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His curled fist shot into the air. For the fourth time in the last hour, his army of arctic wolves halted. He was wearing deeply engraved armour that was identical to that worn by the rest of his soldiers. The bronze was secured by coarse, leather straps. It was designed to protect the vital organs of the wearer. They wore no helmets. They risked reducing visibility too much. He sniffed the air, it was heavy. The looming clouds were full to burst. A cold wind blew. He growled quietly to himself. Snow would slow their progress, but at least they would have the benefit of camouflage. He gave the signal and his wolves continued. The tundran bushes offered no resistance to the toughened paws of five thousand soldiers. After another ten minutes, they reached their final obstacle. A great river, once rushing with tonnes of mountain water. Now a frozen lake.

"Continue at pace brothers, it will surely hold out weight!" He boomed back.

No verbal reply was necessary. They continued to march. The ice showed no signs of strain. A light fog had formed on the opposite bank. Besides that it, was void of life. After five minutes they were barely half way across the lake. The fog had thickened substantially. It had spewed out onto the ice. Suddenly, his fist jerked up again. He said nothing as he squinted, trying to see through the fog. His soldiers stood patient and steadfast. His eyes narrowed...

They were not alone.

A solitary figure lumbered forward, out of the fog. As it approached its gut bounced and its army swung loosely. A sword was wielded in its right hand. There was no doubt it was the enemy. One of his soldiers howled at it. The bear didn't respond. Instead it came closer, onto the ice. It bared its teeth, they glisten white in comparison to its dirty brown fur. He didn't move a muscle; his eyes were locked with the bear's. Slowly a long, uneven silhouette shuffled out of the fog. More bears, clad in iron and steel patchwork and armed to the teeth. Quite literally in some circumstances. Their incisors were like daggers. The wolves were trained to use swords as a preference. But you seldom got your preference in war. He counted along the line, estimating how many bears deep it was. There were only about two thousand enemies. Still they stretched across a good portion of the bank.

He was uneasy. Despite the cold, he began to pant. There bears were tough, but their greatest strength was their numbers. His heart began to race. There should be more. His exhalation was in frosty jets. His lieutenant appeared at his side. They knew each other well enough that no formal greeting was needed. He held a great sword in one, muscular arm, made for two. With its sharp point he indicated left of the enemy force. Something else was coming into view. At first he thought the fog had cleared and that he was looking at a distant tree line. Then another two thousand bears emerged from the fog. They extended the line beyond what could be seen. His heart sank; he didn't need to look to the right to know a third platoon of enemies was approaching. They were outnumbered, but almost certainly evenly matched. He whistled and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. His army split itself into blocks of one hundred wolves and stretched out as far along the lake as the bears. It would be a battle to the death.

He felt his heart rise in his throat and the blood pumping in his ears. No matter how often he entered these circumstances he never grew accustomed to it. To be relaxed was to let your guard down. There was no calm before the storm. Just silence on the ice. He picked up his shield; his lieutenant fell back to his position and instructed the whole army to ready itself. No motivational words were passed. They knew what they were in for by now. He locked eyes with the bears' general again. He would be the first casualty of his battle. They could not delay any longer; it would be a sign of weakness. Weakness would get them killed. His tail swiped behind him nervously. The pressure in the air was positively crushing. The tension was so crisp it was electric.

And then it broke. The first flakes of snow fell. They landed on his nose, he didn't dare flinch.

"Charge!" he roared.

He was supported with a myriad of howls. They broke into a full out sprint. The bears began to advance at pace too. The two armies mirrored each other. The sound of paws hammering on the ground was deafening. The battle on the ice had begun.

Fifty metres, twenty five metres, ten metres, first strike! From far away they looked like oil and water colliding. The front line blurred but never broke. Black against white, clashing on a plateau of cool blue. Powered forward by his brethren's morale, he landed the decisive blow he had intended. The general fell back, the ice around him shattered as he collapsed. But it did not stop the hoard. Retreating was not an option, neither was surrendering. But it was always that way with the bears. Arrows flew, swords clattered, shields splintered: blood splattered across the ice and gushed from wounds. Heads rolled and corpses floated limply in the icy lake. Lives were lost and death was rampant. The outcome was not important. For victory or defeat, the battle had taken place.