Orders are Orders (Faith/PM for Entry)

[Luba Gavrilova]

The world was quiet.

Luba chewed softly, sitting hunched over on a stone not far from Diana. In one hand she held a few strands of ch'arki, a dried meat popular among Sacaen tribes. Certain Ilian military outfits had adopted the food, finding the spoil-proof meat to be an effective ration. Luba brought a strand to her mouth, roughly biting off the upper half. As far as rations went the old mercenary had had worse. The ch'arki didn't taste bad, it was mostly just bland. A tasteless, unseasoned meat like any other. It was possible to have good ch'arki, so long as it was properly salted, but Luba was trying to avoid spending on luxuries. Her family was going to need every penny the ex-Ironwing could scrape together. Luba brought the dried meat to her mouth, tearing into another piece.

As she chewed through the dry food, the old soldier glanced at her pegasus. Diana was trotting about restlessly, flapping her wings every now and then. The steed didn't like being on the ground for too long. Diana usually wasn't calm while on her feet, unless she was tired, and ready to sleep, or eating something. Since Luba had already fed Diana her carrot for their break and the two still had daylight to burn, the pegasus had little to do but wait until her rider was ready to fly again. It made the creature restless.

Luba turned, leaving Diana out of her periphery, and went back to staring at the white emptiness before her. The old warrior could feel a cold sheet of wind brush against her cheek as she shoved the rest of the ch'arki into her mouth. The winds picked up a little more, doing their best to cut against the mercenary's iron face. Luba ignored it, instead staring at the snowy tundra before her and taking in whatever peace she could from the cold landscape.

The old warrior exhaled, pushing against her knees as she came to a standing position. ”Diana.” She spoke, eliciting the attention of her restless steed. The pegasus trotted over dutifully, kneeling next to her rider. Luba raised one leg and swung it over the horse's saddle, settling into a sitting position. ”Let's get back to it, girl.” Diana fluttered her wings several time before ascending from the earth.

[Faith]

Faith’s mind was loud.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not silence the constant cacophony of competing voices that always wanted to be heard. They continued to pull her this way and that, trying to convince her to

sit down and just be patient—no, take your duty into your hands—why bother with duty, just advance your career—but career is nothing compared to serving your country—you should just keep yourself safe so you can marry after the war and have a peaceful life—don’t give in to a simple life in the home, you can be a successful commander in the military—retake Remi, you can sabotage the Etrurians and drive them from your homeland—the Captain of the Unit specifically forbade you from going to Remi

and it was driving her insane. So the Squire had taken to the skies on this day of rest, making full use of her leave to soar into the air, leaving the fortress at Araphen and moving over the wooded area nearby. Faith was searching – looking for a band of deserting soldiers, which she had convinced herself to bring to justice. It would be good for morale, good for her reputation, good for Ilia, and would keep her from doing something even more foolhardy, like trying to retake Remi by herself.

As the Squire banked and soared, she held her lance at the ready, feeling the familiar, soothing weight of the snakewood hilt and the heavy iron tip. The weapon reassured her, imbuing her with strength and clarity of mind that was certainly appreciated. So far, there had been no sign of the men, but she refused to stop looking. So the Pegasus and her dark-armored rider continued their search, the girl oblivious to the skies around them as she scanned the ground.

[Luba Gavrilova]

The air became colder the higher Luba rose. In the sky there was nothing to buffer the incoming winds. No trees, no boulders, no slanted plains. There were mountains but none close to the flying knight, not that it particularly mattered. The drop in temperature had little effect on Luba. The thinning of the air was equally negligible to the sky knight. If anything, over the course of her career, she'd spent so much time in the air that she was almost more comfortable in places where it was less dense. Such were things that the old Ironwing was used to.

Luba's eyes stared straight ahead, steady and unwavering. Remi. It was the only place she looked for while flying. The place of her birth, the home of her family, the start of Etruria's invasion. It was the only place on Elibe which mattered for the next few weeks. The old rider's eyelids fell heavily and rose slowly in a measured blink.

Luba's gaze faltered for a moment, jumping to the right and catching another object in the sky. A speck, far off, but moving at a steady, slow pace. Another rider, probably a courier, maybe even another freelance knight. Possibly a rogue rider gone bandit. Unlikely, but possible. Pegasus knights tended to have more integrity than the rest of the Ilian mercenary forces. Luba noted that it was nothing to concern herself with. If, in the unlikely event, the distant rider was a pirate, the old soldier could handle herself. Luba had four decades of fighting under her belt. What did the speck have? Ten years at best? The old soldier breathed deep and exhaled, her eyes drifting so that the speck remained only in her periphery. A small concern, if that.

[Faith]

The young rider continued her sweep, her eyes fixed on the ground as she analyzed the road, the trees, the surroundings in general. There were no telltale signs – no group on the road, or fire burning amid the trees, or a trampled path through the forest that she could see – and it was discouraging. They could not have disappeared without a trace. Where, then, had they gone? A group of deserters would not have the resources to travel in style or in convincing disguise; their aim was simply to get as far away as possible so that they would be out of the reach of the Ilian military and the consequences that came with deserting.

Faith banked, preparing to take another pass, and her eyes caught movement in the distance. It was another Pegasus Rider, but too far off for her to identify. However, she didn’t recall anyone else planning on flying this area, so she decided that the responsible and militarily sound course of action was to intercept the flyer and assess whether they planned on doing harm, or, really, why they were up in the sky in general. So she adjusted her course, lowering her weapon into a non-confrontational position, and approached, flying alongside the other Pegasus and greeting the woman.

“Hail, Rider! I am Ensign Faith of the Seventh Unit. Who are you, and for what purpose are you flying? If you are a friend of Ilia, I offer you the hospitality of Ilia’s military and a greeting of camaraderie, but if you are a foe, I will not hesitate to cut you down.”

It was clear, from Faith’s hardened tone, the determined look in her eyes, and her stony countenance, that she was unafraid to act according to her proclamation. Though she did not threaten, she certainly was ready to defend herself and her country from any evildoer, no matter whether they rode a Pegasus or a dragon of legend.

[Luba Gavrilova]

Luba noticed at once the moment the speck started becoming larger. The old rider told herself that it was just her imagination, that the other knight wasn't really getting closer. Such thoughts were immediately disproved upon looking back in the speck's direction. As the speck came closer, Luba could make out more details of the rider. Her eyes darted about in a mad dash, analyzing everything about the other knight's appearance.

Young. Somewhere between late teens and early twenties. Can't have more than a few years of experience under her belt. Armor: dark blue, standard issue half-plate. Rider is approaching me specifically, probably an army regular making the rounds, if not a brigand. If she is a regular on patrol, then where's the rest of her unit?

As the speck came closer, morphing into an uncomfortably close pegasus knight, Luba could make out every detail of the rider.

Youthful face. Definitely late teens at best, maybe younger. Baggy clothing: conservative, covers most of her body. Carries a standard issue lance in one hand with little effort. Must have a strong lance arm. Armor probably isn't stolen. It looks smooth, shiny and new. Rider probably hasn't seen much combat. Definitely not an Ironwing. No need to worry about her being in Vorn's employ. Lord Knight wouldn't be stupid enough to send rookies after me, even if he only wanted to talk. Probably just a soldier on patrol but, again, where is her unit?

The old rider's suspicions were confirmed as the other knight opened her mouth. Cut her down? That'll be the day.

”Peace, soldier. I no longer fight for our country, but I have never been Ilia's foe.” Luba met Faith's stoic gaze with her own. The meeting of their eyes was like two unyielding boulders crashing into each other, each one unceasing in their advance, each trying to make the other flinch. ”I am simply an old mercenary in transit back home. I am of no concern to you, or your unit.” Luba spoke coolly. ”Speaking of which, soldier, where's the rest of your unit? You're on patrol no? Has Ilia's military changed so much since my time that squadrons have been done away with?”

[Faith]

“Peace, soldier. I no longer fight for our country, but I have never been Ilia’s foe.”

Faith relaxed her readiness, but only slightly, still maintaining her gaze, not willing to break the stalemate that had ensued. The battle of their eyes was uncompromising; Faith’s gaze seared through the woman’s, trying to burn away the exterior to see whether any evil truly lay hidden within. Similarly, it seemed like the older Rider was trying to analyze Faith, her cold gaze attempting to crystallize and bring forth the real essence of the young Pegasus Knight.

”I am simply an old mercenary in transit back home. I am of no concern to you, or your unit. Speaking of which, soldier, where's the rest of your unit? You're on patrol no? Has Ilia's military changed so much since my time that squadrons have been done away with?”

Faith gave a short bark of laughter.

“No, the squadron is still alive and well. You speak as if to try and date yourself to an era long past, but your appearance and that of your mount provide a more accurate description of your age. I estimate you about forty, fifty potentially. Therefore, you most likely served in the war with those damnable Bernese, and most likely retired from service thereafter to pursue the thrill of battle, rather than simply sitting and occupying a nation or endlessly patrolling the skies.

Therefore I answer you: no, I am not on patrol. Today I am on leave, and today I search for a group of deserters to bring to justice. If I cannot sabotage the Etrurian occupation of Remi and destroy their holding on our country from within, as my commander forbade me from doing, I will at least prevent our soldiers from running to them like opportunistic dogs, abandoning their country and their values for coin or to avoid the risk of death.

But what is death when it comes in service of one’s country and one’s home? Death is an honor then, albeit an inconveniencing one, but certainly nothing to run from.”

The Squire finally lowered her lance fully, asking one more question of the rider in her crisp, clear voice.

“Tell me, Rider, have you seen a band of men running from Arphen?”

[Luba Gavrilova]

Miles above the earth, the audible beating of two separate pairs of wings could be heard competing against a howling current of cold wind. The winds wailed against the pegasi, only drowned out when their wings came down. Luba remained unmoved. Diana shook her head, not because of the cold, but out of a feeling of restlessness. An impatient creature, she was more concerned with being idle than any lack of heat.

Observant, wasn't the soldier? Not to mention outspoken. ”The wars I served in, and what I made of my life afterwards, are also not your concerns, soldier. I would prefer you not make conjectures of my service.” A warning in the form of a request, spoken in a neutral tone.

'Damnable Bernese', 'Death is an honor', 'sabotaging the Etrurian occupation'. What a model soldier this young cadet was. The conviction and certainty of her words, her undaunting, fiery gaze, the lack of concern for her own life. Luba remembered a time when she was in the youth's position. When she'd played the idealistic, tough-as-nails bitch. ”It is true that what one makes of their death is important, young soldier, but also what you make of your life. For what is an honorable death to an ignoble life? Merely a last act of redemption.” The winds picked up, buffeting the short strands of Luba's hair. The old rider maintained a stony facade as the wind cut against her face. ”You only have one life to give, soldier. Make certain you give it well.”

”As for your question.” Luba blinked, looking off in the direction of Remi. ”You are the first person I have seen today. I am afraid I can be of no help in finding your deserters. Unless...” Luba looked back at the young rider. ”There is a bounty on their heads. I could lend you my considerable skills if I knew I would be compensated.”

[Faith]

“The wars I served in, and what I made of my life afterwards, are also not your concerns, soldier. I would prefer you not make conjectures of my service.” 

Faith’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, betraying the slightest of anger. It was hidden well, and controlled, prevented from welling out into any sort of spoken rebuke or larger motion, but all the same, it was there. She disliked that a former Pegasus Knight of Ilia had left service; had she done so honorably, she would have no reservations speaking of it… Perhaps she had deserted, too, or left in disgrace. Either way, her philosophizing was lost upon Faith, who was quick to rebut the position.

“Most certainly true for those who do not serve with their lives. But for a true soldier, a dedicated spear of Ilia, one’s life has already received the highest honor – to be worthy to fight and bleed for one’s country.”

When the older Rider spoke, confirming that she had seen nothing, and offering her services for coin, Faith gave a dry bark of laughter, shaking her head derisively.

“You forget, Rider – our salary does not provide enough for us to hire mercenaries at whim, especially ones who claim to be skilled…and thus demand higher rates.

No, Rider, I will fly alone, then. I will fight this battle with my own strength. I thank you for your time, Rider… May Fortune be kind to you.”

Faith raised her lance back into a ready position and gave a short command with raised voice, turning her head to face forward once more and departing from Luba in a hum of wingbeats and a brief rush of wind. The Squire did not look back, instead training her eyes once more upon the forest.

[Luba Gavrilova]

The cadet's response was less than favorable, and spoken in a tone that Luba could have described as 'dismissive' and 'haughty'. The ex-Ironwing was far too old and tired to take offense to the youth's behavior. Luba had been rejected by many others, in much unkinder ways over the course of her service and subsequent retirement. She was as intimately familiar with being snubbed by the ignorant as she was with death. Of course, it might have helped her case if she'd mentioned her former association with Vorn's Ironwings. But that was not a thing the seraph knight enjoyed calling attention to.

”Pity. My lance would have served you well.” Luba snapped a sharp salute. ”I wish you the best of fortune in your endeavors, soldier. And if you are to fall in the line of duty, then may you fall well.” The younger pegasus knight turned her head, readying her steed to dive for the woods. ”May fair winds guide you.” With that, the interloper departed Luba's company.

The seraph knight's icey gaze followed the other rider as she flew towards the forest. ”I don't think I was ever so stiff in my youth.” Luba muttered in a breathless aside. The old rider turned her head, her short hair bouncing lightly, as she looked for her distant destination of Remi. She turned back, cold eyes once again trained on the nameless soldier. How reckless. That nameless knight was probably going to get herself killed, or captured, chasing after those deserters. The youth had affirmed her beliefs, claimed to be ready to die. But Luba had to wonder if she really was. The young never understand death, not really. Never realize what it means to take their last breath. ”What do you think, Diana?” The ex-Ironwing inquired of her steed with a kick. ”Think we should keep an eye on her?”

[Faith]

”Pity. My lance would have served you well. I wish you the best of fortune in your endeavors, soldier. And if you are to fall in the line of duty, then may you fall well. May fair winds guide you.”

Faith smiled, unseen, as the other, older Rider sent her farewells. For some reason, the words felt warm, and true. She smiled, feeling strength and resolve flow through her. Lance in hand, she resumed the sweep, the sharp wings of her mount cutting through the wind with a faint, humming whistle. For a few passes, nothing was evident, and then, as she carved a path over the treetops, she saw something, moving along the road. A huddle of darkness, splotches obscuring the dirty pale smear of the road.

Faith dove, picking up speed as she approached from above, slicing down like a blade towards the group of travelers. She intended to make a reconnoitering pass, but as she came into view above the treetops, the men leaped, assuming ready stances and drawing lances and blades. That was all she needed, and she spurred her mount even faster, accelerating to breakneck pace and thrusting her lance out as she shot by the men, feeling resistance and then the wrench as her lance ripped back free from whatever it had encountered. As she curved, banking sharply to make another pass, she took stock.

Eight men total. One injured, holding his side, which seems to be bleeding well. A lucky strike; she’d had little practice with high-speed impaling. Most have lances, though three wield swords. All are standing their ground, ready for battle.

The Pegasus Knight in training gritted her teeth and slammed her helmet onto her head, allowing it to shut out all of the distractions as she gave a battle roar and dove again.

[Luba Gavrilova]

The other soldier became smaller and smaller, until once again she was a tiny speck among the trees. Luba gave Diana another, harder, kick. ”Come on, girl. Give me something to work with.” The flying horse shook its' head, bucking against it's rider, and glaring at Luba with a less-than-happy face. The ex-Ironwing held tightly to the reigns as her mount thrashed in resistance. In a tight, gauntlet-bound fist she pulled hard on the reigns, jerking Diana's snout upwards. ”Don't.” The old rider warned, leaning in close to her steed's face.

Luba eased up, returning control to Diana. The pegasus shook her head in disdain. Luba looked back at where the other rider had flown. The speck was only getting smaller. ”Damnit.” The old mercenary muttered, with a crack of the reins. Diana beat her wings against the winds, spiriting Luba downwards and towards the rookie soldier.

”Don't have time for this.” Luba spat with contempt as she reached the caps of the earthbound trees. The rookie could handle herself fine. Even if she couldn't she'd voiced contentment with proffering her life on behalf of the Ilian military. Giving one's life for their homeland wasn't a bad way to go. It was an honorable death, one many of Luba's comrades had earned. Even if the old warrior saved the young soldier how long would that postpone the youth's death? Reckless and patriotic, the other rider was bound to be claimed by the hunter known to all sooner or later. The youth didn't need Luba. Luba's family needed Luba. They were the one's who needed protecting, the one's who needed to live. Luba shook her head. This was a waste of her precious time.

Suddenly, the young rider dove into the treeline. She must have located the deserters. Soaring back upwards, the distinct color of crimson could be seen darkening the sharpened point of her lance. No doubt about it, the youth had found who she was looking for. She let out a cry, powerful enough to humble a bear, and dove back into the treeline. Luba, out of sight and just under the caps of the snow-tipped trees, watched calmly from a distance. If she had to intervene, then she would. But for now, the old rider was still contemplating whether she should have followed in the first place.

[Faith]

This time, as she came barreling towards them, a man ran as well, aiming his lance and trying to stab at her as she made a pass. Faith smiled. She had been taught how to deal with men like this. After all, when one’s fighting style largely depended on being able to strike from the air, making multiple passes and defeating your enemies from a mount, it was essential to keep your mount safe and stay mounted. So as she approached, and the man did likewise, she kept calm, coming closer and closer before spurring her mount. Rider and Pegasus barrel-rolled to the right, and the man’s charge sent him stumbling past as they leveled out and curved, turning back and racing at the man as he turned. The first and last thing he saw was Faith’s lance as she shot by, the sharp tip of the lance finding a home in the man’s forehead. Rising, the Squire breathed heavily, taking stock. The man she’d hit earlier was now on the ground, bleeding out. She’d gotten lucky there. The soldier she’d attacked was dead. There were six more men. Six men… How would she defeat them all? She was tired, and that was only after one.

The Squire pushed the thoughts from her mind and dove once more. As she came in, raising her lance, she saw the remaining men grouping themselves, forming up into a defensive clump. But there was one swordsman lagging, and so the young Pegasus Knight bore down on him, thrusting towards his back.

Fortune was not on her side; the swordsman turned, avoiding the attack, and slashed out, hitting Faith across the chest. While the glancing blow did not penetrate her armor, it was sufficient to unbalance her, and the rider tumbled off her mount onto the ground, where she quickly picked herself up, scrambling into a ready stance and charging the swordsman. Meanwhile, her mount, unsure as to what to do, had risen up above the trees, circling warily.

[Luba Gavrilova]

Awaiting the outcome of the fight was torture. What was Luba doing there? Why was she playing babysitter to the youth knight? Every minute wasted looking after her was a minute that could have been spent traveling or making money. The old soldier had a duty to her family, a duty to see them through the Etrurian invasion, a duty more important than temporarily preserving the life of one reckless youth.

Soldiers like the youth were eventually done in by their headstrong patriotism. Luba had seen it happen dozens upon dozens of times. Fresh-faced recruits who were too confident, too prideful of their work. All of them ready to give their lives in service to their country. All of them naively forgetting their role: to make the enemy give their life for their country. All of them eventually bit off more than they could chew, or sacrificed themselves for the unit, or found some other means of getting themselves killed. Such soldiers only ever died on the battlefield.

Luba's thoughts were sundered as a pegasus rose above the tree without her rider. ”Ah, crap!” The old warrior swore, taking Diana's reins in one hand. ”Up and at 'em, girl!” She kicked at her steed's sides, spiriting the pegasus into the air. The old seraph knight flew straight up, approaching the clearing where the youth's steed circled about. She surveyed the area.

Two bodies, one missing a head, other prone in a pool of blood. Headless soldier definitely dead, pay body no mind. Bleeding soldier probably dead, exercise caution regardless. Five unscathed fighters armed and clustered together. Could easily break formation if I came at them with Vanya. Would prefer to avoid fighting, but must keep axe at the ready. One outlying deserter armed with sword. Youth charging the outlier. Youth is making no effort to flag down steed and reclaim her mounted advantage. Was correct in assuming youth would try to get herself killed.

Luba took a deep breath. She really didn't want to get herself involved in this fight. ”HOLD!” Yet here she was. The shout echoed throughout the forest. The world was no longer quiet.

Vanya in hand, Luba slowly descended into the clearing. ”Deserters to the Ilian military, in the name of the Ironwings stay where you are.” Another thing Luba was loathe to do. She hated that title, hated using it as a badge, and hated the man who gave it to her. But she knew the power behind its' name. Any soldier who knew the name of Ironwing knew well to fear it. ”You are to throw down your weapons immediately and surrender yourself into my fellow knight's custody. Any resistance or failure to comply will result in your immediate execution.” The old soldier turned Diana, giving the deserters a full view of Vanya the Sunder. A sharp axe with a wicked edge, Vanya was designed to cause more damage to the human body upon exit rather than entry. If her foes somehow survived Vanya's initial swing, they would not survive her removal. ”Consider your chances before you make the wrong decision.”

[Faith]

As Faith moved towards the swordsman, he too charged her, and the two briefly played chicken before he parried her lance away and she followed it, veering and spinning to face him. Now a few meters away, Faith spun her lance, twirling it around its midsection and passing it from hand to hand before slamming the haft down upon her palm, lowering her weapon into a ready position and sneering at the swordsman, not letting any sort of weakness show. The swordsman did his own display, tossing his sword up and then catching it, wiggling it and then pointing it at her goadingly.

Faith lunged, striking with the speed of a snake, but the deserter reacted with the same speed, sidestepping and then striking at her with a swift slash. Faith ducked, hearing the blade hum over her head, and then quickly moved backwards, gaining more distance and then jabbing again at the swordsman. Again, he dodged, this time twisting and spinning inside, striking as he turned. Faith was taken off guard, and could not move in time; the man’s sword struck her breastplate, and she stumbled backwards, unscathed but angered. She straightened, her eyes now flaming with passionate hatred. She funneled the rage into her lance arm, and once more charged. This time, though, she feinted, and as the man sidestepped, expecting to slash at her once more, he found Faith’s body soaring towards her, her lance held back as her left arm, especially the elbow, hammered into his sternum and her body followed. The mercenary fell backwards, and Faith pressed her lance down, trying to choke the man out. He struggled, trying to push the lance upwards, and the Squire resisted with her whole body weight. As the slippery swordfighter tried to wriggle free once more, she abandoned her choke attempt and simply hammerfisted, slamming her arm down upon his face with the weight of her body behind it. As he groaned, crying out in pain, she repeated it, then rolling off of him and getting to her knees, choking up on her weapon about halfway and then slamming her lance point down into his neck.

Faith struggled to her feet, exhausted. She felt a dull stinging sensation, and discovered that as they had clashed on the ground, the man had managed to slash her arm. It was about half the length of her left forearm, a diagonal slash, and it was bleeding, a slow ooze of dark red blood. He had not wounded her very deeply, but it was still a hindrance regardless. The five men knew this, and their confidence rose, as do the confidence of scavengers when they smell wounded prey.

And then there was a burst of sound.

”Deserters to the Ilian military, in the name of the Ironwings stay where you are. You are to throw down your weapons immediately and surrender yourself into my fellow knight's custody. Any resistance or failure to comply will result in your immediate execution. Consider your chances before you make the wrong decision.”

Faith gazed stonily at the woman who had descended to her aid. It was the same one from before… so this was the woman called “Ironwings?” Most interesting; she had heard a few tales of a skilled fighter by the name of Ironwings.

Apparently, so had at least some of the men, for slowly, one at a time, three men threw down the weapons they held, some with glares and some with the forlorn look of lost, hopeless men. Faith cared not who they were, or their stories; she simply was there to do her duty. The Squire kept her lance leveled at them, though she felt the burning sensation of tiredness in her muscles and the dull sting of the slice on her arm.

The two who had not surrendered swore at the ones who had and approached Luba, both with lances raised. Faith, too stepped towards Luba, though she was aiming at the aggressors.

[Luba Gavrilova]

Luba's booming proclamation had mixed results. Half of the remaining deserters laid down their arms, while the other three stood their ground. Guess the name of Vorn's personal guard still carried some weight. In her periphery, Luba could see the young rider doing combat with a sword-wielding foe. She looked on emotionlessly as the soldier came to her feet and jammed her lance in the deserter's neck. What a waste. Luba averted her gaze, focusing down the two remaining combatants.

Undeterred, the deserters attempted a pincer maneuver, cautiously approaching the old rider with their lances raised. "Come, then. I promise you a worthy end." Luba lifted Vanya, holding the haft of the bastard axe some distance from the center of her chest. One end of Vanya's blades faced the deserters, while the opposite end pointed at Luba. The old rider adopted a grim facade. Her eyes, fierce and penetrating, peered from behind the hefty axe and bore into the hapless foot-soldiers.

Luba lifted Vanya and swung it to the side. With a jerk of the reins, she veered Diana left and wheeled around the encroaching foes. She skirted around them until one of the foot-soldiers was between her and the other soldier. Gauntlet-bound fingers tightened up on Vanya's throat and Luba charged. Her foe readied his lance.

Lances. Luba hated lances. Apart from marksmen arrows, they were a cavalier's worst foe. An awkward weapon in unmounted combat, the lance was by far the safest in design of the sword-axe-lance triad. Less intimate than the sword and more elegant than the axe, lances were designed to keep distance between the bearer and the foe. They were designed to strike from afar, designed to offer a modicum of safety to the user. But worst of all they were designed to penetrate and invade, and worked best when thrust at high speeds. They were a useful tool for cavaliers, truly. Charging a foe at high speeds gave a lance all the penetrative power it needed, but it cut both ways. Charging into a lance at breakneck speeds was a good way to get yourself or your mount killed.

Luba's eyes were steady as she made her attack run. The two soldiers were hunkered down, waiting for her to get closer. The one in back poked through on the left, holding his spear out in a defensive stance. The wind rushed through her hair as Luba came in from the left. Vanya trailed behind at her side, ready to be swung in a diagonal arc. Then, just a short distance from the two warriors, Luba pulled on the reins and twisted her body, causing Diana to jerk suddenly to the right in a new flight path. With one hand, she lifted Vanya over and across her steed and leaned in for a strike on the left. The soldier in front waved his lance, following the old warrior, while his flanking companion awkwardly tried to maneuver his weapon in place. There wasn't enough time; Luba had made sure of that. The first soldier lurched forward, stabbing at Luba as she made her pass, only for the old warrior to parry his weapon with the blunt end of Vanya. Like a wicked hammer blow, Vanya collided with the man's armor, crumpling it inward so badly that the blade pierced through the breastplate. Luba carried the man's weight a short distance as Vanya sunk her teeth in, casting him gracelessly into his flanking companion. The ex-Ironwing broke off from the engagement, both deserters now prone in the snow. One most certainly dead, or dying, and the other was in no position to fight back. The old rider lifted Vanya above her head and cast it downwards, decorating the white landscape with red blotches of blood.

It was over. One blow was all it took.