In his life, Valen had taken part in three battles before this one.
The first, as a sword-for-hire in Arkawatt's dusty war, when they were little more than wolves leashed to a beggar prince's coin.
The second, a desperate ambush fought a Decurio, striking down the would-be usurper uncle of the Princess, a man who grasped for the throne only to be crowned king of worms beneath the roots of a fig tree, as it was usual for the burial of member of the Yarzat royal family.
The third, at the Bleeding Plains, where he served as a sub-centurio in what would be the crowning battle of the star of Yarzat.
In all of them, the enemy had fought in lines. Disciplined. Predictable. Clashes of steel and spear that at least looked clean, even as the dirt soaked in blood and the deads mounted up.
This? There were no cleanliness in it.
