A/N: I had to write this for my English class last year. We were supposed to write in the style of one of our favorite authors, and I choose Robin McKinley. I've been told it sounds a lot like Joan of Arc. Yeaaaaah.

"Charge!" Joan yelled, and the Smintian army, the one she had been put in command of, surged forward, merging with the oncoming Western warriors. Joan thrust her sword deep into the heart of the West's flag bearer. Her amber-colored hair whipped in her face as her horse, Tristian, bucked and twisted to avoid the dying man's last attempt at revenge. Luckily, the flag bearer’s sword fell short as he landed with a dull thud on the bloody, trampled battle field. The man's horse shied, trampling the fallen flag of the West. Joan pause for a near fatal second, grasping for the reigns of the frightened beast. Without warning, a sharp pain pierced her side. Gazing, horror-struck, at her blood-soaked side, she noticed the stub of an arrow's shaft emerging from her wound. Blood gushed, staining her hands red as she gingerly tugged the arrow until it slid loose. She examined the gash, praying to every god she knew that it would not impair her. Clamping her side with her hand to stem the tide of blood, she nudged Tristian back towards the camp.

The horse could sense that something was amiss with is master and instinctively set course for the army's strong hold, Joan feebly crying out "Retreat! Retreat!" as she bounced along up the rocky slope towards their base. Soon, Peter, her second in command and best friend, took up the call as the army quickly followed her back to the camp.

Peter rode up to Joan's side, a look of concern wrinkling his normally handsome features. A lock of coal-colored hair fringed his worried, gray eyes. "What's happened? Are we really doing so poorly?" he questioned. Joan lifted her hand from her bloody side, showing Peter her red stained fingers. Her friend gaped at the wound, causing Joan to laugh. "It's nothing, really. Just a scratch." she said good-naturedly as they reached the fort. Joan was immediately taken to a healer. The man poked and prodded the gash in her side, and she gasped in pain.

"It looks bad, but nothing a little ointment and a few stitches won't heal. You're lucky there was no poison, or you would've been dead before anyone could've tried to help. You should be thankful that the arrow wasn't lodged in a bone or that it hadn't severed an artery!" The healer told her as he applied his medicines. Instantly, the pain in her side was numbed and she was able to move freely again. She stood up, her head pounding from the now non-existent pain in her side. She groaned in frustration, realizing there was still much to be done as far as planning an attack on the Westerners went. As she left the tent that was their makeshift hospital, Joan smacked into Peter, who had been hovering outside the hospital-tent, anxiously awaiting news of the state his commander and best friend was in. He looked surprised to see her walking so soon after being hit with an arrow.

"So, I assume you're ok?" he asked, the concerned look coming back to his face. She laughed and showed him her scar. It was a wonder how quickly she had healed, being in the medical tent for only 15 minutes. The healer's magic was great, and very useful to such an army. Joan led Peter into the tent that served as their storehouse. All of their extra supplies and rations were kept there. Surrounded by swords, daggers, and bows was a desk commonly used to chart out plans of attack and strategies. As she approached the desk, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Joan picked it up and skimmed it for important information. Seeing none, she flipped the paper over and began drawing up plans on the back. As she wrote, she lectured.

"Peter, the Westerners are much stronger than us, but we are better fighters. They use mostly force, not technique, and we are their opposite. Have you seen their leader? Lathe is at least three times the size of our biggest man! It's no wonder that all of our troops who have gone against him have been killed or wounded, even the most skilled! We need a strategy, we must beat them!" Her face was taught with anger and frustration as she scribbled away on the piece of parchment. She paused, scanning what she had just written for anything that could be of use to them. Her face brightened, a playful grin replacing the scowl that had been there moments before.

"I've got it!" she yelled joyously. "Peter, look at this! Now this is exactly what we must do!" Just then, a messenger boy ran into their tent. He held a scrap of paper stamped with the King's seal.

"Captain! This is for you. It's very urgent! You must read it now." He exclaimed, his young eyes trained on Joan's expressionless face. She snatched the paper from him, her dark brown eyes scanning the words etched into the parchment. Peter watched as her face fell and a troubled look entered her eyes.

"What is it?" he inquired.

"It's the king." She said solemnly. "He's died. He didn't wake this morning. They believe he was poisoned sometime last night. We must win this for him." She began pacing, reading and re-reading the letter. "There's more." She paused before continuing, looking shocked and confused, but indignant. Slowly, she started speaking again. "I'm....the next in line for the throne. King Algar had no heirs, no wife. He and my father used to be great friends. And now...he has chosen me to be his successor." The messenger boy pulled something from his waist band, and bowed as he presented it to her. It was the king's sash.

Joan was desolate as she presented the news to her army. Presently, she showed them her plan. Shocked at the sheer bravery of what they must do, they all agreed and the plan was put into action. Joan was once again on the battle field, but this time, she wore no armor, nor did her horse. She had only a sword, her own good luck, and the king's ruby red sash. Her shield, helmet, and armor had been left in the supply tent. This was a crucial part to their attack. Hoping that Lathe, the leader of the Western army, would choose to pick off the weak, he would fight the best swordsman in the entire Smintian army, Joan herself.

She fought against the Westerners, not seeing Lathe anywhere. She had killed three men and wounded several more before she felt someone staring at her. Her skin crawled, the feeling she got from being the bait. She turned her horse, and came to halt. She was facing Lathe. So far, their plan had worked. But somehow, Joan thought he had been drawn to her for some reason other than the fact that she wore no armor. The two were nearly face to face. Near enough that Joan could see his steel blue eyes glaring malevolently at her. He raised his sword, waiting almost politely for Joan to raise hers. Soon, they were caught in the brilliant dance that is swordplay. The web of steps, defenses, and stabs. This was made harder by the fact that they were both on horse back. The two were in their own battle, not noticing that both armies had stopped fighting to watch their leaders.

Joan circled Lathe, maneuvering Tristian just so. She had to be at a precise angle for this movie to work. She once again lifted her sword, but stopped. Inside her head, someone was speaking. The voice had a chilling tone. "Joan, Joan, stop fighting. You are gaining nothing and are so tired. You know that I will defeat you. There is nothing you can do to stop me. Nothing." Lathe had invaded her mind. he was using her own thoughts against her. Joan could not tear her eyes away from the lifeless blue ones that held her in a trance. She knew something was wrong, but there was nothing she could do about it. As soon as she recognized this, Joan was filled with an awful sense of helplessness. Her horse sensed something amiss and shook, causing his rider to jolt. The stare was broken. Before she could reach her sword, which ad dropped to the ground during the attack on her mind, Lathe stabbed at her, spearing her heart with his poison tipped sword. Joan fell dying to the ground as Lathe let out a cold and evil laugh. Tristian neighed and nudged his master's body. She rolled, exposing the enormous gash in her chest.

Lathe turned as he heard galloping, and saw Peter coming forward. The Smintian boy slid off his horse and shakily walked over to Joan. He saw her heave her last, slow breath and watched her die on the red muddy ground. He pivoted, red hot tears of fury sliding down his face, and remounted his horse. He looked into the eyes of the man who had killed his leader, their spell having no effect on someone with such determination, and thrust his sword into Lathe's stony, blackened heart.

Instantly, Peter felt his hand burning, and watched as the Western army crumbled into ashes. He dropped his sword and looked at his palm. There was a fresh red burn that covered his hand in the shape of a feather, the sign of peace. He heard a moan, and turned, startled, to see Joan sit up. He looked around, and all those who had been harmed by the sword of lathe were recovering from their wounds, or coming back to life entirely. Joan noticed peter, and smiled at him as she mounted her horse. Following suit, the Smintian army mounted. In unison, the horses started moving, heading nor toward their camps, towards home. The ashes from the West's army being trampled into the blood soaked ground by the hooves of a thousand horses.

They arrived at their camp, discovering all of their belongings packed into mules and ready to go. Wondering how so much could have been prepared so quickly, Joan dismounted and strode forward. She found a pile of armor she recognized as her own. On top, there was a feather, and under it, a note. She slid the feather into her pocket, and picked up the note. It was old; anyone could tell that by the way the parchment was flaking away in her hands. She read the faded words with difficulty. Once she had finished, everything was clearer. The note was a prophecy, one she had never heard of, but one that obviously had everything to do with her and peter. This is what she had read:

One to defeat the Evil Lord,

One to suffer at his hands,

One her companion forever to be,

One most unlikely to rule the land.