Leaving General Kiba alone with Selina in front of a hundred and fifty not-the-slightest-bit magical soldiers. "So," he said conversationally to her. "You're the one 'planning' this one. What're we gonna do?"

She obviously hadn't thought that far ahead. "Um..." she said. "We're gonna start walking our horses down this way--" she pointed, "until we find some mercenaries. Then we're gonna run at them."

Kiba slapped his forehead. "And that, Selina, is why you're never going to get to do this again."

She scowled at her commanding officer, hands on armoured hips. "Oh, come on, Sir, it's not that bad."

"Yes it is. Now get your ass in gear."

Selina faced forward in her saddle, drew her sabre, waved it around theatrically and bellowed, "FORWARD!" She paused. "WHATEVER IT IS THAT HORSES DO!"

Kiba sighed. This was the woman who thought she'd just be the cat's ass as a general. But, not being one to go back on his word except at dire need, he rode next to her, not even making one comment to her about her choice of phrasing of orders.

I'm trying to think of an adjective to describe General Kiba except for bald. Because honestly, he's worth more than that.

That'd be like trying to describe Humphrey Mintz's performance back during the Gate Rune as merely "blonde." Because just as blonde carries with it the insinuation of stupid and ditzy, bald carries with it the insinuation of old and feeble. And man, let me tell you, Kiba was neither old nor feeble when it came to war. So even though he was bald, when it came to stereotypical description the man was about as anti-bald as you can get.

So let's go with strong. Sure, it sounds cliche and downright idiotic, but really, strong is about the best adjective I can use. He reminded me of some of the guys I spent my life fighting with. He was well-built, knew his way around a blade, took the no-nonsense approach to bloodshed, and boy howdy could he tip back the sauce. Given the chance, Kiba coula probably drank my under any table in the Alliance.

Let's start with the cold, hard numbers. Altogether, I had seventy-three guys. Counting off, I had fifty-eight swordsmen, two mounted lancemen, eleven guys with no weapons at all, two scouts, and Shiko. Naturally the first thing I did was send out my scouts. One of them came back, minus his right hand. But he told me how many men Kiba had- roughly one hundred fifty. So we were in for quite a spanking.

So I chalked off my dead scout, send the one with the stump back to the fort to nurse his wounds, and led the other seventy-one guys to battle. I didn't tell them what they were up against... for all they knew they were about to take on ten trained monkeys with pocket wrenches. I probably could have prevented a lot of needless death if I would have just told them, "Hey, men, it's hopeless. Let's all run away now, okay?" But I didn't. Lord knows why... maybe an act of bloodlust on my part. I hadn't done any good imperial-planting for quite a while, and I was afraid I was out of practice.

When I lived back in North Window there was an expression some of the old men would use to describe someone who was screwed no matter what they did. They called him a 'cat on a hot tin roof.' If the cat stayed up there he would scorch his skin off and end up baking in the summer sun. If he tried to jump off he'd be a stain on the cobblestone below. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't. That's kind of how I felt right about then. Either way, I was in over my head. I often wonder why I survived in spite of my battalion- in fact, I may have cheated myself out of a heroic death that day.

Ah well. Life's a bitch, then you die. And the bitch said it just wasn't my time yet.

'This way' had proved to be full of trees. Of course. The whole area, from Radat to Toto and everything in between was broken forest. AKA Cavalry Hell.

Not that he should have been complaining. He had absolutely no right to complain, now matter how much he disliked trees, both personally and professionally. But Kiba bloody well felt like it.

He didn't say anything, of course(bad form), but every time he had to ride around a tree...

His personal dislike of trees probably had its root in him being umpteenth-generation Highlander. If you saw a tree in Highland, it was in a picture book. Or near the northern border, but that place was weird anyway.

Kiba's musing about trees was, though, quickly stopped when Selina abruptly halted, causing the rest of the unit to do so as well to avoid running into anything. She leaned forward in her saddle, smiling. "I see them..." she said in a singsong tone while making a hand signal to the unit. A hundred and fifty sabres were quickly drawn.

"You're sure about this?" she asked Kiba, drawing her own sword.

"I told you you could..." Kiba sighed and drew his sword. "I don't know why anymore, but I did." He vaguely remembered something about being able to win this with everyone's hands tied behind their backs.

"Okay, Sir," Selina replied, then yelled, "You all ready back there?"

"Just please tell me you're not..."

She was. She raised her sword up, waved it around a bit, and, in a voice you could probably hear in Radat, yelled, "CHAAAAAAAAAAAARGE!"

Ask anyone, and they'll tell you I've got me a thick skull. That may be so, but even I know horses are disadvantaged in the forest. To be used properly in war, you've got to charge. And you can't well charge when you're surrounded by a bunch of trees. Even if you could somehow manage to weave through the maze of wood and brambles, you'd still get your head pegged off by a low hanging branch.

And the trees worked just fine for my gang, too. These were guys who'd spent their whole life doing this kind of thing. Even the swordless sods were able to rig up some kind of tripping mechanism using a knife and a piece of twine. Snap that sonuvabitch at the right time and it'll cut a horse's leg clean through the knee. Right useful in these infantry vs. cavalry battles.

The rest of the flock held fast to the earth, hiding in the foliage, readying their blades for any Highland jackass that dared show his ugly mug. I knew these so-called "trained soldier" types well enough. Idiots'd march right down the middle of a god damn wood, trumpets blaring in full march. Highland seemed to have forgotten- they weren't on a flat-ass plain grassy Highland battlefield. This here was merc territory. If we were gonna die like animals, we sure as hell were gonna fight like animals.

Sure enough, I heard a neck-slicing scream split the leaves, marking Kiba's charge. Some girl, probably Kiba's love-muffin, screamed the kind of scream you wouldn't expect to come out of a human. Maybe out of a rhino, or a dragon. Or a dragon's ass. I almost laughed out loud when I heard the hooves start thundering across the ground. You could almost sense the tinge of reluctance to it. I wonder how many men were slapped down by branches and tripped up by roots even before swords started to clash?

They came into view. The sun broke through a tiny slit in the forest canopy, glinting off of the blades of one hundred fifty shiny suits of armor. And there he was Kiba at the head of the charge. I never knew if he saw me or not, but it seemed like his eyes were aimed right at me. To hell with the one hundred fifty soldiers. I wasn't a damn knight. I was gonna take down Kiba, if nothing else.

And with that thought I heaved myself into the nearest tree. I'd be sure to give Kiba a fight he'd never forget.

Now, while in other matters, she wasn't bad, Kiba had to admit that, when it came to giving out any sort of orders, Selina Embery was a fucking idiot, pardon his Harmonian.

It wasn't the forest or the charge or the theatrics, it was the forest AND the charge AND the theatrics. Any idiot knew that if you were absolutely forced into this situation, you walked your horses around, swords drawn, and were bloody careful about walking into the arms of the enemy, dammit.

Come to think of it, being such an idiot might well have confused the mercenaries. But probably not. They probably recognized it for the idiocy it was.

It went predictably. That is, the soldiers did an admirable job of trying to dodge and weave through the trees. Of course, there's a difference between an admirable job of trying to do something and an admirable job at succeeding something. A great many were unhorsed by trees, others by their opponents. There were a surprising lot that also managed to stay on their horses.

But it was all irrelevant, when you got right down to it. The soldiers lived(the vast majority of them, anyway), and the mercenaries died.

There was no point in dressing it up and making an 'account' out of the thing. This... was not a fight that would ever go down in history, for any reason. After a month or a year, the only people who would remember it were the people involved. Those who lived, anyway. And when those people died, it would be forgotten, along with a thousand other insignifigant battles.

And besides, to be honest, Kiba wasn't paying a huge amount of attention to the general status of the fight. The outcome had been obvious from the start. There was no need to worry about how it was going.

So, Kiba worried about dodging the next tree, and concerned himself with making sure each mercenary he passed wouldn't be around tomorrow. Or any other time, for that matter. He wasn't happy about it all, of course, but this all had to be nipped in the bud.

So he nipped.

You want an adrenaline rush? Leap out of a tree with a two-handed sword drawn and crash headlong into an armored general. Or just lift a boulder. Either way, the outcome is the same. You end up sore and angry.

At any rate, the Titan Rune grafted into my fist ignited my blade into a searing metallic bringer of death. At least for Kiba's horse. Poor bastard. My feet crashed directly into Kiba's armored chest, and I managed to take out a huge glob of flesh from the horse's neck before I hit the gro

At any rate, the Titan Rune grafted into my fist ignited my blade into a searing metallic bringer of death. At least for Kiba's horse. Poor bastard. My feet crashed directly into Kiba's armored chest, and I managed to take out a huge glob of flesh from the horse's neck before I hit the ground tumbling myself.

As he hit the ground, he rolled, somehow managing to keep a hold on his sword. To his credit, if he was shocked or surprised or anything at all besides pissed at what happened, he hid it well and was back on his feet in seconds.

I was breathing heavily, caked with sweat and dirt and thick horse's blood. I must've smelled damn purty. A grunted as I heaved myself to my feet, holding my sword to challenge the general and his amazing hairless pate. The rune on my hand, as if it could feel my thirst for Highland blood, flared black. I screamed forward, initiating a downward slice that I hoped would cleave Kiba like a hunk of cheese.

And it would have, too, if he hadn't stepped back and brought his sword up to block. Of course he didn't have the decency to just get killed like that.

Our blades thus locked, and our teeth gritted so hard they were about to shatter, it was a sheer battle of whose muscles could hold out the longest. Of course, smart guy that I am, I wasn't about to leave anything to chance. While baldy was so preoccupied with keeping my jackknife out of his skull, I threw my weight to the right, nearly knocking us both off balance. With my split-second window of opportunity, I hit the ground with a sweep, placing a well-aimed kick directly at his armored ankle. That nifty trick is something I picked up from Flik. Kiba fell face forward, face first into the forest earth, upon which was spitting the blood of his fallen mount.

He swore pretty creatively, considering, as he pushed himself slightly up off the ground. He was still on his way up as he delivered a sharp slash at my leg.

To be quite honest, that could have one him the fight. I mean, I'm damn sure his sword glance the bone. That was probably one of the deepest cuts I've ever had the misfortune of receiving, and it left one hell of a scar. Screaming in pain, I tried to stand up, only to have my leg crumple beneath my in a fit of gushing blood and severe pain. No way in hell I'm gonna salvage this fight, I remember thinking.

Don't fear the reaper, Viktor.

Losing no time, Kiba leapt forth, cleaving downward just as I rolled out of the way. To give you a set up (because trust me, battles are hard to follow on paper, especially when I'm the chump with the pen), now I'm on the ground dragging a huge sword and a wounded leg, Kiba's about four feet away, poising for another attack.

Then he's not poising anymore, now he's started into your generic I'm-not-gonna-drag-this-fight-out-any-longer-than-it-has-to-be-dragged-out attack.

Needless to say, this wasn't good. Generally, big hulking angry bald men wish sharp objects were bad things. I needed a quick exit. Something large, preferably. Something like a dead horse.

I scrambled behind the bleeding beast, and threw my shoulder against it. My leg pulsated and throbbed with every contraction, but it was my only chance out of this mess. With a blast of strength I never even knew I was capable of, I flung (well, maybe "rolled with style" is a better term, since the body never really left the ground) the carcass forward with as much force as physically possible. I heard a loud "oomph!" but didn't stick around to let him get up. With as much speed as my mangled appendage could stand, I limped away from the fallen general, drunk on my pathetic half-victory, and noticed for the first time the carnage around me.

In the distance, through the trees, I began to see the first flicker of Ruka's flames.

Getting a horse chucked at you is rarely an improvement for a day. In fact, it's usually a low point. But, of course, when you get the horse tossed at you, you're rarely thinking about how it's a low point, or whatever.

You're thinking about how to get away from the horse.

Thankfully, the horse hadn't been so much thrown as pushed, so all Kiba really had to do was recover from the natural surprise of getting his ex-horse heaved at him and get up.

However, by the time he had done that, his opponent had limped far enough away to not make it really worthwhile to go chasing after him.

He was sheathing his sword and dusting off his armour as Selina rode up. "What the hell happened? Sir," she demanded.

Kiba let that go. "An overenthusiastic mercenary," he said, waving his hand dismissively. With any luck, she'd take the hint that it really wasn't any sort of big deal...

"WHAT?" She didn't. "I'll fucking kill the fucking fuckass fuckhead!"

Kiba sighed. "No, don't bother... It's one guy, don't worry about it."

Selina didn't look happy about that, but she nodded all the same. "I think we're pretty much done here. Don't see anybody left, anyway. I'll be ordering everyone back in a second. Need a lift?"

"Please," Kiba sighed, looking slightly at his former horse.

"Hop on, then. Just don't ask to go fast at all, or anything faster than a slow walk like this."

Alain rode a very short time before ordering a complete halt. He took one look at the trees all around and announced, "All right, everyone off the horses. Now!"

This was met with loud grumbling and no one being too quick about following the order. Alain dismounted and turned around. "The hell are you guys doing?" he projected more than yelled. "Get off your bloody horses, now! They'll stay put, but if anyone's really worried, I'll let a few of you take them back! Everyone, off the bloody horses!" He paused, and when no one seemed to obey, he did yell this time, "Dammit, just because we're all a bunch of pansy-ass mages doesn't mean we're gonna do something stupid like walk our horses around in a bunch of trees! Do it, NOW!"

His mages obeyed, albeit reluctantly. Had to be because of the walking involved. Any idiot knew that mage cavalry horses had to be trained to stay put even if there was an explosion three feet away from them. Because frequently, there was.

"All right, let's go," he announced. "Don't worry about formation or anything, just follow relatively closely."

With that, he led his hundred and fifty mages into the trees.

They were loud, and noisy, and whining, but somehow Alain managed to keep them far enough away from people that they weren't heard. Because Alain's target wasn't people.

He took his mages to a conveniently-located clearing within spell range of the fort itself. He turned around and looked at his mages, who filled the clearing and spilled out into the trees. "All right," he projected decisively. "I want you all to split up into three groups of fifty. Each group will cast one spell. It doesn't matter which spell each person casts, it just has to be cast at me . I don't care what you think about it, because that's what you're all doing. When the first group casts the spell, I want them to rotate back for the next group. And so on for the transition between the second and third. You shall do it on my word. Start grouping up now."

He heard the general bitching, moaning, and grouping behind him as he turned to look in the fort's direction. General aim, that was all he could go for. No way in hell he could make out specific targets, not with how out-of-practice he was.

He looked down at his hands. Rage or Thunder? Burn it or call lightning down onto it? Left... or right?

He heard the noise die down around him. He had to pick. Right. The Thunder Rune.

He diverted his concentration to the rune set into his forehead. That Rune. What a bloody stupid idea. Too late now, though.

He poured himself into That Rune, opening himself up to pull in the power around him. "Do it!" he commanded. "Now!"

There was reluctance, obviously, but the mages cast their spells at Alain. And saw every ounce of their power pulled into him without so much as disturbing a hair on his head.

If Alain had been facing them, they would have seen his right eye sparking and flaring a brilliant gold with the power he held in him. Not that he held it for long; it was only a second, maybe two before he sent the mother of all lightning bolts shooting off into... nothing. Some trees, probably.

It was sheer force of will that kept him standing. He certainly couldn't think straight, and it was all he could do to see properly. All in all, he was doing fairly well.

"Again..." he whispered hoarsely, then repeated himself more loudly. "Do it again! The next group!"

He felt it come through again, pouring into him. He released it again, trying to keep it going where he had decided he was going to aim, but through his blurring vision and the golden glow coming from the one eye and nearly blinding the other, he couldn't tell where he had it at all.

Alain almost fell flat on his face and he really truly couldn't form a coherent thought to save his life. Still, he heard himself yelling, "The last time! Now!"

As it hit again, he felt words ripped from his mouth in a language he hadn't so much as heard in sixteen years, much less spoken. He couldn't tell what he was saying, though, as just after his last spell was released, he fell.