There was the timeless banner ripped and saturated in blood, both from foes and friends alike.

Struggling to be raised even as the standard bearer rasped her last gurgling breath, before submitting to the grim reapers harsh, crushing embrace. Open eyes slammed into the indifferent ground and once golden hair was trampled into the potent mix of mud and gore. Even now the ravens began to circle the stormy skies. Hell's personal messengers didn't care about the outcome of the mortal conflict below. There was food to be had here Meat; flesh still warm, easy for an ebony beak to strip from the bone.

From where Mara crouched she could see the corpse's frozen, pale, porcelain outstretched hand as if even in death the girl was still crying and pleading for help that would never arrive. Nevertheless Mara played dead hoping against hope that the enemy would leave her for exactly that. It was better than the alternative. The bitter, scarring frost froze the acrid life force to her body whether hers or not she could no longer tell. Mud caked her hair in heavy streaks, smearing her face into a funeral mask. Flinty eyes now devoid of emotion scanned the barren landscape, the tainted grass reflected the steely grey sky and waved in front of her pain blurred vision like mourners at a graveside. These natural blades obscured her view of this crimson drenched nightmare.

Despite all of this Mara managed to glimpse the King's war band moving through the carcasses as easily as walking through a poppy field. Her eyes drifted to the boundaries of the darkening plain. There the enemies horses milled, dreadful steeds mere minutes before were now gentle beasts bewildered by the awful scents upon the air.

Survivors numbered few and were being tethered together like the slaves she'd glimpsed throughout the years. Mara found a scream welling up inside her in protest of such treatment of her men. No, not men. Women. Only two out of hundreds had been men. The King's men didn't know this they'd been all too easy to fool. Their pathetic minds rejecting the plain evidence in front of them in order to protect their precious grip on reality. Mara's force had, had archers, spears, unknown numbers and the better defensive position. It should have been an easy victory, instead it'd been a slaughter.

She'd seen Jacob's head severed from his body in a terrible flash of metal. Mara had seen it fall to the floor and roll through the horse's hooves, trampled and mutilated almost beyond recognition. His remaining bright blue eye now forever unseeing pierced her to her very core bringing upon the berserker rage that had left a circle of dead at her feet. A realisation sliced through her macabre memories; the King's men would be searching for the leader now. For her.

As if summoned from the underworld by her thoughts, Mara's rider-less horse bolted from the

mist towards the shackled survivors. Odyn's anguished voice screamed her name to the all-seeing sky. She bit her lip in anxiety until rotten copper once again flooded her mouth. Mara desperately wanted to answer, knowing all too well that her right hand man thought her dead. Men still searching the lifeless body turned sharply, startled at this awful cry against death. The language ripped from Odyn's lungs was Oshmar, all who rode with her learnt and spoke it, having forsaken the Kings tongue and the bitter taste in left in their mouths. They all understood it, yes. Spoke it, certainly. For it wad the tongue of their youth and their pasts. Yet, Oshmar was deep and guttural, it hid the timbre of their voices and helped them to forget the memories they were running from.

Carr and Tael turned back as the captive's scream finished rumbling across the desolate plains. Carr felt for him, he truly did. He knew all too well the acute pain of having Lady Death steal away a friend but, these barbarians had to be stopped and if the only way was through blood and steel so be it.

"We got a description of this leader?" Tael cut through his friends morose brooding.

"The usual hog-piss we get from turn coats," Carr declared "Hair like fire, eyes like the sunrise, skin as pale as moonbeams with two swords to partner his main blade." "Gods! Not only barbarians but an outlander." Tael spat out Outlander like it was the worst of curses.

Carr found himself looking behind himself once more, to where the rest of the war band were beginning to dig graves for their dead. As his boot crunched down upon a corpse's finger causing it to break and the bone to splinter through the now moist skin, he wondered who'd gotten the better job. Himself: trawling through the dead or his companions; digging their final resting place.

Mara inwardly cursed as she heard the threatening footfall and rhythmic thump of men's boots. She knew she couldn't trust her leg to support her as it once had. It's bleached white bone gouged clearly through the dark, grim colours left by battle. The cause of the injury was an embarrassment even now, when so much was at stake. The sequence of events had been very simple; an inexperienced rider had driven his horse into hers. The jolt threw them both from the saddle before Mara had a chance to react. As they hit the bone-hard ground the rider landed heavily upon her limb. He'd broken her leg. She'd slit his throat. Her sword a quick, harsh, flash of metal against the soft, tender flesh of his neck. As the impending footsteps grew ever closer she finally lay down in the mud. It squelched and re-formed around her body as the acrid smell of blood assaulted her overwhelmed nostrils. Her fist lay prone in the filth, the bright sword mere millimetres from her grasp. With a deep breath Mara buried her face in the mud letting every muscle relax despite the overwhelming urge to tense, to flee, to fight, to do anything but lie here and court certain death.

Carr motioned for Tael to be quiet, silently motioning to the streak of fire red in amongst the putrid dirt. "Look" He mouthed pointing to the two swords strapped across the fallen warrior's back, bright in their tarnished scabbards. Tael nodded gesturing to the jutting bone stark as a dagger in a pool of blood. Now confident that what lay before him was now naught more than a corpse Tael spoke aloud. "He is dead". Carr rolled his eyes heavenward but simply reminded him: "The Captain will want proof." Tael once again confirmed his friends' words. The Captain was a morbidly harsh man whose mind twisted down strange and foreign paths surprising himself as often as their enemies. Tael stretched out his hand and stooping low reached towards the one abandoned blade.

The pagan priests of Mara's homeland had told her she was a being of air and fire. Of thought and emotion. Not a co-operative mix, the fire almost always won. She felt it now as these men reached towards her one true possession. She felt it roaring through her veins consuming thought like a cyclone of flame leaving only ash and hell fire in its wake. Before she knew it, she was reaching for the sword hilts upon her back.

Only Tael's battle-honed reflexes saved his head, bringing up his shield and jumping backing in horror at the now alive corpse. It slashed and hacked with a furry he'd never witnessed before and in days to come he'd pray that he'd never look upon it again. Carr swore as the warrior attacked with both swords. He found himself using both sword and shield to parry even as Tael tried to aid him. For a moment time seemed to freeze, as if crystallised blood amongst pure snow. He saw un-tainted, blind, hatred in this beings yellow eyes and felt icy tendrils grasp his gut cruelly. In that one moment he realised with a final certainty what they, what he'd done. He'd destroyed this man's world. This fellow human would never again know peace its sleeping hours would be haunted by the dying screams of its friends.

Time came back into motion with a sickening thud. One of the swords cut across Carr's forearm, life spraying into the malicious air even as pain made itself known. As if spurred by the sight of fresh blood the barbarian tried to stand on his crippled leg and let out a wild-cat's roar furious as his body betrayed him.

Mara bellowed to the sky as pain blackened the edges of her reality. She would not be taken. She had once vowed that no man would ever again hold dominion over her. So she fought. She fought even as anguish shrieked at her body, as her leg buckled beneath her, she fought, her swords seeking out soft, tender, flesh. She fought even as the ground once again rushed up to meet her. The last thing she saw before the terrible darkness devoured her was Jacob's single, blue, mocking eye.

"Is this story real?" The boy's demanding, educated tones effectively destroyed the spell his nurse-maid had been weaving. Next to him his younger brother fidgeted exasperated at this predictable interruption.

"Are you suggesting that I am a liar?" The older woman's face creased in humour, the fire light flickered over her worn features, as the boy rallied his response.

"Women warriors aren't real Drewyn said so." The young prince fell back upon his tutors proclamation to give his words credibility. "I wouldn't let Mary hear you say that, young sir." The nursemaid climbed to her feet and retrieved her sampler. The older sibling winced at the reminder of his weapons master. A woman she may be but, she'd never gone to war and therefore in his judgement; was not a warrior. The younger- and until now silent- brother tugged gently at the woman's skirts "What happened to Mara?" His voice was as soft as the flicker of candle light and she couldn't help but answer him "Carr and the war-band brought her back here. Some say she was our greatest asset in the days to come. Others thought she was our greatest mistake."

"So the story was real!" His older brother exclaimed in un-concealed triumph. "As real as I am." A stern, accented voice caused the room to jump as one. The boys turned startled to see their weapons master standing statue-like in the heavy, arched doorway.

As the eldest heir started to make in-substantial apologies and excuses for their absence from lessons, the youngest began to speculate. Mary, her skin as pale and as smooth as milk with her faded yet un-earthly eagle eyes. Mary who never seemed to age, rumoured to be a half breed, born far from the safety of the royal holdings. Mary. Mara. His young eyes widened in the amazement and surprise of the truly innocent. As he stared up, his weapons master was forever transformed in his sight. Mara stood tall, her skin luminescent in the primal light and her aged eyes smiled upon a child who'd unlocked a secret that so many privileged minds had floundered at, their un-believing hands slipping, un-successful from the rusted clasp of the past.