The Hovaleans were quick to pour out of the gates once Mara had given them leave, but much slower to advance on the army that had them surrounded. Escaping the threat of further bombardment proved an appealing prospect. Facing down the overwhelming number of enemies was far less so.

“What do we do now?” said the foremost of them, a half-blind fellow with a hook-shaped scar on his cheek.

“Fight, I suppose,” spoke a red-haired lass, though her assertion carried none of the confidence it warranted.

Unfortunately, they would receive little time to ponder their options. His rage finally cooling down somewhat, the Lord LeBaron found the presence of mind to express his will anew. Sighting the emerging mob, he pointed a finger at them and barked orders to the troops.

“Go!” he shouted. “Spread the order! Attack! Let no peasant leave this field alive!”

While some mounted men drove their horses to convey the order throughout the ranks, those on foot surged forward toward the manor and the Hovalean peasants that had emerged from it. Some kept their features set in stern resolve: just honest men hired to do a dirty job. But there remained among them the many mercenaries who took more pleasure in their work, cheering and chortling as they advanced to take their part in the forthcoming slaughter.

“They’re coming!” screamed one of the peasants. His quivering legs carried him back a step, and then another. The people clung to weapons none of them quite knew how to wield, torn between the call to action and the instinct that told them this was the end.

But Mara heard their fears and moved to assuage them. She scaled the manor’s wall and stood atop it so that she could see all and all could see her. Looking to the Hovalean mass, she shouted down to them.

“Fear not!” she commanded. “My power won’t fail! Trust in me!”

Even then, they remained unsure that they could. But with the enemy drawing far too near for any other course, the red-headed woman shut her eyes tight, tightened her grip on her gardening scythe, and unleashed a mighty, desperate scream as she leaped toward the attackers.

Too afraid to look, she settled for frantic action, blindly swinging her scythe with all her might and hoping to hit something. Anything that touched her drew the weapon upon itself. She took a swipe at any sound she heard. The shouting and laughter of the enemy fueled her desperate fury, and she didn’t stop until all she could hear was the sound of her own scythe swinging at nothing but air.

Cautiously, she peaked through one eye, but the other soon snapped open at the sight of what her action had wrought. She was surrounded by at least twenty fallen foes, some still breathing, some dismembered, and some mangled and dead. The nearest enemies stood frozen in bewilderment at the sight of her single-handed carnage. Her fellow Hovaleans were similarly awestruck.

Mara, on the other hand, was entirely unmoved. Arms crossed, she stood stern upon her wall-top perch and offered only a quiet nod of approval.

“We can do this,” uttered the half-blind Hovalean. “Mountains alive, we can actually do this!” Hesitating no longer, he unleashed a mighty shout and rushed toward the nearest mass of enemies with his axe raised high.

His lacking depth perception proved an immediate issue, for when he swung to cleave a black-clad mercenary, he hit nothing but grass and dirt. His target seized the advantage and bashed him in the face with a shield of steel, then followed up by striking with a rusty blade. Though dazed by the assault, the scarred peasant felt no pain and suffered no harm. He adopted a gleeful grin as the next swing of his axe struck true.

Emboldened, more of the besieged peasants began to throw themselves into the fray. One of them threw himself far harder than he intended, his heaven-touched legs carrying him clear over the heads of a great number of enemy soldiers. Unable to right himself, he crashed headlong into a mounted rider and knocked the man from his horse. Dizzy and shaken, he was unable to defend himself as several soldiers struck at him with their spears. Fortunately, he had no need to.

Unharmed by their steel, he took hold of one of the spears and swung it around with its wielder still hanging on, knocking over a number of enemies. He managed to shake the wielder free, then turned the spear against them all. Thrusting and swinging without a hint of skill, he managed to fell every enemy that came within range and marveled at his own power as he eagerly chased down more.

The peasants spread out to seek and confront the full range of the enemy at the gates and see to it that none of them managed to so much as reach the manor’s walls. One of them took no weapons at all to hand, for he had witnessed the durability of his fellows and decided to put his fists to the test. Every helmet he struck crunched into the skull of the man it was meant to protect. Every chest he punched caved in.

“I could get used to this!” he exclaimed as he delivered a haymaker that snapped two necks in turn. In time, he took a shield to hand, but he did not hold it for long, instead opting to send it soaring into the gut of the nearest target. He chuckled at his own clever improvisation.

As what was meant to be a sure slaughter steadily turned into a hopeless situation, fear began to take root in the hearts of the men called to arms in the name of the Lord.

“What sorcery is this?”

“Demons! Demons, all of ‘em!”

“This ain’t what I signed up for…”

“What kind o’ wine’s that bloody Lord hoardin’?!”

The consensus was clear: none had come prepared to face the might the Mark-bearers brought to bear, and those still at a distance were loath to close it and risk sharing their comrades' misfortune.

None were further removed from the front lines than the triad of nobles. Lord LeBaron's rage had subsided at last, replaced now by the pure shock and horror of seeing his overwhelming force brought low. The manor had been lost from the start as far as he'd been concerned, defiled as it was by that arcane urchin and her ilk. Simple revenge was all he desired--the chance to put those peasants in their place--and it seemed that even that would slip away.

The reclining Bram, on the other hand, had rather a dispassionate look about him. The peasants had come outside. Good; that meant they were no longer in the manor touching his things. That their presence on the field of battle had unexpectedly spelled the doom of so many soldiers was a matter of little concern, for what purpose did a soldier have but to die for his Lord?

His father was of a similar mind, but the course he chose diverged from the desires of the young Master. “We’re going,” said the Lord as he mounted his horse. Incredulous, Bram pushed himself upright.

“But Father,” he whined. “The manor!”

“The manor is lost, boy!” LeBaron snapped. “Let us not let our lives follow the same course. The soldiers will cover our escape. We will return to Lord Adamanth’s abode at once.”

Bram looked forlornly to Marianne, whose fearful gaze offered him no support. With a heavy sigh, he got to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. Lord LeBaron did not wait for them to finish getting onto their own horse before taking off. “Hold the line, men!” he shouted as he sped past the bombardiers and their trebuchets. The discontented grumbling of his sacrificial pawns failed to reach his ears.

But she who stood overlooking the field of battle did not fail to note the stirring on the outskirts of the action. Though she could not determine for certain the identity of those who would flee from the conflict they had instigated, it was easy enough to guess.

“Craven scum,” Mara quietly seethed. After a deep breath, she leaped from her high perch and landed outside the wall, then started walking.

She was not long on the move before enemies that remained dedicated to their fight took note of her. The first that moved to strike her was quickly dispatched by a gnarled root that shot up from the earth to impale him. Her will handled the second in a similar manner as she broke into a jog on her path to her prey.

She was sprinting before she encountered the next assailant, whose head messily came off as she clotheslined him without a second thought. A garden of horrors erupted from the soil in her wake: roots and branches strangled, constricted, and impaled any enemies unfortunate enough to be too close as the Ikoras’ pace grew to exceed that of even the swiftest steed.

And then, she ran even faster.

A veritable wind tunnel formed around her as she charged, violently tossing aside any who dared to step into her path. The trebuchets were knocked off balance as she blitzed past them. Bram and Marianne were nearly thrown from their horse as she ignored them to chase the Lord. The sound of her storming toward her target drew LeBaron’s eyes behind him, and he sighted her just in time to catch her soaring through the air with her arm outstretched to cleave him.

“No!”

The Lord LeBaron met his end that day, his entire torso obliterated by the woman who’d become her own artillery.

Mara violently crashed into the ground thereafter and went sliding through the dirt. When she finally stopped, she pushed herself upright to survey her handiwork. A pair of legs yet lingered upon the steed as it fled in terror, though its bucking and galloping soon threw them clear. Wearied, the young woman drew heavy breaths as she stood and walked back in the direction whence she’d come. There was little left to see of the Lord now. Some finery and errant flesh were all that remained.

“I warned you,” Mara spoke at the leftovers of the Lord. “Your greed has gotten you killed.”

That was the version of events she would convey when it came time to tell the story. But she would always know in her heart of hearts that his greed had facilitated her glory.

While she was musing, the son of her victim and his betrothed managed to catch up to her. She turned her cold violet eyes upon them as Bram brought their horse to a halt.

“Father…”

Narrowing her gaze, the Ikoras stepped forward to strike the final blow.