The battle waged and it was nothing if not frustrating. Charged with the responsibility of ensuring that their enemies met the king on the open plains below, Vangelis of Kotas - the trained and experience military general - could do little but stand high above the melee and watch as his men followed their duty and ensured their step of the plan was completed and the war below began in full effect.

He knew that it was right for him to stay where he was. He knew that he was the crown prince of a foreign land and that if something happened to his life whilst fighting on behalf of another monarch, the political ramifications would be harsh. Despite his letter to his brother that currently sat in his rooms in Vasiliadon, ready to be posted should he fall by the sword or one of the Creed's throwing knives.

But it still didn't sit well with him to be kept back in the safest sector of the battle whilst other good men fought and or fell.

Frustrated at his impotency in this instance, Vangelis stalked monstrously to the edge of the chasm and loomed down to peer at their enemies. If they could be assured that such men had evacuated the gorge and were too engaged fighting for their lives on the chariot plains then they could be fairly well assured that they wouldn't flee back into their safe haven to avoid death. The crack in the land that the terrorists had used as a temporary home was no longer the space that could trust.

Vangelis watched as the backrunners - the ones who had sought freedom through the back exit of the enclave - met with the arrows and swords of the Taengean Lords. The brothers Achilleas and Emilios fought with great courage, and Lord Gavriil with precision and skill. Looking out in the other direction, the king himself led his chariot forces, joined by his uncle the Lord Irakles and other loyalists to the cause.

Standing to the edge closest the chariot fighting, Vangelis folded his arms, clearly on show to those below but in little danger. Few archers could fire to such altitudes and even fewer could do so with any great accuracy. He watched like a hawk, intending on predicting the battles outcome via objective observation. Something he hated but which was the only course still open to him.

His eyes narrowed as he watched the fighting below.

The Taengeans were winning. But not by the margin they might have hoped. In any normal battle, chariots were the most powerful of forces. Against other chariots it was anyone's guess regarding a winner, but against infantry, archery - any other kind of unit - a chariot, given the right terrain, could lay their enemies to waste. And Taengeans were the finest charioteers in Greece.

The entire plan had been focused on getting the shadow walkers out onto the open lands where the chariots would destroy them quicker, efficiently and with limited loss of time to the Taengean forces. This did not seem to be the way Fate was playing.

The men in black, despite appearing to have no way of seeing, moved entirely independently from one another. There was no organisation, no unitary attack. They moved as singular individuals, intent on harming as many as they could on their path to freedom from the Gorge. Which meant that the second the chariots tore into them, they simply moved in between, darting left and right, avoiding attack.

Some were taken under a horses' hooves, some beneath golden wheels. There were too many chariots for the terrorists to avoid each and every one of them. But most of them were too fast for Stephanos forces to simply run down.

The soldiers from the backs of the chariots reacted admirably, shocked only momentarily as they took to their arms, throwing spears and shooting arrows from the backs of their rides, intent on catching the masked men who were distracted by avoiding the horses. Many went down.

But he Creeders were just as fast - if not more so, for they had to react against animals far quicker of foot than they. They jumped and dived, ducked and dodged and launched weaponry as easily as breathing. The men on the backs of their chariots were suddenly under a rainfall of projectiles.

Vangelis ground his teeth and felt adrenaline starting to surge within his limbs. This was to be a war of attrition. Not a swift victory.

"General..."

The voice came from behind him and Vangelis turned his head to show he was listening, without removing his gaze from the field below.

"There are no more insurgents within the gorge, my Lord." The man - one of the lieutenants in his private guard - informed him.

"Good." Vangelis commented, finally stepping back from the edge as he turned towards his men. He pointed specifically to half of them. "You're all to stay here." He ordered. "If any masked attackers seek shelter in the cavern below, shoot them dead before they're within a step of its shadows."

He then stormed back towards the side of the gorge that they had all climbed up.

"The rest of you come with me."

It was far faster climbing down the Gorge's walls than it had been to climb up. With gravity on their side and the speed of haste fuelling Vangelis' muscles, he was back down on solid ground within perhaps ten minutes. Not that such a time period was a concern. As he had already observed from above - this battle would wage for hours - had already waged for hours.

Setting up a fast walk, pseudo-jog through the trees in order to reach where they had left their own chariots, Vangelis didn't bother to call to his men to be just as quick. They had sworn their lives to him and his protection which meant they would keep up with however fast he was moving naturally.

Within another ten minutes, Vangelis was on the back of his own chariot and flicking his steeds into forward motion - at as close to a gallop as he could get right off the bat. He steered them around a copse of trees and out towards the battle he could see waging ahead of them. The thundering hooves and the rolling of the cart wheels behind him told him exactly how close his men where and he felt Nike tense beside him in his own cart as she held two throwing knives in hand.

"I don't intend to be on this thing long." He told Nike, letting her in on his thinking. "The power of a small chariot force is too limited." By this time most of their Taengean comrades had come to a standstill with their carts, or abandoned them altogether. Vangelis' forces would be able to do little without them.

"I'm going to skirt the perimeter - take out all that you can, and then we'll join the fighting on foot." There was no sense in staying within a cart that, without the element of surprise, became more of a prison than a safe haven. He, Nike and the Colchians were all better fighters on their feet anyway.

Following his own orders carefully, Vangelis kept his horses at full gallop as he shot between the trailing ends of the Creeder forces and the opening to the Gorge, cutting them off and steering around their flank, offering Nike and his other men the clearest and most efficient shots he could afford without getting too close. He then charged his cart down the outward flank and around the other side, heading back in the direction they had come, following the circumference of their enemies before he pulled the geldings back in to the left and found sanctuary within the Taengean forces.

As soon as he pulled the creates to a stop, Vangelis was out of the chariot and had drawn his dual blades.

The fighting was dark and bloody and hard.

It had been many years since Vangelis had found challenge on the battlefield. Some of his enemies, upon his reputation simply surrendered or cowered without a fight. Others attempted but their fear made their movements clumsy. Some were not afraid of him but had poorer training than a prince who had received the best training from the greatest military men since birth and who had spent the last two decades of his life on Ares' dancefloor.

The followers of the Creed held no such fear and lacked no such training.

Vangelis found it took every piece of concentration, every skill he had to fight these men. He was forced to duck, to dodge, to flurry his attacks before one was able to make purchase. He had to keep his wits about in, observing every other location in case another attacked from a different direction - for they did not behave as a unit.

After an hour of fighting, Vangelis found his breath coming in heavy pants. His bicep was streaked with blood that ran from a puncture wound near his shoulder - some shadow walker had gotten in a luck knife throw - and there was a slash on the outside of one of his thighs. He was covered in dirt, sweat and soot from the fires his men had started and he had had to abandon one of his swords that had been knocked from his grip and into the mud beneath his boots. He had - at some point in the fury - taken up a spear that was burrowed into the ground and had been fighting since with that.

Through pure chance, the fighting had led Vangelis closer to the King and it was as he dispatched another Creeder that his attention was snagged by the golden breast plate of Stephanos moving at a sharp angle - catching the evening light as he was pulled from his feet to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Vangelis hurried over and as the drowned one latched his hands around the king's neck, Vangelis discarded his adopted spear, took his scythe bladed sword in both hands and swung it with all his might. The Creeder's head seemed to stay in position for a second and then reacted late, flying off to the right, following the swing of his blade. Or perhaps that was just adrenaline, editing his perceptions. Either way, the terrorist with regicidal intent would do no further harm to Stephanos without a head.

Reaching out a hand to bring the man back to his feet, Vangelis' found Stephanos to be as blood splattered as himself. The two of them didn't pause for thank yous or comments. The both of them knew where they were and what was happening around them. Now was not the time...

Now was the time for killing...

Within another hour - just as the sun was kissing the horizon and starting to darken the sky into dusk, the battle was coming to a close. Like with most battles, there was no great climactic finish, no powerful victory or cheering crowd. Generally, war ended by petering out, to the point where the soldiers still left standing had to stop, look around, and double check that the combat had indeed died down. There was no obvious ending to a battle until there was no-one left standing to fight it.

Vangelis looked about himself, wiping at his mouth and brow with his forearm, his blade still in hand. He noticed how many black figures lay prone on the ground and how many Taengeans lay beside them. There would be a good number of women who wouldn't be welcoming home their sons and husbands...

His gaze fell on Nike who was - as usual - never far from his side - but battle had sent her more to fight with Lord Gavriil than with himself. And between them was knelt a masked man. He was on his knees, his hands bound behind his back. Nike held a blade at his neck whilst the Taengean lord was standing on his legs to stop escape. Vangelis glanced towards the King as Nike called over to them, reporting the hostage to be a man of leadership integrity within the Creed.

Vangelis caught the king's eye over the opportunities such a hostage afforded, before looking out over the battlefield again. So many dead. Despite the victory, Vangelis suspected that the king (and his loyalists) would only consider their sacrifice to be worth it based on what information they could extract from the man they would be taking back to the capitol. Vangelis almost winced at the ideas of what might be done to him to extract any pertinent information about his order. The man would most likely prefer death.