Vangelis had spotted the incoming sneak attack at the same time as Nike. Unfortunately, he was several dozen yards further away than her, watching his men up front. Men he could not leave, for fear that they would panic or lose hope. That which they were doing already.

He could see it in their movements, in their steps. The lack of confidence, the uncertainty. The limited strength. His men were tired. They needed something.

As he watched his Commander Nike step forward to deal with the attackers alone, he snorted at her impulsiveness but also had an idea.

"Sound the horn!" Vangelis called to one of his retinue, who wielded the bugle for companywide commands.

Unsheathing both of his swords, the curves of the Saracen blades shining in the glare of the lightning flashes and limited moonlight, it was clear by his actions what the General meant. A call would be made; one that told his men that the General was joining the fight personally.

The rain pummelled, plastering his hair to his scalp and his leather armour to his skin, Vangelis steered his mount towards the back of his company and kicked it forwards.

Steering only with his legs and wielding his twin swords like wings of violence, Vangelis charged down the small hill he had found for his commanding view and pelted towards the back of his men at full gallop, the sound of his own bugle calling out through the air.

It was more luck than judgement that had him reaching his Commander as she was crippled from behind her legs sliced beneath her and crumpling her stature to her knees. Her attacker, whom she had been holding her own against until that moment, took the opportunity to raise his weapon, the killing blow to be dispatched within heartbeats.

Except Vangelis got there first.

Never slowing his horse, Vangelis charged right by the two, his sword swinging and Nike's executioner suddenly losing his head.

Without looking back, Vangelis continued forwards, his horse at full gallop and his blades swinging with deadly precision. Four head removals later and he had reached the opposing side of his military unit, having left a trail of headless bodies spilling torrents of frothy blood over the mud that had once been a field, pooled of crimson collecting in the dips and footprints in the earth.

With a sharp command of his legs, Vangelis turned his mount back around and repeated the process, ensuring the last of the rear attack had been dismantled.

It was only then that he approached his Commander at a speed that allowed for conversation as he held out a hand from the back of his horse to pull her up to her feet, despite how wobbly she was there from her injuries.

"I'm taking your command!" He yelled at the woman over the sounds of war, death and storm. "Go back to the camp and see the medic!" There was no way she would be able to hold her ground as a fighter when she couldn't hold herself upright on her own legs. She had been lucky not to lose one of them, as the injuries looked deep but not unable to be healed with time.

Drenched through with rain, speckled from head to foot in the blood of those he had decapitated and with crimson running down the legs of his mount, where he had galloped with puddles of blood on his second run, Vangelis was indeed - in that moment - the Blood Prince, his men had always feared and respected.

Spying one of the heads he had taken in his first pass. Vangelis leaned over and skewered the piece of his enemy on the end of his blade.

Without another word to Nike, Vangelis rode fast around his unit, cantering down its flank with the weapon and head held high for all to see. The head wore no helmet or anything to suggest its rank so Vangelis used the vagueness of its appearance to break the enemy flanks.

"Your leader is dead!" He called over the thunder and the lightening. "I have his head!" As lightening flashed again, Vangelis was illuminated, his mount and body covered in blood, the rain making him look wet through and drenched with the stuff, his weapon held aloft and the lifeblood of his kill running down the silver of the blade, over his hand and down his arm. "You shall not survive the night!"

Throwing out his arm, Vangelis launched the head into the crowd of the front lines of enemy soldiers and suddenly there was panic amongst their flanks.

Several scrambled to try and see if they had indeed lost their leader, worry painted the faces of many others.

It would be a few minutes before the true commander of the army would be able to establish himself as alive and Vangelis wasn't about to waste them.

"Charge!"



An hour later and the field was calm. There was no more fighting, no more screaming... even the storm had passed. What was left was a lot of death. Mutilation - of both human bodies and the earth they had churned into mud beneath their boots was the overarching theme of the panoramic. The entire place was drenched in the blood of both friends and foes and bodies littered the ground in every direction.

Many of his men were tired, on their rears in the mud, their faces smeared, their muscles aching.

Vangelis had gotten down from his horse ages ago and fought alongside them as a simple footman and was feeling the same effects they were. But they could not leave yet. Their border had been defended but they could not return to camp just yet.

"Get up!" He called to the men, heavy in his breath but firm in his stance and tone. "Get up and pay your dues." He told them with a sweep of his sword out towards the bodies. "These men fought and died for Colchis. For you." He told them. "Let us give them their honour."

All of his men knew what he was commanding because he did so after every battle.

The fallen victims of the combat would be laid out respectfully and burnt.

Every one of Vangelis' men, by order, wore a leather necklace. Back in Colchis he ordered shipments of coins with holes melded into them, in order for two of them to be attached around the neck of every one of his fighters. The men who joined the Colchian armies always received their first payment minus those two coins but the melding and customisation Vangelis ensured that the crown paid for. Any man who was willing to offer up his life to the kingdom should be allowed the dignity of passing into the Underworld freely.

Joining his own men, regardless of rank, in order to start picking up their fallen comrades and laying them out neatly into a square they could set alight in one go, Vangelis felt his muscles burn and the slices his enemies had taken out of his arms and legs protest but he gritted his teeth. His wounds were not deep. And these men deserved to reach Hades in peace.