The fighting done, Prince Rashan surveyed the field littered with the dead and the dying. Squatting or lying down among the fallen were many exhausted soldiers, the bulk of his worn out Tarkeshian army. They'd earned a brief respite after such a hard fought battle.

"Rest!" he shouted. "Breathe deep the air and savor this victory!"

One last maelstrom of activity caught his eye, a tiny pocket of his foot soldiers massed together around some skirmish at their center.

"Gordo," he said to his general, pointing a silver gloved finger at the disturbance, "I thought the battle was over. What is that?"

His first in command looked to where he pointed.

As they both peered off into the distance, shouts, screams and the ring of steel on steel came to them carried on the wind.

The general scowled. "I shall investigate, my Prince," he said, turning his horse and spurring it forward.

Prince Rashan followed General Gordo and his contingent of high ranking officers, as the Prince's own battlefield escort of ten cavalrymen kept pace, moving around to protect him on all sides.

The riders approached the mob of more than fifty foot soldiers, and came to a halt, seeing for the fist time what stood on the crest of the small hill they surrounded. It appeared to be nothing more than a single Aquilonian soldier, apparently, the last survivor.

The long metal rays of a sunburst on his helm identified him as a Captain. In their rankings, this meant he had commanded five hundred men.

He wore no armor except for the helm, only a broad belted loin-pelt and high leather boots. And, unlike most Aquilonians or Gundermen, he had black hair that hung to his shoulders, and blue eyes that burned with wrath. Rashan could see them blazing with almost a primal ferocity even at this safe distance.

Taller than most men, massively muscled, covered in blood, and wielding a two-handed Stygian headsman's ax, this savage Captain was a fearsome sight to behold.

Like a trapped beast he slowly rotated, watching all sides, snarling and heaving in giant breaths.

Prince Rashan wondered how long he might last.

Obviously, his foot soldiers must have only recently killed whatever men had protected him thus far, or he could not have lasted this long.

As if in answer to the question in Rashan's mind, a circle of six soldiers closed in on the Aquilonian Captain from every side.

Rashan held his breath as the mob bashed their shields and cheered on their six fellow soldiers. The Prince thought it would end quickly, and he was right, but not in the way he'd expected.

The Captain pounced like a tiger, moving with incredible speed, his huge ax swinging in powerful, yet graceful arcs. Demolishing shields and armor, he cut down four of the six almost faster than the eye could follow, and spun to face the two behind him before his last victim's body even began falling.

This amazing display of speed in the slaughter of his attackers sent the remaining two scurrying back in fear, retreating to the safety of their jeering companions.

"Mitra be damned!" General Gordo shouted. "Kill him, you dogs! He is only one man!"

The foot soldiers responded to his order by shouting, "For Gordo!" over and over again, and once the battle cry had been taken up by all the men, they banged their shields, and rushed up the mound from every side at the surrounded Captain.

The Aquilonian shouted something back as they charged up at him, swinging his deadly weapon as he disappeared inside the horde, lost within the crush of sheer numbers.

Prince Rashan leaned forward, scanning the frenzied crowd bunched together on top of that small rise, and wishing he could have, somehow, witnessed the glorious death of that impressive Captain.

General Gordo relaxed in his saddle, wearing a satisfied smirk. "There," he said. "That's that."

Another loud clamor arose from the crowd, grabbing their attention. They watched as the glut of soldiers that had charged forward now scurried away again in disarray, half a dozen dead bodies tumbling down the rise after them with their throats slashed, heads cloven, or limbs missing.

And, somehow still standing on the small hilltop, that savage Captain could be heard above the clamor of confused soldiers, shouting in a distinct accent that Rashan instantly recognized.

"Come!" he roared. "Come kill me, you dogs! I am only one man!"

General Gordo looked furious. He turned to his field marshal, and shouted, "Salivar! Bring up the archers!"

"Wait!" Prince Rashan commanded, holding up his silver gauntlet. "I want him alive."

"Alive?" said the general. "But why?"

"I believe he is of Cimmeria... a barbarian from the far north."

The general frowned, thinking. He shrugged and said, "As you wish, my Prince, but how do you suppose I take a barbarian alive?"

"That is for you to figure out, Gordo. Bring him to my tent disarmed, deloused, and in chains." Prince Rashan turned his horse, and, before leaving, added, "Make sure I have bathed and eaten before disturbing me."

General Gordo grimaced, but nodded and said, "Yes, my Prince."

(first part... more to be added here in this post before the deadline... or slightly after it. I'm very busy today.)