his shield. As he lifted it high, the painted white castle on a golden background gave him a sense of pride. The coat of arms of House Whitehill which had served his family for many years.

The Ruvian soldiers clambered up the slope, eager to reach their enemy, but they were frustrated by the difficulty of the climb. Slipping on each advance or pressured by tired legs, as the first wave hit Sir Peyton's men, they were cut down with ease. As the second wave followed, they too experienced a similar fate.

The Chevalier was quick to spot the issue and it wasn't long before he called out orders and his army split into two. As he rode off into the distance with some men in tow, Sir Peyton watched anxiously at his enemy's plan alterations.

"Jeffords, keep the men solid on the slope, it looks like they will attempt to flank us," Sir Peyton ordered.

Swinging his sword ferociously cleaving the arm off an advancing soldier, Jeffords acknowledged the order before kicking the mutilated man down the slope.

Splitting his forces, Sir Peyton rushed into position just as he could see the Chevalier on top of his horse manoeuvre between the trees.

"SHIELD WALL!" he called, causing his men to lock their shields together. Peering between the small gaps of the interlocking shields, a small drop of sweat slipped off his brow and it wasn't until that moment he hadn't realised just how anxious he was. With Ruvian soldiers pouring from behind the Chevalier like a wave about to crash against the rocks, Peyton took a step back ready for the advancing army.

They crashed heavily into his forces, causing an almighty grunt from those within the shield wall. The cries from the onrushing soldiers were horrible as so many were easily felled by the expectant swords and axes and as the next crash and grunt caused more sickening screams of agony, Peyton hoped this would be all over soon.

His focus on his shield wall in front of him had distracted him from the few stragglers able to get up the slope and it wasn't until he heard the shout of "LOOK OUT!" that he instinctively raised his shield.

The clang of the sword onto his shield was deafening, and the Ruvian hit with such force it pushed Peyton unceremoniously to the ground.

Peyton's sword fell from his grasp, the adversary smashed his sword down towards the fallen knight. Another clang of the shield made Peyton feel uneasy as he could not move off the floor. The Ruvian was relentless in the pursuit to end Peyton's life, banging down on his shield like a blacksmith on iron. As Peyton tried to manoeuvre, he kept slipping with his only view being the bloodlust that had absconded through his enemy's eyes.

With a kick of the shield, Peyton was completely exposed, and the blade of his enemy was now preparing to end his short life. Just as it was about to descend, the Ruvian's chest split in two, a blade of Isovine steel slipping from between his rib cage. He spat blood, leaving Peyton's golden locks mixed with mud and blood and his face was left speckles of crimson red combating his already freckled face.

As the man fell lifeless to his side, the Isovine soldier that killed him instantly lowered his hand to lift his leige to his feet. Before Peyton could offer his thanks, his soldier had already run into the fray to eliminate another Ruvian straggler.

Examining the battlefield, Peyton had spotted that his men were in control, and as the Chevalier was now surrounded by several of his men, it would not be long before the battle would be at its end.

Running towards the Chevalier who had already slain several Isovine soldiers, Peyton hoped that this would end quickly. The Chevalier was an accomplished soldier, but his heavy armour made him slow and cumbersome. As several Isovine soldiers tackled him to the ground, the fight from the Ruvians fell with him, and before long they were dropping their weapons to the ground.

A huge cheer erupted among the battle-hardened survivors, and a sigh escaped from Sir Peyton's lips knowing they had managed to gain a difficult victory.

"Orders are to kill him."

"Yeah, but how, that armour is tough!"

"Perhaps a knife in the armpit?"

Sir Peyton overheard the discussion as the men debated the Chevalier's fate. As the Chevalier wriggled around like a fallen turtle, Peyton lowered his sword and shield and stood over his fallen prey.

"We take him back with us, while all those who surrender can return to their homes," ordered Sir Peyton.

Jeffords had joined in the discussion, his face and hair caked in the blood of his enemy. "Milord, our orders are to take no prisoners. We are to kill any Chevaliers we come across," his deep hardened voice crackling from exhaustion.

Peyton glared at Jeffords, "To hell with our orders, he is still a knight and he should be treated with honour and dignity."

Jeffords, a man twice the age of the young Peyton took a step back and bowed his head slightly, "Aye Milord, though I must warn you that this will upset some people."

As if ignoring the warning, Peyton ordered, "Help the Chevalier to his feet and organise the transport of the supplies. We'll need to move quickly just in case any additional forces are on their way."

The Chevalier watched through the small slit in his helmet as he was led away by the triumphant Sir Peyton Whitehill, as Peyton glanced towards him, it was not immediately obvious, but the Chevalier nodded his head slightly before being led towards the supply carts.

Returning to his tree, Peyton slid down to the floor finally taking a moment to examine the engagement. He breathed heavily as a bout of exhaustion kicked in and it wasn't until two sets of feet stood directly in front of him that he returned to reality.

Looking up, he examined Jeffords who alongside him was a young boy that could be no more than twelve winters. The boy looked at him, nervous, cold, wet and exhausted, but as he reached down with a letter in his hand, Peyton knew he had been instructed to find him with absolute haste.

Peyton took it from his hand, examining the wax seal plastered on the front.

"Who is it from?" Jeffords asked as he looked at the raven embedded into the wax.

Peyton smiled as he prepared to open the letter. "Have I not told you to learn house sigils, Jeffords? This is the raven of house Darke, though I do not understand why Lord Millendahl would write to me?"

"Not Lord Millendahl milord," the young boy exclaimed, "Lord Ethelston."

"Ethelston?" hearing the words appeared to instil a new lease of life into Peyton and he opened the letter with great urgency. As he rolled open the parchment he was desperate to read through the words transcribed for his eyes only.

'To my dearest friend Mutt'

Peyton sighed as he read the words. He had not been called by that name for many winters, but it had always brought a sense of amusement to Ethelston.

'To my dearest friend Mutt

For years, on our travels, you had always encouraged me to find a purpose that I could embrace as my own, and while our parting had always remained a low point in my life, I know it was so you could embrace yours.

I stand as Duke of Ravenscourt and position myself as the protector of the realm, adopting what is my birthright, not out of desire but out of duty as my father managed to achieve what many had thought not possible.

While I am a Duke, I am but a servant to Loldirr, the last remaining Aex-Igh who I have under my protection from the forces of the usurper Emperor Arnaud III, who will do anything to ensure his power remains absolute.

This is why I write to you, my friend, one of the few that I trust with my life. News of Loldirr's fate will come into circulation, and while my forces are fighting a war on the Ruvian front, Ravenscourt, Isovine and the true Empress are in peril. Therefore I must charge you with instilling loyalty into those who pledged to the Raven. There will come a time when all must choose their allegiance, you need to ensure that all remember who it should remain with.

I am sorry, my friend, that I can not give you a much easier charge, these are dark times, but the sun is starting to rise, and the Phoenix of House Aex-Igh will rise with it too.

Stay safe, Knight of Terriers, Sir Peyton Whitehill, son of Baron Farleigh Whitehill.

Lord Ethelston Darke, Grand Duke of Ravenscourt, Protector of the Western Province of the Great Imperial Nation of Isovine'

Peyton stood to his feet before looking at the boy and then Jeffords.

"Something wrong milord?" Jeffords asked.

"Give the boy some of the supplies we've acquired and prepare the men to march with urgency."

"Aye milord," Jeffords responded preparing to escort the young boy to the carts of various foods.

"And Jeffords?" Peyton reacted before Jeffords could depart.

"Aye, milord?"

"Burn this letter," Peyton said glumly, "our forces may not know it yet, but I believe Isovine is now in a state of civil war."