ArkonosBoard

The Declaration of Falskt

Hall of Unity, Helsingstad

Dukes, lords and other nobility were gathering in the Hall of Unity, it was rather late for a meeting, but this was no meeting like any other, It was the meeting that would give start to an event that would shake all of Eskeland. Ever since the death of King Karl at the hands of an unknown assassin sent by an unknown contractor, the country has slowly been descending into chaos and madness. The council took the controversial, if not unpopular ,decision of sending the only heir into exile to the neighbouring country of Ryeongse, a decision that did not sit well with the people of Eskeland, since Ludvig was very popular with the people, however this did pave the way for the meeting that would take place.

Under the cover of the night, one by one, they all entered the building making their way to the main hall where a big table stood, set up for the occasion. Some of the ducal guards stood guard inside and outside of the building. Mikhail anxiously awaited, already sitting on his chair, indicating to them to take a seat as they came in, beside him was Vidar standing guard. The hall was well decorated and in it hung the banner that they would all fly from that day onward. Servants brought in ale and mead for the nobles.

Once everyone inside and in their places, Mikhail gave the order for everyone to keep quiet to allow him to begin, "Look at that..." He said in a hush tone, "Thank you everyone for coming here today, I am happy, as a matter of fact, everyone should be happy! I am more than proud to say that the time has come, the time to rise up against the false monarchy, to rise up against those who deny my rightful claim!" Applause came from the crowd, "Karl might be dead and his family exiled, but the council still denies my claim instead deciding to invite a Halder Prince, who's more close to being Hallish than Skeljaner. This "Prince" will come and take away everything that makes this country what it is, its traditions, its culture, its language, our way of living, and slowly replace it with his disgusting Hallish ways."

The crowd stood there, listening to his every word, one of the nobles, a certain Lord Haidegg, stood from his chair, he was one of the most loyal to the cause, and spoke, "Aye! I agree with you my liege, My people and I have been victims to this extermination of our culture, especially this new influx of elves into my domains, It has caused us more than enough problems and all because of that fool Ranaeril, the architect of what I call a crime against our people!" The other nobles who stood beside him all applauded in agreement with him, "We must stop them before it's too late, I stand with you my liege from the beginning until the end!" The nobles all stood up and began cheering, some were even heard chanting Mikhail's name.

"I am glad that everyone here supports my righteous claim and are more than willing to fight for it until the very end to achieve our goals. This isn't only about me, but all of us that have for years seen our country fall apart internally. The rule of the av Varbergs may have come to an end, but there is still a long path ahead of us to restore our country to its former glory, to the old days, and with Miskunn as my witness I swear I won't rest until it is done!" Mikhail picked up a piece of paper he had in his side and showed it to everyone, "I hold here a piece of paper, but not any piece of paper, this here contains the oath of loyalty, I will read to each of you the last sentence and if you accept you will say "Aye" and sign the paper with your name, this way I can know who amongst us here is truly committed to it and who decided to betray us by not raising his sword for the cause, let us begin!"

The nobles all lined up, except for someone by the name of Sven, a minor noble, who slipped out of the hall, without anyone noticing, at the very end. One by one they accepted the oath and signed their names in the paper. When everyone was done Mikhail raised the paper and spoke, "Now, with all these signatures this is no longer an ordinary piece of paper with some words written in it but a declaration, a declaration of rebellion against the false monarchy. I might sound hypocritical for mentioning this, but we must take an example out of the Hallish Revolt and fight for what we believe. Mikhail ended his speech with a toast, "In a week's time we ride for Junheim Castle, to a successful rebellion!" Everyone raised their cups and followed with a "Cheers!" and then they drank.

Few remained afterwards in small groups talking amongst each other. The majority left after the toast to be able to arrive in a good hour to their residences. Mikhail was pull aside by one of the lords, for a while he wanted to ask him a question in private but couldn't find the moment until now, "My lord" he said.

Mikhail turned to speak with whoever it was that called him out, "Yes? Oh, Lord Verdal, what is it you need of me? It is rather late and I believe you live quite far from here."

"Yes that is true my lord, but I had the urgency to ask you a question that had been bothering me for weeks now and now was the best moment to ask."

"Very well, go ahead, but mind you not, I do not have much time for talk."

"Yes yes, of course my lord. I am sure you are more than aware of the way King Karl died, I found it rather weird that shortly after his death you are taking advantage of the situation to execute your plan."

"And? Do you happen to have a problem with that?" Mikhail was starting to look rather angry at his words.

"No, of course not my lord, I just wanted to know if it was you who sent the assassin after him."

"No, it wasn't me and I do not know who it was either and I do not care, but I won't let an opportunity like this pass. Is that all? Now if you'll excuse me I have to be at the castle before midnight."

"Of course my lord, a thousand pardons for wasting your time like this." He apologised. In a way he was relieved that he didn't cause it, but at the same time he felt nervous that he didn't care. He was scared that whoever sent that assassin would come for Mikhail next or he could have simply been lying he thought to himself. Only time would tell.

Divided Dhorvatai
Dhorvas civil war part 1
Development post

The streets in Dhorvatai were bustling with activity. Merchants were peddling their wares from the outer reaches of the city or farmlands beyond it. People largely continued as they had for years. One might have forgotten there was a war, if not for the large number of armed patrols. Dhorvatai had always had patrols, but these were all clad in the azure and gold of the dhoshur and dhoshen guards. Salar had watched the fourth such patrol pass by his spot near a meat vendor along the main road toward the center of the city. The fourth in just over an hour.

It seemed to him that they were rather paranoid, but then the guards only controlled the capital. When the last sahraqan had died and the council had failed to elect a new one, they seized control. In their own words, they were *protecting* Dhorvatai until the culprits could be found and punished.

Salar smirked at the thought. They were essentially declaring an indefinite reign. It was still unknown just who had been behind the assassination of Sahraqan Okin. Many had blamed the rebelling Renatists for the attack. It was not an unreasonable assumption given that Okin had handed over their leader to the orthodox artyanists in Northern Kivoruhn, who had promptly executed the man quite publicly.

There had been, however, very little real evidence, merely accusations leveled upon the religious group and even at others with influence in the council. To declare guardianship until the truth had been found was just as well declaring themselves successors. No one would likely know who had committed the act. More importantly, thought Salar, no one any longer cared. The ensuing build up by the regional juvemqans and other leaders and the outbreak of war had shoved such concerns aside. All that mattered now was who would win.

This was why Salar was here. While its purpose was largely symbolic, many factions sought control of the capital to cement or at least give legitimacy to their claims. The faction Salar served was not any different in this regard. The problem was the dhoshen and dhoshur. His job was to find information they could use, and if able, stir some trouble. The two guard groups had different leaders. In theory, the dhoshur were a part of the dhoshen, but they specifically guarded the sahraqan so many of them believed they were better than the other dhoshen members. Salar had already seen issues occur between the two factions and was confident that discord could be sewn between them with the right assistance.

After watching another patrol, Salar decided it was time to move on from his present spot, lest he be seen there too long. He did not need questions for loitering, especially in these times. It was just as well as the scents from the butcher’s stall were beginning to make his mouth water. He decided it was time for a meal.

Salar followed the central road that ran the length of Dhorvatai through the center of the city. The road would eventually lead him to the Grand Yurt of the Sahraqan, presently occupied by the leader of the dhoshur; Golma. Delche, leader of the rest of the dhoshen, had her own headquarters elsewhere in the city, something Salar was sure only added to the rivalry between the two factions. His own path would not take him to the yurt but to a tavern just past the religious quarter and before the quarter that generally housed the soldiers and was now home to mostly members of the guards. This location made it very popular, and Salar could fill his stomach while still listening for information.

Salar glanced up to the sign above the entrance before stepping inside. The tavern was called The Lost Rock. It was owned and run by a dwarf named Thadren. Dwarves did not generally care for khemakh. The feeling was often mutual. The story, as he had heard in passing one night in the tavern, was that the dwarf had been a soldier with blacklight. When the dwarves had been present during a ceremony after one of the previous crises over a decade before, this one had accidently been drunk and left behind. Salar doubted the story was true, but it made for a fun telling and he was sure the dwarf half encouraged the stories himself, and enjoyed the customers it helped bring. The fact that dwarven ale was better than what his own people made helped too.

Salar made his way to his preferred spot; a small table toward the back where he generally went less noticed, which was good for both observing and eating in peace. A servant brought him a meal of meat stew and bread and Salar placed a few coins for pay. Salar savored a bite of stew before looking around to see who shared his company tonight. Most were other citizens in the city. He spotted a couple of merchants who appeared to be haggling while they ate. A stray elf sat alone in a corner and glanced around themselves awkwardly, very aware of how out of place they looked. There were a number of dhoshen guards as well, as there often were. He caught sight of the dwarf coming up a staircase that led below. The tavern was more than a place for a meal, it was also an inn and a warehouse where the dwarf peddled other goods; unique salts from Elvhenen and tea and tobacco from Ryeongse, though his supplies were likely hampered by the war.

Salar’s attention shifted suddenly to the door as it swung open and revealed a new group of dhoshen guards. Unlike those already seated inside, these ones were Dhoshur. Salar could tell from the red sun on the center of their armor. Dhoshen armor was generally azure and gold, with a golden sun on the chest, a representation of Sahnra, the more dominant khemakh god since the Dhorva who had united Dhorvas were followers of the sky god. They wore no helms, another old khemakh custom. At some point, the dhoshur began painting the golden sun red on their armor to distinguish themselves from the regular dhoshen. Yet another practice that promoted animosity among them.

Two were khemakh but one of the three was a tall and stocky dsen. The group moved through the tavern as most people within cleared a path before them. They stopped just before a large table where several dhoshen were already seated. Though the dhoshen had meals, none of them were eating, their eyes had been fixed on the dhoshur as soon as they arrived. Salar could feel the tension in the air.

“You’re in our spot. Lesser dhoshen sit toward the back.” growled the khemakh that led the other dhoshur. He was the largest of the three with dark coal grey scales.

“There are no lesser dhoshen!” said one of the seated khemakh angrily.

The dsen among the dhoshur dropped their sword on the table with some force, clearly making a show of it. Several of the dhoshen jumped up from their seats and several stools went rolling back among the other tables.

“That’s enough!” came a shout and most turned to the dwarf who had come to stand between the two groups. Salar was impressed, both at the dwarf’s speed and having the spine to get between the two groups. 'I’ll not have you making a mess of my place.”

“We will act as we please, dwarf.” said the dsen. “We make the rules here in Dhorvatai.”

“Well as that be, Golma respects my rights to say on my own property. Or shall I take it up with her? I’m sure she needs another headache right now and would thank you for it. If a fight’s what you want, take it outside so I don’t have to clean up after you lot.”

Before the dsen could argue, the khemakh that led them raised his hand. “We’ll leave it for now. There are places less cramped with lesser dhoshen anyway.” he said and then turned to leave with the others laughing and following him out.

A collective sigh seemed to cross the room though Salar could still feel the tension. He picked up his half eaten stew and approached the dwarf.

“You handled that well, I was expecting a brawl.” Salar said to Thadren.

“Not the first time I’ve had to deal with their sh!t.” said Thadren. “Fortunately Aimur knows Golma holds his leash, though I’d pray to any of your lizard gods for her to reign it in a bit…no offense meant,” he added with a look to Salar as though he only then realized he was talking to a khemakh.

“None taken. I’m not sure they’d help anyway.” Salar remarked. Thadren gave a snort. “That Aimur, he is close to Golma then?”

Thadren raised an eyebrow as he eyed Salar again. “You new to Dhorvatai?”

“Well, somewhat”, Salar admitted. Being honest was often a good way to get information he found. “Been stuck here a bit with the mess.”

“You and half the city!” sighed Thadren. “Aimur is one of her main commanders, a second you could say, one of them anyway.”

“Ah. Rather quarrelsome for a person of his standing, isn’t he?”

“That he sadly is, though everyone seems to be looking for a fight these days.” The dwarf took notice of his half empty bowl and then waved his hand toward the door. “But enough of that. Can I get you anything? An ale to ease the tension? An ale for everybody!” he then boomed loudly. A chorus of cheers erupted in response and several servants began pouring ale for the eager crowd.

Salar smiled and gave his thanks before returning to his table with a fresh mug of dwarven finest. The ale was good, and it did much to ease his mind and that of the room, but his thoughts were focused on Aimur and new plans were beginning to work their way in his mind as he finished his stew.

*****

Aimur watched as Ji-Hae continued to kick the human merchant, laughing as he did. A smirk split along Aimur’s long jaw. They were doing their usual protection rounds, demanding their weekly payment from those who benefited from their so-called protection. Being an officer in the Dhoshur was prestigious, but the coin it brought was lessened with the chaos in Dhorvas. Their protection put a bit more into his pockets. When someone decided they did not want to pay for their help any longer, they persuaded them to reconsider.

“I think he gets the message Ji-Hae. Collect his donation, we have others to visit yet before Golma’s meeting.” Aimur said to his overly enthusiastic partner. Ji-Hae looked up and Aimur thought he saw disappointment in his eyes. The dsen enjoyed this too much. He laughed a bit to himself at the thought.

The two made their way down one of the smaller roads that branched from the main road of Dhorvatai and splintered through the various quarters that made up the city. They were in the merchant quarter and had been for much of the morning, weighing their pockets with coins. It was how they spend the start of each new week.

“Couple surogs, five luwon, mostly some kivoruhn kunari,” Ji-hae said, listing various forms of currency found in Dhorvas. The surog was the currency established under the new order when Dhorvas united, but the older dsen luwon and kunari of northern kivoruhn were still used. Occasionally they found merchants using other foreign currency when they needed to.

“There is much yet to collect this morning.” said Aimur.

“I look forward to what we find.” replied Ji-Hae.

Aimur smirked again and was about to reply when a sound caught his ear. He paused, listening for it. He had almost decided he had imagined it when he heard it again. A shout? No, someone crying out? He turned down one of the small alleys that branched off the proper roads. After turning a corner he found himself in an open space.

“Did you catch that, Ji-Hae?” he asked. When Ji-hae did not reply he turned and found that he was alone. He cursed. Was Ji-Hae too busy counting coins to notice he had turned off the road? He was beginning to go back when he heard it again. It was definitely some sort of cry, yet he could not quite make it out fully. A child maybe? He did not think it was just an animal. He continued down another alley, then another. The quarters were maze-like once you moved from the roads into the alley ways that wound through the buildings. Once most of these were still yurts, but over a decade of building and the influx of more people had created a vast network of structures.

Aimur finally exited another alley into a small open area. There were no other alley ways to follow and the area seemed completely walled in by the surrounding buildings, as if someone had neglected the paths here and accidentally built the structures right against one another. Only the alley behind him let into the strange little alcove. There was a door directly before him that led seemingly into the wall ahead. Perhaps there was an exit out on the other side.

The cry echoed again. It was coming from inside. Aimur drew his sword and moved forward to open the door. The inside was lit by many lanterns and candles. It was a single large room, adorned with rugs and cushions. A meeting place of some sort, perhaps a gambling den. Another door opposite him led to another room. He could not find the source for the cry. Perhaps it lay in the next room.

He approached the door cautiously, sword raised. He reached for the door but then recoiled. Something was wrong. The light was dimming. He could see a darkness that seemed as much in his head as around him and before he could turn or swing his sword in panic, everything went dark.

*****

Aimur awoke with a start and in pain as if someone had just slapped him. He felt it again and his senses began to assert themselves. He was in a small, dimly lit room. Light filtered in from the lone door and he could see the familiar rugs and lanterns in the room beyond the door. He was in the room he had been about to enter before everything had gone dark.

As his eyes adjusted he realized he was not alone. At least three others stood in the room with him. His reflexes wanted to reach for his sword and it was then he realized that he was bound to a chair, his sword likely long gone. His movement made a creaking noise in his bonds and the others in the room seemed to note that he was regaining his awareness. One of them approached and the light revealed another khemakh, one smaller than himself with scales dark and gleaming, though it may have been a trick of the light.

“Hello, Aimur. I am glad you could join us for a moment.” said the other khemakh.

“Who are you? What do you want? Do you understand the mistake you have made by binding me?” Aimur began spitting questions.

“My name is Salar, though it will do you little good to know it as you will not get to make much use of it I fear.”

Aimur caught the threat in his words. Even bound and in a disadvantaged position he still found the anger boiling in him and glared at the one named Salar. His eyes looked between the other two.

“Ah, you need not know their names. They are colleagues of mine, suffice it to say. Quite helpful ones at that. Did you enjoy the little display they put on for you? Mysticism is quite a bit of fun. They can confuse you and dazzle your mind with so many illusions. A wall that is not there, a person. Even sounds to lure you where we want you to go.”

So that was it, thought Aimur. They had used a mystic to trick him with the illusion of someone crying out. And he had taken the bait. What a damned fool. If only Ji-Hae had been with him.

“The other with me.”, Aimur said.

“Ah, the sound was for your ears only. Don’t you feel special now?” Salar said mockingly, a smirk developing across his jawline.

“The light…”

“That”, interrupted Salar, “required a bit of evocation from our other friend here.” Salar gestured to the person on the left. From their build and height, even in the dark they clearly were not khemakh. Human, Aimur guessed.

“I must say, it was quite fun to watch them work. Wish I had talents like theirs. It would make my work much easier.”

“Now that you have me,” said aimur, the animosity clear in his tone. “What do you intend to do with me? Ransom me to Golma?”

“I am not after coin. Though I will relieve you of yours, you will not be using it.”

“Then wha..”

“I am going to put you on display.”

Aimur felt his throat go dry. Any confusion as to what Salar meant disappeared with the laugh that followed from them. He tried quickly to think of some way out. His arms tensed as he desperately tried to break through the ropes binding him.

“Those are tighter than they look.”

“I can pay you...,” aimur said. His voice betrayed the real panic welling inside him.

“Your corpse is more valuable to me. And with it, the fires it will stoke between the dhoshur and the rest of the dhoshen. You people are like a powder keg. All you need is a little help and it will all blow up.” Salar then drew a knife. It glinted in the dim light.

“Please, I..,” began Aimur but Salar moved and Aimur felt the shock of pain along his throat and the wet feeling as blood began to flow freely. He tried to say something more but it was no use. He could only wait the last few moments in pain as the darkness grew once again. This time, he would not awake to the light.

The next day Aimur’s body was found alongside a couple of dhoshen bodies. It appeared a fight had broken out and the dhoshen had managed to kill the dhoshur officer. Several more fights broke out across dhorvatai as the dhoshur responded, and then the dhoshen answered again. Panic gripped the streets and Dhorvatai became a battlefield.

East and West, North and South

Tscynyasi, Imperial Kingdom of Uyuti, Tong Empire

The Imperial Throne, the center of the Imperial Palace and of the Tong Empire, was a great room. Massive in scale and capacity, and on many of a day, it would be packed with hundreds. The Emperor, his guards, Imperial nobility both native and from abroad, their guards, his many advisors and officials, and audience and petitioners alike. But today, it was a scant few.

Only a handful were in the room; the Emperor, Tong Jong-Yai, upon his throne and six guards, three to each side. The Imperial Marshal Hongzhong-Din stood immediately to his right hand side, and to the Marshal’s side were his three underlings, General-of-the-North Po-Zho, General-of-the-South Yong-Nai, and Admiral Swo-Nong. To the Emperor’s left stood the Grand Imperial Minister Yu-Qi, flanked only by a handful of lower ministers.

Standing before the Emperor were three new faces, all dressed in the armor of warriors of the Empire, each kneeling to honor the Emperor.

“Today, is a glorious day, but a solemn one as a precursor of what is to come. Today, we consecrate the beginning of new forces, of grand new armies to do great things. Today we elevate those who have served well to positions of great new heights, and to create things that are wonderous. Stepped forward Gon Yu-Lyo.” Emperor Jong-Yai said, his words loud and clear, echoing through enormous room.

Gon Yu-Lyo, the first of those kneeling before the Emperor, stood up. Walking forward toward Jong-Yai, his head bowed in respect to his sovereign.

“Gon Yu-Lyo, you have served honorably in the army of this Empire for many years; you show courage and cunning, and above all else loyalty to the state and to me. You have served well and it has shown, and thus, at the recommendation of Marshal Hongzhong-Din, you are elevated to the position of General-of-the-West; a new title and position, granted to you in your honor.” Jong-Yai said.

Jong-Yai gestured to the Marshal, who stepped forward to meet the newly made general. Hongzhong-Din presented a sword, a fine flamberge with the crossguard and handle that a of Uyutahn Dragon gilded in gold and pearls, and held it out in front of Yu-Lyo.

“I present this weapon as a symbol of your station, a weapon of authority, power, and prestige. Use it honorably, for your Emperor and your Empire.” The Marshal stated as Yu-Lyo picked up the sword and bowed.
General Yu-Lyo then moved to be behind the Marshal, standing next to the other Generals and Admiral.

“Fong Ji-Ong, step forward.” Jong-Yai said.

The next of the warriors kneeling stood, and walked forward, copying all the stepped and positions that Yu-Lyo had done. Making sure to be respectful at all times.

“Fong Ji-Ong, much like myself, you have served as both a monk and a soldier; your magic is mighty, and your mind is sharp and precise. Your tactics have proven to be the decisive factor to all the engagements you have ever commanded. You come highly recommended by both my ministers and my generals, and with your loyalty proven in Dhorvas, I elevate you to the position of General-of-the-East. Bear this new title with honor and nobility.” Jong-Yai said.

Ji-Ong stepped forward, like Yu-Lyo before him, and the Marshal presented an identical sword to the new General. And having taken it, Ji-Ong moved to beside Yu-Lyo and the others.

“Am Li-Syo, step forward.”

The final warrior arose and moved into the position before the Emperor.

“Am Li-Syo, you were once a humble fisherman, and then a merchant, and then a fine captain. You have served in the campaigns of the West with most great patience and are well liked by all the men you have ever commanded. The ships you have directed have performed with utmost efficiency, and thus by the recommendation of Admiral Swo-Nong, I grant you the title of Admiral-of-the-Black Fleet. Enjoy your title, but be humble and obedient, as Swo-Nong is now the Admiral-of-the-White Fleet.” Jong-Yai said.

Li-Syo stepped forward and received the final sword of the lot, identical to the first two.

“And with this, we have created not only two new generals and an admiral as well, but two new armies and a fleet to be commanded by them. Let us rejoice, both at their achievements, but also at the future they will bring us. A day when we guide all to a new future.” Jong-Yai said, “Let us the guide the universe to our way.”

Back To Obersrath

Fromaditatius, 344 ATF

A miserable and glum expression crossed Lyrenz’s face as he observed his surroundings. The pitter-patter of the rain fell constantly upon his gleaming armour, as he stood around in the freezing cold. His eyes were droopy and lined by dark circles. His wet blonde hair clung uncomfortably to his face, and his gleaming armour suffered under the torrential downpour just as much as its wearer. He rested his right hand on the pommel of his sword—though occasionally it would start to slip and he would have to readjust its position—and every few seconds or so he would let out a quiet sniffle, and clean his face with his left hand.

The men around him were in similar states, all shivering in the freezing cold. Being in the process of packing up the camp, they had no respite from the awful rains that had not ceased not once in the entire week. Obeying the orders of their superiors, they tore down their tents—the only place of shelter from the weather—and gathered the rest of their things, neatly arranging them on large wagons that in the next day would set off back to Obersrath.

Lyrenz turned his gaze to a group of soldiers who were in the middle of dismantling a great bombard. Dressed in light clothing, and without barely any armour, they shuddered and quivered, as they picked up crates of gunpowder and carted them off to a nearby wagon. The group of 10 or so men were being supervised by a rough looking individual, who wore a fanciful doublet and puffed up hoses. Stroking his large moustache with his hand, he barked out orders left and right, giving the men no time to rest.

“Careful with that, careful!” He shouted, turning to two of the men who were carrying a crate of gunpowder. “You mustn’t let the rain ruin it. Careful with it. Careful…” He continued, observing their handling of the crate with caution. The supervisor let out a hoarse cough, then spat onto the ground, before letting out yet more coughs.

“Iskren almighty…this rain will bloody kill us all.” He remarked to the men, provoking some laughter. Then suddenly one of the men slipped in his movement, and let a barrel of gunpowder drop onto the ground, which rolled along the mud before stopping.

“Bertók! What the hell are you doing with that, Iskren’s sake, let me handle it.” He shouted, picking up the barrel of gunpowder and bringing it over to the wagon. The soldier who had dropped the barrel attempted to get up, but each time his body lost its strength and he fell back down. Raising his hand to his temple, he clutched it tightly, groaning in pain. The supervisor noticed all this, as did the men, and an anxious expression crossed his face.

“Iskren almighty you look awful. You’re ill, man.” Said the supervisor, sizing the soldier up and down. “Go on your way, now, you’re not fit to do this. Eduárd! Come on over here, we need a hand in this, we’re a man down.” He snapped, helping the sick soldier up to his feet and sending him away with a pat on the back, before calling to one of the soldiers in the distance who had been sitting around idly.

“That’s another one. Whole army’s sick with it, I heard.” Commented a soldier as he watched the sick Bartók hobble away.

“Sick with what?” Asked another.

“I dun’ know. Could be anything.” Shrugged the soldier, whose eyes were still fixated elsewhere.

“How about you two actually get something done for Iskren’s sake! Bunch of good-for-nothing whelps.” Barked the supervisor and at once the two soldiers turned their attention back to their duties.

“Just how are we supposed to cart this thing back to Obersrath?” Groaned one of the men, looking at the large cannon as he hauled a barrel of cannonballs to the wagon.

“Could abandon it y’know…it was barely useful anyways.”

“This thing cost more Glänzen to make than you’ll ever earn in your life, Eduárd! So we are carting this thing to Obersrath despite your complaining! So quit it!”

“Quvite so.” Said a voice, who Lyrenz had not noticed before. Turning his attention to the voice, he saw a stubby middle-aged man dressed in a blue doublet and yellow hoses. His eyes were covered by spectacles, which Lyrenz had only seen worn by the respectable scholars back in Wyvern’s Rest. The man was also observing the supervisor and his soldiers dismantle the bombard, and he carried a proud and smug expression on his face.

“Besides, ve vould have made much better use of eet if ze hatt leesened to my calibrations.” Explained the stumpy man, and his strong Hallish accent resonated in every word.

“Oh shut up about your calibrations!” Groaned the supervisor.

“But you all deed not leesen, and now look at vere ve are…” Continued the Hallishman, a proud smirk drawn across his face as he delighted in explaining the errors of the supervisor and his men.

“You keep on talking and I’ll strike you in the face!” Threatened the supervisor, and the men chuckled.

“Say, goot Hallishman, how vill ve cart ze bombard to Obersrath?” Laughed another soldier, imitating the accent of the Hallish artillery officer. The Hallishman did not pay his mocking any heed, however, and answered his question immediately.

“Ve vill have to cart eet vith tventy horses.” Explained the Hallishman, and the men laughed again.

Lyrenz let out a chuckle at the Hallish artillery officer’s words, before his rosy and wet face suddenly donned the same glum expression that it had been wearing before. Noticing that the constant rain would not stop, and giving a final look at the numerous tents that were being torn down, he entered his own refuge of comfort, and found his squire, Fryderic, sitting comfortably by the table.

“Sir.” Greeted the squire humbly. His eyes were focused on a pamphlet that he was reading calmly.

“Frytsche.” Said Lyrenz, calling his squire by his nickname, which had been in use for years. He turned to the pamphlet that Frytsche was reading, his eyes darting from left to right, before he snatched it away from his squire’s hands.

“Where’d you get this?” He asked in an interrogative manner, and his squire immediately coloured up, his cheeks turning a bright red.

“A friend got it at Obersrath. They gave it to me.”

“Then you can tell your friend to stop reading Reformist writings. Bloody Riddish.” Snapped Lyrenz, tearing the pamphlet apart. His mood was already dampened by the rain and the miserable state of the Syrdish army, and now a sour expression crossed his face. He looked for somewhere to direct his anger, and as his eyes turned again to his squire, he spat.

“Clean it.” He said, unsheathing his sword and throwing it onto the table. It hit the wood with a sudden clang, startling Frytsche, who looked at Lyrenz with a concerned look.

“Does it…need cleaning?”

“I don’t know. Just clean it.” Barked the young knight, and at once his squire picked up the sword, though not before giving another worried and anxious look at Lyrenz.

“What’s gotten into you, Sir?” Said Frytsche, picking up the sword calmly, his tender blue eyes gazing at the young knight.

“Nothing. Now be off.” Snapped Lyrenz, and at once the squire went on his way, sword and cloth in hand. The pitter-patter of the rain did not cease, and letting out a short sniffle and wiping his hand with his palm, Lyrenz sat down on the tent’s table, resting his head on his right hand, as he closed his eyes and mulled over the events of the past week. He was anxious, and for good reason. Not only had the army’s situation taken a turn for the worse with the recent downpours, the young knight had found himself in a worrying situation—a culmination of unfortunate events that he regretted, if only slightly.

Lyrenz’s relationship with Lénárd had not improved after Uzhental. Taking Count Jakob’s word to heart, he resisted the old noble’s tirades and lambastings with a growing anger. Arguments between the two became common, as did headaches for Duke Martyn, who had become thoroughly exhausted by their quarrelling, as well as Lénárd’s constant calls for punishment for Lyrenz. Yesterday, however, things had taken a particularly bad turn. They had resumed an argument from the other day, over inconsequential matters concerning the siege, but that useless dispute had boiled over into a row, and soon insults were being traded between each other. Whatever the case, he now found himself in an unenviable spot, unlikely to get the Duke’s or Lénárd’s forgiveness (though he didn’t want it anyways, despite its advantages).

“Sir Lyrenz…” Said a voice from outside the tent, and the young knight turned his gaze to see who it was. It was his squire Frytsche, whose head was peering inside the tent, an uneasy expression on his face.

“Is there something wrong with the sword?” Spat Lyrenz, irritated by the interruption of his sulking.

“There are some men here. They wish to speak with you.” Replied the squire, still anxious. Lyrenz motioned for Frytsche to let them in, and at once the strong and sturdy image of Sir Béla strode into the tent, followed by a man dressed in a doublet and chaperon, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Sir Béla was a reputable knight in Martyn’s service, who always sat around stroking his moustache attentively and smiling warmly, as he chimed in with witty or not so witty remarks. He had made somewhat of a friend out of Lyrenz, who stood up at once to greet him, giving a quick curtsy to the man, who stroked his thick moustache before motioning for Lyrenz to sit down, which he did.

“Did you really have to speak to him like that?” Said the man in the fanciful doublet and chaperon, who began pacing up and down the tent, his face twisting into an annoyed and irksome expression. Lyrenz’s already bitter face soured even further, as he realised the reason for Sir Béla’s arrival—he had already spent the entire morning mulling over what to do, did he really need his friend and another man to hammer in how sorry of a state he was in?

“Iskren’s sake, not this…”

“Iskren’s sake indeed. From what I heard there were some very uniskrenist sayings traded between you two.” Chuckled Sir Béla, stroking his moustache again.

“So what are you here for? To ask that I apologise?”

“Well, yes.” Answered Sir Béla curtly, which provoked a surprised expression on Lyrenz’s face, as he turned to gaze at the Count, dumbfounded.

“I won’t let him speak to me like that again. All he does is chastise, and chastise, and I’ve had it! I won’t take it, and I’ll say what I said yesterday again if I have to.”

“Perhaps you took Count Jakob’s advice too generously. You quarrel with him every passing day of the week. His Grace…is not pleased, Lyrenz.” Said Béla, and Lyrenz blushed at the mention of Count Jakob. The young knight gazed bitterly at Béla, before speaking.

“I am saddened to hear that.” He said sarcastically, his voice not containing a single bit of seriousness. Jakob let out a quiet chuckle, not surprised by his response, before turning back with that recognisable warm face.

“You’ll have to make it up to him. Apologise, that is.”

“I shall not!”

“Oh yes you will!” Said the one in the fanciful doublet, casting a hateful glare at the young knight, astounded by his stubbornness. Lyrenz recognised him to be yet another of those valets and servants of His Grace, though he wasn’t too sure.

“His Grace wants this tidied up, Lyrenz, and Lénárd calls for your dismissal. If you don’t apologise and end this now, you’ll end up back in Wyvern’s Rest—or worse.” Informed Béla.

“And why are you all here? Why should any of you care?”

“Consider it a favour. So don’t waste it.” Snapped the knight, his warm smile fading momentarily, before being brought back. Lyrenz sighed, and said nothing, burying his face in his hands for a second, before turning back with tired eyes.

“I won’t apologise. If he wants to put it right, then he can ask for satisfaction. And if he doesn’t ask for satisfaction, then I will.”

“Satisfaction?” Asked Béla, the furrow on his brow deepening, before he realised what the young knight meant. “Ha! They’d never let you do that…no, they wouldn’t. Besides, if you demanded satisfaction and killed him in the process, His Grace would be very…upset, and it’d be over for you.”

“What’s to be done then?” Asked Lyrenz, shrugging his soldiers.

“Apologise! On your knees preferably!” Cried the man in the doublet.

“Make it up like two good Iskrenists and settle this matter. No one wants it getting out of hand, least of all His Grace.” Explained Béla, trying to make Lyrenz see reason.

“Did he send you? His Grace, that is?”

“We came here of our own accord.” Replied Béla. Lyrenz shrugged again, and Béla sighed at the young knight’s stubbornness. “Oh you are obstinate, aren’t you?” He groaned in an exasperated voice. Seeing his friend in such a state did worry Lyrenz, who looked at Béla and the man in the fanciful doublet with a dismayed expression, as he realised what giving in would entail.

“Fine.” He said quickly. “I won’t apologise, but I can try to settle things, like two good iskrenists.”

Sir Béla’s lips broke into a wide smile, his face beaming, as he congratulated the knight’s decision. “Thank you! Thank you, Sir Lyrenz, thank you. You don’t know how much of a favour you’ve done yourself, really…wonderful news, it is. Now hurry and settle it with Vitesz before he’s gotten His Grace to sign off on your dismissal.” He exclaimed with a happy expression, and Lyrenz at once got up from his seat, his expression brightened by Béla’s words. Exiting the tent, he looked at the sky, then to the camp around him, before his eyes cast a gaze at the city of Alleshof in the distance. The men that had been carting the gunpowder and cannonballs away had gone—the rain had not.

Moving through the streets of tents that were gradually being torn down and packed up, Lyrenz made his way to the centre of the Syrdish war camp, to where Duke Martyn—and Lénárd Vitesz—would be. There was a sombre mood surrounding every soldier and camp follower there, but also a feeling of relief. The miserable conditions that they had lived through in the past weeks appeared to be coming to an end; the Syrdish army was abandoning the Siege of Alleshof. It had taken four months and a week of torrential rains and sickness for the men to finally give up.

Passing a series of tents packed tightly together, Lyrenz came to the ducal tent of His Grace. Servants, pages and valets were all gathered around it, getting all the Duke’s matters in order. His Grace was not there, possibly handling some other matter on the other side of the camp, though Lyrenz had no way of knowing. Lénárd Vitesz, on the other hand, was standing by the tent, issuing out orders to every man nearby, though he himself did not help in the packing up at all. A glum, miserable expression was on his face, which occasionally twisted to form an angered look, as he shouted to one of the valets about getting something wrong or right.

Lénárd turned his gaze, and his eyes met Lyrenz’s. A bitter look was shared between the two, but Lyrenz’s face softened, and walking timidly over, a small sense of regret resonating within him as he curtsied to the Sir, and prepared to set things straight. Lénárd stared at him, squinting his eyes, as he adopted a proud and lofty look, not even giving a single act of deference to Lyrenz.

“Sir.” Said Lyrenz quietly, unsure of his words.

“What is it? I don’t need you right now.” Snapped Lénárd, his mind having before been turned to other matters, and his face twisted to form a distubed and irritated expression, Lyrenz’s intrusion on his affairs having clearly dampened his mood.

“Sir, I thought…we could perhaps discuss a few matters.”

“Make it quick.” Barked Lénárd, his proud air of authority never having left him, much to Lyrenz’s annoyance. He held his head high, in an authoritative posture as if he was Lyrenz’s superior, which he did claim to be.

“I think it would be wise if we were to…settle these matters between us. As two good Iskrenists.” Continued Lyrenz, his confidence wavering. Lénárd responded only with a simple “hm”, which only irritated Lyrenz further.

“Mind you, I have not come to apologise!” Informed the young knight, his voice getting louder as he asserted himself, straightening posture to put himself on equal footing with Vitesz. “It is simply of my belief, that these disputes will simply do us, and the army, no good. Shall we not, then, put all these things to rest? What say you? As two good Iskrenists?” He asked, waiting impatiently for Vitesz’s reply. Lénárd gazed at him with a cold expression, his air of aloofness only growing further, as he adopted a posture that made him seem as if he was above everything, including Lyrenz. Only when he had reinforced this feeling of superiority did he finally move to make a response. He turned away from Lyrenz and entered the tent of Duke Martyn, before coming back out again with a small scroll of parchment, bound together by the seal of the Lord-Constable.

“This is what you will present to Ferenc and his company.” He said curtly, as if he hadn’t heard a word of what Lyrenz had said. The young knight looked at Vitesz in some confusion, but he nevertheless took the scroll with curiosity, as his eyes darted between it and Vitesz’s face.

“I don’t understand…Sir. What is it?” He asked, his eyes gazing back to the scroll.

“It is a letter, explaining that His Grace has seen it fit to appoint you as an adjutant to Ferenc Készögyi, the leader of Készögyi’s Company of huszars. Do you understand now?” Explained Lénárd, but his words only deepened Lyrenz’s expression of confusion,

“Adjutant? To a company of huszars? For what reason?”

“Because it appears that they’ve grown increasingly…reluctant to read the orders sent from His Grace. It would be good if we had a man of ours with them, relaying messages between the company and the Duke’s command…and ensure those messages are obeyed.”

“But the huszars? Sir, I know I may have upset you…but the huszars? Is that really my punishment?” Protested Lyrenz, scowling as he realised his fate. Yet Lénárd again adopted the same proud and lofty posture, and acted as if he hadn’t listened to a word, ignoring any mention of their dispute.

“I want you with them by tomorrow morning. Make sure to present the letter to Sir Ferenc.” He continued, rebuking Lyrenz’s words. The young knight’s scowl deepened, and at once he began asking all sorts of questions and all sorts of protests, hoping that at least one would convince Vitesz.

“For how long must I stay with them?”

“For as long as His Grace wishes.”

“They’re scum.”

“If that’s what you believe.”

“How am I supposed to maintain order in a whole company of huszars? They’re scoundrels, they won’t listen to a word I say.”

“You can try.”

“I won’t ride with them.”

“They’re His Graces’ orders.”

“You’re punishing me for a petty dispute, I won’t have it!”

“They’re His Graces’ orders.” Repeated Lénárd, his tone cold and uncaring.

“If you want satisfaction from me, you can damn well ask for it, coward!” Spat Lyrenz, but Lénárd again ignored his words, and interrupted him.

“His Grace wants you to get your things in order by tomorrow. Take your squire…whatever his name is…if you wish.” He ordered. Lyrenz looked at him with an exasperated face, the bitterness of their rivalry rising within him as it had the last night. Vitesz remained there motionless, his cold and aloof expression, stunning the knight. Where was the arrogant and spiteful man from the day before, who had taken great offence at each one of Lyrenz’s remarks, and did not wait to start a dispute with him? The air of authority with which Vitesz carried himself now angered Lyrenz and he stood there, scowling at Lénárd, waiting for the man to make any sort of response, any sort of exclamation, or shout.

Then suddenly Lénárd turned to one of the other aides, and his callous expression at once turned to one of anger, as he began shouting. “Lázár! Where have you been?! Idiotic little…” He began, before walking off, leaving Lyrenz by himself, quite perplexed at having been rebuked in such a manner. He still held the letter in his hand.

***
The next morning the Syrdish army had packed just about everything and was beginning the march back to Obersrath. The sick were carted along, the dead were buried by the road, and the still living and healthy set off on the journey back, abandoning the siege of Alleshof once and for all.

Lyrenz, for his part, spent the night before and the early morning mulling over his options and what to do. He had been rebuked by Vitesz, and, as he saw it, had then been punished by Lénárd and the Duke by being given a most detestable assignment: aide to the captain of a company of Huszars. His predicament left him awake all night as he pondered how to approach it. He had half a mind to simply leave the army and return to Wyvern’s Rest, attaching himself again to King Karlus. The luxuries of court life were not to be passed over, after all, and for all the court’s harsh rigidity and boredom, it was sure to be better than the huszars in all ways. Yet then his mind turned to the disgrace it would bring him to simply excuse himself and scurry off back to the safe comfort of the capital. The cowardice!

Another part of his mind pondered seriously on the thought of demanding satisfaction and challenging Vitesz to an honourable duel, which was as ludicrous as it was enticing to the young knight, for he was sure to win, and the thought of wounding or killing his miserable rival was indeed alluring. Yet then his thoughts turned to the stupidity and ridiculousness of the entire idea, and he groaned in frustration, realising the futility of trying to find a method of escape from his situation. In the end, he relented, and packing up his things, mounted his horse and rode off towards the huszars, with his squire Frytsche by his side.

On the way he encountered Count Jakob Zalan. The Count was in a resplendent suit of armour, mounted atop his dark black horse, and riding along the side of the road with an anxious expression. Upon catching sight of Lyrenz, the Count’s face eased, and at once he adopted that warm smile, which was so familiar to Lyrenz. The two had developed somewhat of a friendship after the Battle of Uzhental, with Count Jakob delivering Lyrenz reports about the state of the war occasionally, while Lyrenz in turn regaled the Count with all sorts of stories that made Jakob erupt with laughter. Bringing his horse to a slower trot so that Lyrenz could catch up quicker, the Count awaited the young knight’s greeting.

“My Lord.” He said, making a small bow as he began riding by the Count’s side, while Frytsche rode behind the two, listening attentively to their conversation, though occasionally his mind and eyes wandered—either to the rows of the men that marched just to his right, or to the long forest to his left. With autumn’s departure the first leaves had begun to fall, at first one by one, then en masse, so that the hooves of the three men’s horses were always trampling another group of leaves, always making a squelching noise as they did so.

“Ah, Sir Lyrenz! It has been a while.” Welcomed the Count, as he kicked his horse back to a trot, and Lyrenz did the same. “I trust things have remained well with you?” He inquired, his warm and friendly expression easing the young knight.

“Somewhat, My Lord.” Replied Lyrenz, quietly, and his words lit up the Count’s face, as he suddenly remembered something important.

“Oh.” He said quietly, a brief smirk flashing across his face, before continuing. “Oh, yes, yes, you’ve been assigned to a company of huszars haven’t you? Is that’s what got you miserable?” He asked, and Lyrenz, having been reminded of his terrible misfortune, groaned.

“Oh please, My Lord…I’ve had enough reminding of that. Yes, I’m miserable. I assume you don’t have any remedy for it?”

“I have a bottle of wine, if you wish.” Said the Count, laughing at his joke. Lyrenz chuckled if only slightly, but even the Count’s humour was not enough to break his sour mood. Growing quiet once again, he turned his gaze to the mass of trees to his left, but his thoughts were interrupted by Count Jakob. “Bah, you shouldn’t get along too bad with the huszars. They may have a nasty reputation but…” Argued the Count, but when he found no excuse or good word to put in for the huszars, he trailed off. Lyrenz smirked, amused by his friend’s failure to cheer him up, while the Count looked for another topic to talk about. He turned his gaze briefly to the column of men marching through the road, and his face lit up again.

“A damn shame, this business here at Alleshof. This whole past week’s been miserable…ceaseless rains, and a whole damn sickness taking hold of the men too.” Remarked Jakob, bringing up the constantly discussed topic of the war, and the progress and setbacks made by the Syrdish army. Lyrenz had long grown tired of such talk, but he entertained the Count’s discussion for a while longer, his curiosity pushing the words out of his mouth.

“Where shall we go now, My Lord, when winter breaks next year? Shall we march north, as has been rumoured?”

“It is likely. We will continue to press the attack eastward, towards Rupperstadt, but we must hold our northern flank just as well. Otherwise our supply lines…it’d be a mess. We’d be cut off. Yet it won’t be easy. Some of the Hallish lords, I’ll spare you the details, but some of the Hallish lords would rather we keep the fighting here in Korbek and have asked us to do so.”

“But that’s ludicrous!”

“Indeed. Indeed. It seems that if we march north to bring justice to men like Landgrave Jan Sigismund, we’ll only bring more and more lords against us. Yet we have no choice but to go north. It’s simply ludicrous…yes, ludicrous like you said. Greatest save us.” He said anxiously, making the sign of The Greatest and pressing it to his lips.

“May His Will deliver us from a long and bloody war.” Prayed Lyrenz, making a similar show of his faith, as he turned his gaze upwards to the sky. He smiled, and bid farewell to Jakob, before kicking his horse to a gallop and riding over to the huszars.

While the Syrdish army marched back to Obersath along an old stone road, built in the times of when the Kostuans had once governed Halland with their magistrates and governors, the Syrdish huszars had taken a different path. Instead they took a more obscure and downtrodden road that stood parallel to the path of Duke Martyn’s main force. With this they marched back to Obersrath, riding ahead of the rest of the army. Yet the country here was not fresh—in the time that the Syrdish army had spent in Halland, the fields and meadows between Obersrath and Alleshof had been stripped bare of valuables and food, leaving few pickings for raids which was irksome to the huszars, who relied on such endeavours to sustain themselves when money fell short.

It was for this reason that when Lyrenz rode up to the vanguard of Ferenc’s company of huszars, he found them all to be in an irritated mood, ready to erupt in anger at the slightest intrusion to their sulking. The young knight, dressed in great plate armour, and followed by his squire Frytsche, who held the banner of his house in one hand, proved to be such an intrusion. His approach provoked grunts and remarks from the riders, who were dressed in loose-fitting kaftans, while feather-topped fur hats adorned their heads. Many carried lances in their hands, with a bow strung to their backs, and a sheathed sabre by their belt. They gazed at the intrusion to their sulking with some curiosity, intrigued by Lyrenz’s appearance.

While most of them rode in a long line, a small group was separated from the rest, riding ahead as a vanguard. One of the huszars in that crowd bore the banner of the company, and Lyrenz—without paying any attention to those who he had ridden past—galloped towards that small vanguard, and approached the man who seemed to be its leader. His approach brought the vanguard to a brief halt, as the men in the small group sized Lyrenz up and down, before the supposed leader spoke up.

“‘o are you?” He said, in a hoarse voice. Like many others, he was dressed in a bright red kaftan, with long yellow boots that reached up to just below his knees. A green fur hat, almost in the shape of a bag, adorned the top of his head, and was itself decorated with three large feathers, which rustled in the wind. His almost bronze hair was receding slowly from his temple, while a great moustache graced his upper lip. His short eyes were squinted as he gazed closely at Lyrenz, and his large nose flared upward, as he struck an almost intimidating pose, hoping to get some reaction out of Lyrenz.

The young knight, trying half-heartedly to contain his revulsion and disgust, took Lénárd’s letter from Frytsche and handed it to the man, before speaking. “I am Sir Lyrenz Reimund. I’ve been appointed by His Grace to serve here as some sort of adjutant.” He said authoritatively, adopting a lofty expression, as he situated himself above all the others in terms of status. The supposed leader took the letter and opened it to begin reading, but recognising the Duke’s seal, he pocketed it.

“I’ll ‘ave Bártas read over it. So you’re our supervision?”

“If that’s what you wish to call it.” Replied Lyrenz, and the man laughed.

“Some supervision! D’ya believe it, Lészek?” He chuckled, turning his gaze to one of the men in the group around him. “Sent a pup in knight’s clothin’, they did, hah! We’ll see about you later. But for now…keep up!” He barked, addressing Lyrenz, before kicking his horse to a gallop with a loud “hyah!”, followed shortly by the others, who rode behind their leader.

A Growing Order
Dhorvas Civil war phase 1:

Tienyu lifted a hand to shield his eyes as he walked the labyrinth passages of the citadel of Jurun. Most of the passages were lit but they had taken care to increase the light in important ones to help with direction. More than a few of their order had gotten lost in the days immediately after the citadel’s capture and the following search for any holdouts in its long, dark corridors.

The passage ahead veered to the right and as Tienyu turned he was faced with two large doors. They were intricately carved, depicting scenes of Artyanism but also Ziist and Khalva imagery. They were largely for show, unless a defense within the tunnels was necessary. Renatist temples kept their doors open as a sign of welcoming to those seeking solace within their halls. Tienyu entered and quickly spotted the individual he sought.

Galin Zhelev was kneeling before a large altar at the center of the chamber. As Artyan was the center of all, so too, then, was worship directed toward the center within Renartist temples. Behind the stone altar was a great carving of marble depicting the Artyanist knot upon a blazing sun, the symbol of the order sometimes called a Renantist knot. Three more altars stood in equal measurement around the knot, one facing each primary direction. Tienyu stopped a few paces behind Galin and waited patiently for the grand master’s prayers to finish. He could see Galin’s rosary, a necklace of prayer beads, moving in the man’s hands though he heard no audible words.

A few minutes passed before Galin dipped his head forward, hands to his chest in a sort of bow before pushing himself to his feet. Once standing, he reached out to touch a renatist knot on the center of the altar, then proceeded to touch his own forehead. Finally he turned and spoke to Tienyu.

“Are you here for guidance, Tienyu, or have you need of me?” Galin asked.

The slim and tall Dsen gave a slight bow of his head in respectful greeting before answering. “We have news that the Qatun are preparing to move against us.”

“It seems Denai feels he has an opportunity. He misinterprets our recent quiet for weakness he might exploit.”

“But why would he see our quiet as a chance to strike?” Tienyu asked. His tone made clear he thought Denai’s plan to attack was not based in wisdom. “It should be obvious we have been fortifying our new territory and the center of our Order.”

“Because he is thinking like any other warlord eager for their prize. Others have begun moving, so he must as well to expand and keep pace. By not showing signs that we intend to expand, he assumes we are idle.”

“He will be sorely mistaken,” said Tienyu.

“Yes, he will.” replied Galin. “Summon Joris. We have work to do.”

***

The battle took place not far from the boundary between the Qatun band’s territory and the land controlled by the Renatist Order. Galin had ordered a reduced presence along the border to further encourage the view of the Qatun raqan that they had indeed been idle or lacking. Several outposts had even been abandoned to allow the Qatun to advance with speed and confidence. Raqan Denai seized the opportunity presented to him and advanced with the full strength of his band to strike a quick and decisive victory and take Jurun for himself.

The Qatun army paused at the base of a mountain called Mount Tehey. Their main camp rested near a small stream. Morale among the Qatun and their leaders was high as they had found little opposition to their incursion. Things appeared to be going rather well and the atmosphere in the camp was relaxed and filled with celebration.

“Chochar, come! Have a drink.” Denai called out as his officer entered the canopy that served as Denai’s temporary headquarters. Osol and Teghai were with the commander.

Chochar accepted a goblet as the raqan poured wine. He drank before speaking. “The march continues unhindered. Your observation of the zealot order’s inability to stop us has been correct.”

“Of course, I had little doubt it would be so. We gave them too much credit during the initial rebellion.”

“They did defeat the Khatagi.” Osol interjected.

“The Khatagi were led by that old fool; Ghentai. We should have moved earlier and done it ourselves.” Denai said, dismissing Osol’s reserved observation. “Once we occupy Jurun, we will look toward the Heghal. Then we will deal with that upstart, Sabir. A dhorva band should not be ruling over a khalva band any longer.” Denai added, referring to the Ghazan conquest of the Sororan band. Chochar and Teghai echoed his words.

A cry echoed out in the camp. It was soon followed by others. Denai sighed before pouring himself another glass of wine. “I told them not to get too carried away. I do not want injuries from a drunken brawl on the eve before we take Jurun.”

***

Galin watched from his horse across the stream and within the tree line as the Order began their ambush on the camp of the Qatun band. The Order had hidden many of their forces on the other side of the mountain and in various caves that dotted the area, waiting for the Qatun. His own force waited across the stream for the eventual retreat of their enemy once they were forced from their camp. Once their enemy had clearly fallen into a deep sense of complacency and inebriation the signal had been sent to spring the trap. Joris and Dogar began by leading the smaller groups from their hiding places amongst the caves, then Tienyu and Ruth followed with the main force down from the mountain top. Soon the air was filled with shouts of fury and anguish as battle cries mixed with cries of the wounded and dying.

“Bunch of damned fools, how could they be this stupid to relax themselves so easily in enemy territory?” said a voice beside Galin.

“Not every warlord is gifted with wisdom, Ghoa.” he said, not turning his eyes from the battle before them. “Like others, he has fallen back into the way the bands were before; mostly nomadic raiders that constantly traded territory and members. His mistake is that he is treating us as he would another band. Given the opportunity, he charged deep into our territory, his aim set on Jurun and largely ignoring most else.”

Galin’s horse shifted where they stood watching the fight and he reached down to give it a comforting pat on the neck. Fires had grown throughout the Qatun camp. When he leaned upright again he turned to Ghoa this time. “But we are not a band, and our goals are not so trivial as a mere band lord. Perhaps many of them will come to join us and find a better purpose.”

The echoes from the carnage grew louder and they could now see many khemakh fleeing for the stream, hoping to cross to some safety from both blaze and blade. Galin drew his sword and held it high. Galin reached toward his neck, grasping the renatist knot and whispering a small prayer. When he brought his hand down he motioned with his sword and the column of cavalry he led charged forth to surprise the fleeing Qatun.

***

The stench of death and charred wood still clung to the air as Galin made his way through the aftermath of the battle. Joris had joined him, the frisolan man’s armor still stained with blood. Their losses had been few. Even the Qatun had not lost as many as one might have assumed from such a devastating defeat, but Qalin had ordered no pursuit of those fleeing beyond the mountain. His goal was not to kill as many as he could.

“Did we capture the raqan?” he asked Joris.

“No. The raqan died in the melee. We did capture some of the officers though.”

Joris led him to a clump of thick pines where several khemakh sat. They were not bound but they had resigned to the reality that there was no escape. They looked weary and defeated. Galin pitied them. “Names?” he asked the group.

It was several moments before a khemakh with scales that matched the color of the surrounding pines spoke up. The khemakh tried to draw himself up and Joris stepped forward. Galin waved Joris aside before motioning to the khemakh.

“Chochar.” they said.

“Walk with me.” Galin said and after a nod to Joris, he and Chochar began to move off. Joris fell in behind them. His hand stayed close to his knife. “Have you been told that your raqan has perished?”

Chochar did not respond immediately. When he finally did, his tone expressed the resignation he felt. “When he was not with us, some hoped he had escaped. Most of us knew he had likely died in the fight. It is only a guess as to how long before we join him.”

“Join him?” asked Galin.

“When you execute us.” replied Chochar.

“Ah”, Galin said in understanding. “That is not part of the plan.”

Galin noted the look of surprise in Chocharr’s eye as the khemakh eyed him, and perhaps a sign of hope? They had much to discuss and Galin began the process of seeking to find a friend where there had been an enemy. He would need them when they turned to the Qatun band’s home territory.

A Cursory Glance

A white sheet of snow blanketed the streets of Grafsburg; a layer of soft cotton unbroken except where the roads were trampled by foot or hoof, and churned like foul butter turned black with muck and dirt. Soft plumes of gray-black smoke fluttered from the houses across the street, and all along Grafsburg the people sheltered in safety and what warmth they could find. The winter was nearly at its conclusion, but went out with a strong, howling storm that had thrown snow all across the county and shut down nearly all commerce and travel.

Looking away from the window, Anna Katherein felt anxious at leaving the peaceful vision behind as she returned her focus to the church apartment. The years she spent in Grafsburg, living under the hospitality of the church and Prelate, brought her accomodations into a more permanent fixture. There were paintings on the wall, and a rough strewn tapestry over a century old hanging across the mantle above the fireplace; the depiction an old battle of the Alvarish against Beitensburg, which at the time were both feuding over some parcels of lands beyond the Stromar. It really was not that old of a battle, or even that far removed from the present conditions and matter of Alvaringen, but in the reality that Anna understood, it seemed so distant and unthinkable. Halland was never more united than now. The idea of feuding and war between the lords was impossible; a concept that would have brought belittlement and outrage from the hawk-minded nobles.

Her bed was made with the thicker blankets and furs, and despite the gentle crackling of the fireplace, there was still a chill that penetrated the walls of the church and bristled the skin. She hoped the weather would turn for the better soon. Across from where she sat, Enngelin Gutschen, her lady-in-waiting, and Anna Wallen, one of her maids, rested. They spoke among themselves as they waited for the Countess to finish her drink. Having eaten breakfast earlier already, Anna supped on a cup of light wine, which had been watered to the point it was nearly transparent except for a trace hue of red and a light fragrance which benefited the taste.

There was a knock at the door and almost instantly Wallen was on her feet, bounding over to see who it was. The young lady was quite fast, and in a way she was a better helper than Madelgarde, more eager and ready. Though Madelgarde was better at conversation and entertainment, and the Countess preferred that much more.

The intrusion resolved itself to be Sir Danchmer, and without even needing to see to Anna approval, the maid stepped aside and allowed her personal secretary to enter. The older man had a rather gruff appearance as he entered, having been away for a few weeks on travel to Rothhausen. He had not a chance to change out of his riding gear, and was wrapped in a heavy cloak that he pulled down from his neck to look more presentable.

“I am sure Wilhelm won’t be here?” He inquired, although already knowing the answer it was more of a formality.

Anna shook her head, placing her cup on the small table beside her.

“He won’t be, I’m afraid. No… have you heard?”

“When I was riding back through Bartholzen.” He answered, pausing for a moment as the young Wallen inquired if he wanted anything to eat or drink. He continued after sending her away back to her chair. “I had half a mind to go and see Spaichingen myself, to see if he’d gone mad, but that would have just complicated things. It’s not our place, I suppose.”

The Countess looked startled by this dismissal.

“Not our place? Danchmer, did you hear what they did to him? I did. I was curious so I sent Grauff to Hochdorf and he told me. They beat him until he was bloody and black and left him to die. That’s awful.”

The old knight sighed, rubbing his eye. “You sent Richomer? You shouldn’t have done that, it makes you look like you’re taking Wilhelm’s side.”

Anna was exasperated, motioning with her hands. “I certainly am!”

“It’s a private matter between Wilhelm and Robert.” Sir Danchmer explained, his voice slow but nonchalant as he crossed the room and took a seat beside her. “I consider Wilhelm to be my friend. I’ve worked beside him for at least… thirty years? Believe me, this pains me. Robin was… is a good lad, smart and quick with his words just like his father. But this happened to the Hochdorfs. It’s between them; it’s a family matter, we have no place to involve ourselves. I know you understand this.”

Frowning, Anna looked displeased but it was hard to dismiss what Danchmer had said. She knew he was right, and did all along. There was simply no legal right or ability for her to get involved, as what the Spaichingens did was against Wilhelm and his house. His son wasn’t a member of the court, and had no protections like his father. Still, there was a naive, hopeful part of Anna’s mind that had deluded itself into imagining Danchmer would arrive and find some meaning, some mechanism that allowed her to do something. Jürgen von Siedburg and Jan Reichart had come to a truce for the time being, but their feud had already unsettled the stability of the county. Now this had happened, and it was worse. She was concerned that the barons did not respect her and wished to push their powers as far as possible.

In this belief, Danchmer of course had to agree. Count Konrad was a stronger and more capable man, and threw himself into the midst of these feuds. Anna could have done this, but he did not personally believe she was capable of navigating the miasma that was politics in the realm.

A moment of silence fell between them. Another knock soon came on the door, and Anna Wallen rose again quickly to see who it was. After a moment, the herald Lach Hower stood in the doorway, one hand on his hip as he held his felt cap by his waist.

“Sir Isenbert has arrived.”

Danchmer looked surprised when the Countess rose to her feet and thanked the herald, sending him on his way.

“I didn’t know you were expecting someone?” He asked, a tinge of interest in his voice.

“Of course, I can’t just sit in Grafsburg and do nothing.” She said amicably. “Besides, you were away for a while. Why don’t you come along? I’ve been waiting for his arrival for a few days now.”

He relented and stood up, somewhat annoyed that his rest was interrupted so soon. The two of them walked down the halls of the apartments and rear rooms, headed towards the nave of the church. Anna’s servants remained in her room, cleaning up the leftover food and drinks.

Entering the main structure of the church, Danchmer identified the knight almost immediately, picking the nobleman out from the sea of churchmen tending to their daily business. He was of good stock and stood nearly a foot taller than most of them, and was dressed in fair clothing, though covered by a traveling cloak and tall rider’s boots.

The knight placed a hand on his chest, giving a small bow as the Countess approached him.

“I am honored to be in your presence, Your Ladyship.”

Danchmer immediately recognized his accent, which betrayed him as a southerner.

“The honor is mine.” Anna said respectfully. “An esteemed warrior such as yourself is a grace upon these halls.”

A second passed as Anna clasped her hands together and smiled, then gestured towards the private drawing rooms of the church, at the private apartments she just left.

“Please, come and sit with us.”

Just North of Lodwiksfeld

“Cur! Come here you bastard!”

The knight huffed out, snarling through a bushy, straw-colored mustache as he sat atop his steed. From where he stood on the road, Egmont Tigenshain was a clear and haughty sight. Dressed in the heraldry of house Hochdorf, his waffenrock ruffled slightly as he leaned forward, resting one armored gauntlet on his reins while the other pointed forward, towards his foe.

In the distance, just exiting from the middle of the town and passing through the alley of the local inn, was Wieland, a scion of the Spaichingens. He was startled by the sudden noise and stumbled back, then looking out to where Egmont rested, recognized the knight’s colors as that of Baron Wilhelm’s. Almost immediately a look of horror and disgust shot across his face, and looking at his horse tied up just near to the man, realized that he would never make it.

Egmont presented a cheeky grin, the knight nodding along as he smiled, then letting his free hand slump down towards his waist, rubbed across the sword fastened to his girdle. With his intention clear, Wieland broke out into a sprint almost immediately, rushing back behind the building and into the hamlet.

The knight cursed and quickly clamored down from his horse, drawing his blade and holding it up at his side as he took off at a jog after him.

“Come here!” He yelled out after him, turning the corner and seeing him fleeing up the dirt path towards the pond, near to the pigpens and tannery. “Stop running! Die with some dignity!”

Keeping after him, Egmont maintained a good pace, his distance constant with Wieland. Though the youth was faster on his feet, there was nowhere to go but towards the pond, which was flanked by a fenced path that had over years of farming been raised as an embankment. In wet months the path served as a watershed and slushed whatever filth and trash accumulated in the hamlet down towards the pond, but now it was frozen over, as was the water.

Looking back behind him, Wieland paused for a moment as he deliberated his choices. Trapped, he turned around before Egmont could reach him and dashed forward, scurrying onto the frozen pond’s surface as he ran. Egmont was fast behind him, but as the knight reached the edge of the pond, he pressed his foot against the surface and suddenly stopped. His face showed a look of uncertainty, and resting his sword by his side, looked angry and disappointed that the scum had escaped.

As Egmont was about to turn around, he watched as Wieland suddenly lost his footing on the frozen ground and slipped, sliding forward for a second. He fought to keep his balance before the combination of motion, coupled with the lack of friction, caused him to slam into the ground. In an instant the layer of ice shattered around him and he fell beneath the icy water; struggling to swim, he broke above the surface and tried to climb back onto the ice, but shattered more and more around him.

Calling out for help, he cried for mercy. The sounds of anguish, coupled with the commotion from earlier, had attracted a number of the peasants, who ventured down towards the pond to see for themselves. None dared to help Wieland, as they too feared the weak ice, or was it that Egmont, suddenly rejuvenated with the sight, turned his blade towards the serfs and dared any of them to step forward.

It was cold and chilly, and the water much more so. Wieland’s voice grew weaker and hoarser as he begged for forgiveness and mercy, but Egmont continued to watch on. Losing his strength, and unable to get his body above the layer of ice, the young man suddenly swooped down, falling beneath the water.

Waiting a moment, the knight saw that he did not rise and was satisfied with the knowledge. Throwing his sword back in its scabbard, he looked sternly at the peasants as he passed by, paying them little attention as he returned to his horse and prepared to depart immediately.

Grafsburg Church

“So, tell me, good Isenbert, when I inquired about your experience in the fighting, you told me that you were present in Creutzkirchen? I think that’s the name they chose?”

“Aye, that it is. Prince Kristian himself chose the name, since there was a little abbey called that just above the field where we fought.”

Sir Danchmer, the Countess and the knight all sat across from one another at a small table in the drawing room. Her maids had joined them, preparing a small meal for the knight, who Danchmer had learned was a man by the name of Isenbert von Volksam, who ventured from the south upon a request from the Countess. Anna had wanted to speak to a man that served in the campaign against the Syrdurians, as the battle had interested her. News of the Syrdurian army, and the war in general, had filtered slowly in Alvaringen since then. She was curious about how they both fought, and how the Syrds had presented themselves.

Admittedly, Danchmer found it somewhat unusual that Anna was interested in the war at all. He could tell that Sir Isenbert was as well, but the knight seemed honored by the idea of speaking to the Countess, and did not allow his own personal curiosities to upset that privilege.

“Can you tell me about the battle? Where you fought and what you did?” Anna asked politely, and the knight quickly obliged her as he took a drink from his cup.

“Of course. I was with the cavalry, under the Baron Rechimund, but he did not ride with us. He was sat on a hill just a ways from us, watching the development. Soon we were told to charge, and we did; across this open field, it was just under the abbey, and we struck the Syrd cavalry as it was out in the field.”

Anna listened intently as the knight continued his story, detailing the process of the battle. He gave a reasonable and truthful overview of what he saw, but spared many of the details of the gore and bloodshed, and the absolute ferocity that the Syrdish and Alvarish knights gave to one another in the melee. Eventually he came to the second charge, which routed the Syrdish force, and spoke about Prince Kristian’s flank, and the Hallish infantry from Korbek and Alvaringen that fought there for the high ground.

His description continued with some detail, but as he spoke about the early skirmishes and described the Syrdish attempt to prevent the vanguard from seizing the hill early, Anna made it clear she wanted to speak.

“Arquebusiers?” She asked, hoping that her intonation made it obvious enough she wanted him to elaborate.

“Matchlocks. The Syrds had them positioned in the front, along with some crossbowmen.”

“I’m somewhat familiar.” She reasoned. “In my father’s time they were not as common, but now you tell me the Syrdish army has a host of them?”

Isenbert nodded before explaining, “Well it was only a skirmishing group. Not that many. They were not that effective, since there was not many of them and I think the Syrds rushed them forward—hoped that we were too slow, I guess?”

Anna remained silent for a moment as she thought, and Isenbert took that as an excuse to continue eating. He was quite hungry from the trip, having spent little time resting since he did not want to keep the Countess waiting for long, lest she retract her offer.

“What if there were more of them?” She asked spontaneously, a thought entering her mind as she continued, “What if they had reached the hill in force, and had time to set up?”

Isenbert took a moment to respond, still finding it strange that a woman was asking such questions, but she had been a figure in this whole ordeal after all.

“I suppose then it would’ve been bloodier.” He admitted, uncertain. “They caused a lot of deaths as they did, more of them would’ve caused Prince Kristian and his soldiers trouble. I don’t know how the Baron would’ve responded.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Anna asked.

“Of course.”

“Say if the Syrdish mercenaries were a greater force. Say if the arquebusiers were three or four times as many, and they had been in a good field against you. How would they fare?”

Isenbert chuckled slightly.

“Well…” He started, “They’d be like archers. Out like that, we’d… we’d charge them and run ‘em out, I suppose.”

A thought crossed Anna’s face as she pursed her lips.

“And what if they held their fire and waited until the cavalry was right on top of them? What then?”

There was stillness as Sir Isenbert thought about her idea. He did not seem to know how to answer, but as he imagined it in his head, he slowly realized that he did not like the idea at all.

“It wouldn’t be good,” was all he could say.

Hochdorf Castle

The Chamberlain Wilhelm sat a silent vigil across from his son’s bed, saying nothing. He was white as a ghost and had not eaten well in the past few days, his mind on Robin’s health. They had found him bloodied and broken, and the peasants who came to help him said that he couldn’t stand or barely even spoke to them, except for to ask for water. Supposedly before he lost consciousness he called for his father, so they said.

Since then, he has slept. Every moment since he was brought back to his keep, Robin slept. He did not speak or even eat, and was unresponsive to every attempt or plea. Still, Wilhelm sat by his side dutifully, even sleeping in the chair as he watched and prayed.

The priest passed by him as he left the bed, having finished the rites. Looking up, he could see his son fully, and saw then at that moment that he drew no more breath.

A ragged sigh leaving Wilhelm’s throat, he dug his fingers into his palm, clenched into a tight fist.

The Battle of Sarol Part 2 - The Skirmish on the River Ahmu
Dhorvas Civil War
Development Post
With Dhorvas

“Quiet!” barked Argun as a passing group of soldiers fumbled with a wagon. It had not been secured properly and supplies had spilled out with a loud ruckus. While they were a ways off from the Mergen, he did not want to chance that the sounds might carry on the heavy winter air. Hopefully the mergen camp was too distracted.

He had sent Yamur with a small force to sow chaos and disrupt the mergen camp. If they could deal a blow, perhaps even kill Oghal herself, it would be a boon to his position here. It was unlikely though. At the very least he hoped they would put the mergen some amount of disarray, allowing him to move his own forces across the river and seek out a more defensible position until help arrived. He had sent messengers to Gera, advising her of the situation. If she could bring the dhorva band down from the north behind the mergen, then they might be able to defeat them.

For now he was on the defensive. Defending from his original camp was untenable, he would have been pinned between Sarol and the mergen. His aim was the hills beyond the city. There he would dig in and try to weather the enemy. If they were not enough, he could still retreat toward the base of the Barrier Mountains.

He had chosen to cross the Ahmu river, the western sibling to the Orda,and the second of the pair of rivers that passed parallel to Sarol. The elven mercenaries were closer to the west and he had hoped that they might not move as quickly to stop him. They were mercenaries after all, their motivation was less than Oghal’s own goals.

The line of troops was growing ahead. The army had stopped. Argun pushed down the irritation that was swelling and moved forward to the river to see what was holding up their advance. Once he had passed through the growing cluster he found Qorai along the bank. “What is the hold up?” he demanded.

“Too thin.” replied Qorai. “We cannot cross here, not quickly enough anyway. We will have to look further down the river.”

Argun could feel the irritation returning.”Curse the spirit of the Ahmu. Very well, let us move quickly. The light is growing. Sahnra nearly has the sun high enough to shed light on our movements.”

Qorai nodded and began ordering troops to move along the river, seeking a better place to cross. The throng began to move and Argun reminded them to keep quiet. He hoped they could cross be for daybreak was officially upon them. When the mergen moved on his camp outside Sarol, he would be well into building defenses in the hills past the city.
***

The elven mercenaries had departed the camp an hour after the bloody encounter with Siban forces, determined to investigate Argun’s plans for the coming battle that was bound by fate to happen. Normally, mercenaries, regardless of allegiance, moved only when ordered to by their employer. The Sons of the Sunflower were different. Not only did they give loyalty to their employers but held honor above all. This included the powerful will and determination to take the initiative for their payer, such as to mobilize their forces to meet their foe face to face and to throw any plans they had of advancing on them or to establish a more defensible position into the flames.

With around eight hundred soldiers, Commander Arasiel formed his legion into columns of four-hundred, with the Pikemen leading in the vanguard. Behind them were the halberdiers and following them, the Longbowmen and Crossbowmen. Shoring up the flank were Commander Arasiel, Marshal Elrie and Commander Navai with a contingent of soldiers that acted as a bodyguard. Departing from the west flank of the Raqan’s camp, Commander Arasiel ordered a sweeping maneuver across the countryside until they’d reached the eastern bank of the Ahmu River, frozen solid. From there, the elves continued their march, keeping their left shoulders to the ice.

During this slow march northward, the light cavalry belonging to the Mergen were kept at a distance, flanking the main elven force on their right side and continuing their primary objective of hunting down any of Argun’s forward scouts or survivors from the raid. Arasiel’s hope would have been that following the river would lead them to the outskirts of Argun’s siege lines around Sarol, where he’d halt his forces, using this valuable time before Raqan Oghal’s main force could arrive to establish a battle plan or if need be, push forward if spotted and disrupt all efforts of establishing a unified defense on Argun’s part. As a shock to all, none of this would transpire as horns across the vanguards of both armies began to shriek as they would very nearly run right into one another.

***

Argun’s heart sank as the sound of horns erupted, shattering the eerie quiet that had dominated their movement. It couldn’t be the Mergen already, it was surely scouts. What fool sounded the alarm so fiercely over scouts, against his direct orders, would soon feel his wrath. The sound of the horns likely would carry across to both sarol and the mergen, they had to move more quickly. Argun kicked his horse and urged it forward as a gallop to reach the front of the columns.

Upon nearing the front, Argun found Qorai. This time he did not stifle the irritation he felt when he spoke. “Were my orders not clear?” Argun said almost in a growl. “Everyone around may know where to find us now!”

“They likely have already!” Qorai bit back. He glared at Argun before gesturing forward. “It is not scouts, we have run into mergen cavalry. They have begun targeting our flank with volleys, trying to pin us against the river.”

Argun instinctively looked in the direction of Qorai’s gesture. The light was great enough now and as he strained his eyes he could make out a few cavalry firing another volley toward the troops at the head of his lines. His own forces were returning with their own volley but the enemy was much faster on horse. Argun gave a resigned sigh.

“Shift the front column to face the cavalry with a proper defense. I will bring the others around so we can try to hit them from their flank as they attack. We need to deal with this quickly before reinforcements arrive.” Qorai acknowledged his order and moved off while Argun turned to organize the rest of his force. A skirmish here was not what he needed, but he could not cross with the enemy at his back.

***

At the sight of the enemy’s main formations facing right at their front, this scenario had truly taken the Elf’s breath away. He was now going to face a majority of Argun’s force with reinforcements from the rest of the Mergen, possibly much later. He would need to quickly and efficiently form his force into a hammer, with Argun’s vanguard to be the nail head. Arasiel understood that total defeat of the enemy’s force was nearly impossible and therefore would need to at least force them to either hold position or move the enemy’s force back. He was also surprised by the speed and ferocity the Mergen cavalry had begun their attack on Argun’s right flank, despite Commander Arasiel’s approval of such an attack. He couldn’t ponder it, mainly because they were not officially under his command and acted more as an equal on the battlefield.

“Marshal Elrie! Push the second column into the Pikes! Form the pikes around the Halberds! Push the Longbowmen up as close to their flank as possible, they will hold fire until I give the command!” The Commander yelled as his columns continued moving forward. As the orders were given, the solid lines of the formation began to dissolve as the forwardmost column morphed, expanding their zone as the second melded into them, forming a larger force. Because of the size of the formation now, it moved slower in order to keep its form and order but lowered their pikes to chest and head height as they placed one foot after the other, closing the distance between the frontline Siban ranks and of the elves’ spearheads.

As the elves continued to close the distance, Commander Arasiel was utterly flabbergasted by the sight of the Siban lines shifting, moving to face the Mergen cavalry instead of the elven frontline. It was possible that, due to the lack of good lighting from the early sun’s newborn rays, Argun’s force simply hadn’t seen them yet and with their flank now kindly faced towards them, this was a golden moment in warfare, the moment to gain an important advantage that just may set this entire operation in Arasiel’s favor. This brought on a sheer determination that nearly caused the Commander to fall from his horse as he turned to one of the captains placed in charge of his bodyguard’s unit.

“Kanil! Get to Commander Navai! Tell him to pull his horses back now, do it now!” Without a nod or salute, the elven officer charged away, spurring his horse to take him as fast as he could to the lines of the cavalry that continued to harass the siban. Arasiel turned back to Elrie. “Marshal, all forward! Quickly, now!” He said as he pulled his curved blade from its sheath and held it high in the air. “Move in on them now!” He shouted again.

The order had been given through the ranks of the captains down to the hardy soldiers of blade and formation, quickening their pace at the cost of a perfect frontline shape, with an almost wave-like appearance taking its place. By the time the right flank of the Siban noticed the incoming charge of pikes and repositioned their own spears and shields, it was too late as the long weapons shoved their way through the front line of the right flank, continuing to push as shouts of commanding men and screams of dying men filled the air. For the moment, the square remained closed, and the formation instead continued the push with pikes and maintained a cohesive shape. Commander Arasiel commanded his horse forward, driving his heels into its sides, dashing forward towards the lines of Longbowmen. “Archers!” He screamed and the elves with bow and arrow responded by stamping the end of their bow into the ground. “Fire forward past our own lines and into the ranks of their second column! Litter the ground with arrows and bodies! Nock! Draw! Fire!” He shouted, allowing a few seconds before each command and the last order was rewarded with the sounds of hundreds of arrows launching off from their bows and into the air.

***

“Ignore the cavalry, turn! Turn to the elves!” shouted Qorai over the scene of chaos. They had been completely taken by surprise by the elven assault on their line from along the riverside. It seemed this was not just a scouting group. “Push them back! Send the elv..” an arrow struck Qoari’s horse as the words were still spilling from his mouth and his mount tumbled forward. He instinctively rolled off to escape being crushed by his own horse. He drew his sword as he came up. A soldier approached and he quickly resumed bellowing orders. “Send word for the other columns, the rear can deal with the mergen archers, the second needs to form with us and counter the elven attack!” With a quick nod the soldier ran off to relay Qoar’s command. Qoarai himself moved toward the center of the first column, trying to reorganize the mess that had become of their lines.

***
Commander Arasiel skirted the lines behind the archers, keeping his eyes on the formations beyond his own and as he did so, he continued to yell out at his troops to keep marching, keep pushing, keep driving their pikes into the Siban and as they did, the Longbowmen continued launching volley after volley with their distances varying from the middle of the first column to the frontline units of the second. As he watched, he kept in mind the cavalry forces that had pulled back and were now waiting idle for additional orders, watching as the Elven troops pushed deeper into the Siban flank. With each step, the pikes pushed forward either into empty space or into a khemakh’s gut or shield. When he planned to open the pike square to unleash the melee units that would engage the khemakh in brutal fighting, he would move the cavalry back into the Siban’s troops. By the time Kanil had arrived from delivering the message, he was to be sent back out to Commander Navai ordering them back to the front. Concurrently, Arasiel gave the orders to Marshal Elrie to open the square.

Minutes after the Commander had given the order, the front ranks of the square began to shift, with both sides expanding outwards to allow a considerable gap which was soon filled with the screams of Halberdiers and Swordsmen, rushing out and clashing steel with the khemakh. As Arasiel’s main melee units rushed out of the protective layer of pikes, the pikemen shifted backwards, allowing enough room to reform their lines back into the solid pike square and shifted east to support the Halberdiers’ right flank. As the arrow volleys would stop to avoid friendly casualties, Arasiel would hope that the cavalry would arrive in time to support the attack.

***

The situation was only growing worse for Qorai and his soldiers. The enemy formation had opened and now halberds and regulars streamed into the fray, adding to the punishing force that was now entangled with Qorai’s unit. An elven spear erupted from the mass of foes, aimed for his gut. Qorai deflected it with his sword before bringing the blade back, allowing his foe’s momentum to cut their throat across the edge. The elf fell, but there were many more to take their place. In that moment the Mergen cavalry returned, adding to the weight of his enemy’s assault. What semblance of a defense he had managed to hold together evaporated before his eyes. Soon his troops were beginning to turn to flee. Qorai tried in vain to hold the formation. ***

As the frontline ranks of the Siban began to crumble into disarray, there was nothing to halt the surge of Elven halberdiers and swordsmen from pressing forward, to the point that they were beginning to move further ahead of the pikemen to their right, the soldiers seeing red and taking part in the slaughter of troops as they begun to run away. This was also true in the case of Captain Alwin Tsukarus, a man of the commanding echelon of the second battalion, one of the units that formed the bulk of the halberdier square. Rather than enforce a structured and disciplined response to the sight of the enemy running, he also joined in the chasing down and ending of khemakh. When he’d seen what looked to be a commanding element of the enemy’s force, the young elf of barely thirty-five years of age took his chance and charged. He remained quiet, focusing on his breathing as he ran, passing by a dozen of his own troops engaged in their own combat with the Siban stragglers and as he closed the distance, he swung his sword towards the commander, hoping to end him.

It was almost unfair, how easy the kill was, the Captain remarked. The older Khemakh had been so busy trying to fill some semblance of courage back into his men and rally them around him for a staunch defense that he had completely shirked any form of situational awareness to the fact that he was now at the edge of his cowardly formation’s edge and quickly losing ground. He had brought the sword down across his back, cutting through whatever armor and clothing was there which released a guttural shriek from the commander as it pushed him down to the ground. The Captain had stopped his run and watched the commander fall, blood pouring from the gash across his back. Alwin Tsukarus, panting as adrenaline coursed through his veins, walked back to the Siban and kicked him over onto his back. He turned the sword backwards into his hands and brought its tip down onto the Siban’s chest with all of the force he could muster. The light soon faded from the Qorai’s eyes and Alwin could not help but to stare into them the entire time and watch.

***

Argun watched with apprehension as the mergen cavalry rejoined the elves, slamming into the front units with devastating effect. It did not take long before the lines, what remained of them, crumbled and began to flee. Their enemy gave chase and the slaughter began with abandon. This was not how it was supposed to go. How did the elves outmaneuver them so quickly?

“Sound the retreat. We will withdraw back to the main camp and make our defense there.” he said to the officers around him.

“We can still push them back.” Alaqa protested. “Send in the rest of the units and our numbers will force them away.”

“Or we can simply cross here.” added Milun from his right. Argun could see the concern he felt mirrored on the youngest of his officers.

“By which time the rest of Oghal’s force will arrive and destroy us in detail.” he said toward Alaqa. He turned to Milun next. “No, our main goal has been lost here. Forcing a crossing now would only add to the slaughter with the enemy at our back. Those out on the river would freeze where they fell in, or be picked one by one from the elven archers.”

A horn sounded, signaling the retreat. Argun felt sick at its note. “We will redouble our defenses at the camp and make a stand. Perhaps we can hold until Gera arrives with reinforcements.” he added, trying to convince himself as much as those around him.

***

As organized fighting relented into small skirmishes with straggling bands of khemakh cut off from their main units, Commander Arasiel and Marshal Elrie rode across the lines, reforming the discipline of the soldiers of fortune and calling back in the overextended groups of soldiers, which had become more difficult as morale continued to rise. Cheers broke out among the ranks of the lines and Marshal Elrie congratulated the Commander.

“It’s far from over, Marshal. Get our troops in marching formation and hold them.” He turned to another soldier from his bodyguard unit. “Deliver the news to the Raqan.”

The Battle of Sarol Part 3 - Argun's End

The morning sun was bright and clear when Oghal’s main force began arraying just south of Argun and the rebel siban. Word had reached her of the triumph of the elves under Arasiel earlier in the morning, blocking Argun’s attempted withdrawal toward the barrier mountains. The elves had saved them a great deal of annoyance. Argun had nowhere left to run.

“Arasiel has proven quite the asset to our force.” she said. Tokur and Gulyar stood at her side as the three watched their enemy’s movements in the short distance.

“And you were unsure of it at first.” Tokur said with a slight laugh in his tone. “They have turned the balance in our favor. Gera will fare a little better, I think. But that is for later.” He added.

“Why don’t they surrender?” asked Sabri as she arrived to join the three. Bogun and Khoja soon followed.

“Because he likely knows Dehqan will hang his corpse as an example,” said Bogun.

“Deservedly so.” agreed Khoja.

As the main Mergen force arrived at the rear of the elves, Commander Arasiel and Marshal Mirakis were the first to greet them on the outskirts of the elven lines with a small group of guardsmen escorting them. “Raqan Oghal, it’s good that you’ve arrived.” He paused as a harsh wind blew right into his face, causing his eyes to squint and his pale face to become even paler from the cold. “The battle was challenging, but we’ve gotten the upper hand on these rebel dogs. I’ve got my men and the mergen cavalry spread out to keep an eye on the camp but close enough to form should they launch a counter-attack.” Said Arasiel.

“Very good, Arasiel. Your forces and yourself have performed admirably in this campaign.” she said. “I look forward to seeing how far we'll go together.”

“Are your forces ready to begin again so soon or should we move them to reserve for the beginning?” asked Tokur.

“This morning was merely an exercise routine. We will do what we’ve been paid to do, sir. Put us wherever you need us.” replied Arasiel.

Oghal gave a nod and Tokur continued. “Very well then. The elves and yourself will maintain your present deployment. Our own infantry will deploy to your right, filling in the distance between here and the Orda river. Our cavalry under Aisan will position with Navai to your left, covering the land between yourself and the Ahmu. Aisan will be in charge of the combined cavalry. You will command your elves of course, and the overall left. Oghal and I will be positioned in the center where the elves and mergen forces meet. Bogun will command the right with Khoja as second.” As he spoke, he gestured in various directions. “We have sent couriers to Sarol, encouraging Dehqan to come out with his own force, blocking any northward retreat by Argun. As our force advances, the wings will spread out, forming a crescent moon to properly encircle the rebels. Any questions?”

Commander Arasiel thought for a moment, turning his head to visualize a bit of what the battle plan would come to look like. When thoroughly satisfied, he turned back and nodded. “No questions.”

When no one else had any either, Oghal gave a nod to Tokur, who saluted. “Then prepare your units. We will begin the attack once all of you are in place.” The other officers then saluted and took their leave.

***

Bogun waited for the start of the action, he was eager for the fight and was unhappy he had missed the skirmish along the Ahmu. The elves had had their share of glory, it was time for his own. Khoja was beside him and appeared far less impatient. It annoyed Bogun a little. “Not interested in this battle?” he asked his ally.

“No less than the next. I just lack your bloodlust.” Khoja replied.

“How boring.”

“This is a small stone anyway, Gera will be more of a fight.”

Bogun wouldn’t argue that. He wondered just how much fight Argun had left in him after his defeat to the elves at the river. He was now surrounded on all sides. They say cornered prey will strike, but that doesn’t mean it can put up much of a fight.

The drums began toward the center. The signal to begin. “Well, let’s see what he has left.” Bogun remarked. “Begin the advance, Khoja.”

His less excited friend saluted and moved forward to begin the attack and move their flank up to block the path along the Orda river. He could see the center already in movement. They would soon see what fight Argun still had.

***

In the lull that had been established from waiting for the Mergen lines to form and for battle preparations to come to a close, Commander Arasiel returned to his formations and took the time to organize his men and give them rest. In that time, he took the liberty of sending a small group of his own guardsmen fitted with horses to ride from the main mercenary group, up to the Mergen cavalry’s position and continued north, towards the walls of Sarol, where’d they remain to monitor any attempts to send scouts north or to send another group of messengers to the only route that would require more effort on the Mergen and elven companies to intercept, unknowing of the ambush that was established further north along the roads. It was then that the moment of peace had ended and the drums began to beat. With their orders clear, Commander Arasiel gave the order. The Pikemen and Halberdiers were the first to begin their forward march, with the longbowmen remaining behind in the hills, where they would soon be given the order to unleash their volleys. To better secure his command of the left wing, Commander Arasiel moved to the east, positioning himself behind the left flank of his elves and the right flank of the Mergen cavalry.

***

Dehqan could barely suppress the smile that spread across his jaws as he watched the melee begin between the Mergen and the rebels. Argun would pay for his betrayal. It did not fully ease the embarrassment he had faced, being holed up in his own city for most of the winter. It would satisfy his anger for now until they could move against the dhorva band.

“Finally, we put this to an end.” said Sargun, sitting upon his own horse to Dehqan’s right. Tuyaara was to his left. It was largely due to these two experienced commanders that he had been able to hold the siege for so long.

“Yes,” said Dehqan. “I want Argun alive if possible,” he added.

“That may depend on what he chooses to do.” replied Tuyaara.

“Death is still good.” Dehqan replied.

“They are heavily engaged with the mergen now. Shall I lead our forces forward?” Sargun asked.

Dehqan gave a nod and Sargun pushed his horse forward to command the charge. The mass of loyal siban troops began to move forward slowly at first. As their flanks caught pace with the center their march developed into a full charge. Dehqan watched as the back lines fired volleys toward the defenders before the front lines reached the first of the intermittent palisades. From that point on, it all became a blur of bodies as the melee and carnage began in full.

***

Alaqa nearly toppled over as she dodged a spear point that just narrowly missed grazing her ribs. The khemakh gripping the polearm gave a grow as they tried to pull back for another strike. Alaqa had other ideas as she grabbed the haft and pulled it forward. The soldier had a tight enough grip that the force of the pull dragged him forward, bringing her foe in striking range. She thrust her sword forward, piercing the lamellar armor and skewering her enemy. They fell without a cry.

She picked up the spear and threw it into another adversary as they moved to attack her. An ally fell toward her right, knocked back several feet. She turned and found herself face to face with Sargun. The larger khemakh immediately charged her and she instinctively rolled to her side to avoid him. His battleax struck only air where she had been a moment before. Alaqa quickly moved to try and stab for Sargun’s side but he was faster. When he had missed her in the first strike, he simply swung it back like a club to catch her in her counter attack. The force knocked her over and she landed with a thud. Sargun then kicked her hard in the ribs and sent her rolling. The pain roared inside her as she forced herself up. Sargun came forth for another strike and she lunged with her sword. She hit nothing. Sargun had grabbed her arm before her blade could hit. Her eyes met his for a brief moment, seeing the grinning snarl along his face before his axe came down, cleaving through her armor and into her shoulder with great force. The pain was just as brief.

***
The elves bearing swords and halberdiers were the first column to reach the outskirts of the eastern camp sections, waiting for them were a force of rebel Siban behind a field of wooden fortifications designed to establish chokepoints and with them they would do the utmost damage to the elves. From their built-up positions, the first two lines of the Siban archers unleashed volley after volley, coming down upon the elves with terrible success. Dozens of elven warriors fell with each arrow storm that crashed into their sea of bodies. Rushing through the chokepoints, stumbling over the mass of dead or dying elves crying out in pain, they breached through the first layer, slamming their blades into the enemy that had been waiting for them. Sounds of clashing steel, shouting and screams of the dying filled the air around the eastern front and for every rebel Siban that had died, two elves died with him or her. The ferocity of Argun’s men were out-matching that of the soldiers of fortune and it was true to form that a cornered animal will always give everything it has to survive another day. Despite the casualties mounting, the elves continued pushing inward, breaking through the first line in a little under half an hour, forcing the Siban back step by step. The initial attack was severely against the elves but as their established defensive positions began to crumble, the numerical advantage was becoming more clear to the Siban and that same wall of courage and bravery was now eroding.

Commander Arasiel, watching the battle from afar, could see in detail how his mercenaries were fighting. They maintained their formations up until the breakthrough of the first line of defense the Siban had maintained. Once they funneled through the choke points at the cost of many deaths, any semblance of organization had no choice but to fade away. Close quarters fighting had developed within the camp as elves pushed further in. With strict orders, he had ordered the Mergen cavalry to continue to hold their position, despite anger from Commanders Navai and Aisen and their urge to see battle. Regardless, the elven commander ordered them to hold. If any attempt to retreat would come, the Mergen cavalry would stop it. Arasiel was skeptical of any sort of break out from the now worsening encirclement around Argun’s camp but should one materialize, they would get their taste for more blood.

***

The battle was lost as quickly as it began. No, thought Argun, it had already been lost when they had failed to cross the river Ahmu. When he was forced to retreat to his camp, he had known there was no winning the coming battle. Any hope of holding out until Gera arrived with reinforcements was in vain. They were beset from all sides. There was no escape now.

How had it gone so wrong so quickly? Mere weeks ago he was besieging the city of Sarol while Oghal sat in Turzhan, too afraid to push out. The siege had taken longer than he had hoped. The more veteran commanders of the Siban had stayed loyal to Dehqan and had proven difficult to dislodge from their defense. He had focused on keeping them isolated.

It was the elves, he decided. Their arrival had made Oghal bolder. It was they who had blocked his plan earlier in the morning. Mercenaries who were more active in their role than he expected. Sahnra condemn them! He might be secure against the barrier mountains if not for them.

“Argun!” came a shout and Argun was awoken from his internal daze. Milun came rushing toward him. She shouted his name again as though uncertain he had heard it before.

“What?” he asked? His tone betrayed his weariness and decimated spirit.

“We can’t hold them anymore. They are hammering us on all sides. They’ll simply kill us to the last at this rate.”

“Kill us to the last…” he softly echoed her words.

“We need to surrender. They might spare us.”

Argun felt the anger rise, pushing back at the despondency that had preceded it. Surrender? To be spared? Argun knew there was little chance of Dehqan sparing him. At best he expected to be made an example of before his execution. Surrender for him was just a slower pace to death.

Death. The word hung on his mind. Was he really about to die here? Was there no chance of surviving? He still had some of his cavalry close. He had thought to send them out to flank the mergen along the Orda before Dehqan had brought his troops out from Sarol to close the circle on him.

“Rally our cavalry,” he said to Milun. She stared at him, visibly confused and unsure what he was planning to do with a few hundred cavalry against an encircled army. She then moved to obey his order.

Argun was ready on his own horse when the rest of his cavalry finally formed with him, Milun toward the front. His gaze wandered among them. A moment of pride at how they had chosen to support him in siding with the dhorva band. A moment of shame in how things had unraveled so quickly.

“Loyal friends,” he said aloud. “The enemy encircles us, but at the cost of thinning their lines.Charge with me once more. We will hit their center. We will either eliminate Oghal, or we will push through and escape. Gera lies to the north and may yet render us aid. To stay here is only death. Forward might be life yet.”

A series of salutes arose from the cavalry. Even as he spoke, Argun found himself more hopeful. If they could only break through and reach gera, they might have their lives. Perhaps there was a chance. He raised his own sword high as he turned to face their enemy. A moment passed but it felt like an eternity to Argun. He brought his sword down, pointing forward, and they began to charge.

***

Oghal watched as a rebel cavalry broke from their camp and charged straight for her position. It at once seemed both brave and foolish to her. It might have inspired her when she was younger. Tokur was already moving their troops to counter, and a spear wall was already poised for the inevitable clash. The elven archers had already dwindled their number before they struck Tokur’s unit like a battering ram. Spears splintered and horses fell, dragging their riders with them to their deaths. Their numbers and force allowed a few to penetrate the line, but they were quickly enveloped as reserves filled the open spaces around them. Mergen khemakh swarmed the cavalry and were soon followed by elves as they moved to counter.

***

Commander Arasiel watched as a sudden influx of activity was taking place on his right and could see cavalry forces emerge from the camp, dashing out through the Mergen infantry column’s left flank, causing the formation to buckle and collapse on that flank. An utmost worry set in on the Commander as he saw every soldier Argun could muster push forth right into Oghal’s command formation. He couldn’t believe the balls this Khemakh had on him. To storm through an almost impenetrable wall. It was both incredibly brave as well as suicidal. He also realized that cavalry support would come from Arasiel’s west and that should Oghal go down, it would have devastating effects on the Mergen, despite the all but guaranteed victory here in Sarol. Not only that, but further monetary support from the Mergen would be in jeopardy and he planned to get very rich from this war. “Kanil! Inform Commander Aisen to push his cavalry force to the south and counter from the east of my archers! They’re moving to break out and run, don’t let them! Navai is to remain in position! Come on, you bastards!” Arasiel shouted at his mounted guard unit. “Let’s go kill this bastard!” He said, putting his sword to the sky and pushing forward. As Arasiel pushed his horse as fast as she could carry him, his bodyguard soldiers moved to support, hoping to get in front of him before they’d connect with Argun’s rear flank.

***
Argun could feel the adrenaline and fear mixing as he surged forward. He continued to wave his sword, urging the others on. Their first obstacle soon became apparent as he heard the cries of horses and khemakh. The elven archers had come into range and had let loose a volley at his charging force. He ducked his head a bit and he could see some of the riders around him go down. Milun was nowhere to be seen. Did she fall? Had she stayed behind?

They struck through the front line of the mergen center moments later and he knew many more had fallen there. The long spears of the mergen acting like a wall against the wedge of his own soldiers. He had no idea how many remained, he did not dare chance another glance behind. His focus was forward. He pushed and pushed his horse and could feel its struggle beneath him. He did not see Oghal, but he had long since abandoned such a goal. He sought instead the rear of their line, opening to break free.
Just as he thought he could see the rear and his bid for freedom, he felt his horse lurch forward and tumble. He flung himself to the side to avoid being crushed. As he hit the ground he felt something break in his arm. Pain surged in his mind as he tried to stand. Around him the remains of his charge fell with him. Some were crushed under their own horses while others were soon to follow as the mergen pushed forth with spears and swords. Argun was still dazed from his fall when another pain surged within him and he looked down to see a spear point protruding from his chest. He dropped to his knees and felt the sharp pull as his faceless foe removed it. His eyes looked to the clear blue sky above before everything faded and he collapsed in a heap on the bloodstained grass.

***

The enemy’s charge ended as Oghal knew it would, though they had pushed surprisingly far into their formation. Admirable, but ultimately futile. Arasiel had arrived to help counter the incursion and dispatch the rebel cavalry in detail. None of them survived.

Following the failed charge, the battle reached its end as the remaining defenders at Argun’s camp had begun surrendering with the official surrender soon after by one of the surviving officers. The push to free Sarol was over. It was a start, but Gera still waited in the north and Oghal would not feel comfortable with her position until the dhorva band was brought to heel.

Oghal and her officers rode to the gates of Sarol where they were met by Dehqan and his entourage. She immediately recognized her friend Tuyaara and old ally Sargun. Both had fought alongside her in the Kivoruhn campaign and in the unification wars before it. She gave a salute to the group, which was reciprocated.

“Dehqan”, she said. “I am pleased to find you well.”

“Better, now that Argun’s betrayal has been punished. You have my thanks, as well as my submission, Sahraqan.”

Oghal felt a slight shiver run along her spine at the use of the title. It felt premature, but it also felt good to hear it recognized. “Thank you, Dehqan. With you with us now, we will deal with Gera next.”

“I look forward to it.” Dehqan replied.

“While you know many of my officers, Tokur, Bogun, Gulyar.”, she said in turn as each officer gave a salute to their name. Dehqan nodded to each. “For the one you do not know. Arasiel, commander of the elves of Elvhenen.”

Commander Arasiel approached Dehqan and gave a customary Khemakh salute to him. “An honor to meet you, Dehqan. I saw your forces fight on the field earlier. They fight with a ferocity unmatched by any of those rebellious traitors I witnessed. It is fortunate we have landed upon the same side.”

“I heard of your own ferocity in countering the traitors as they sought to flee for the mountains by the early morning light. You have my thanks and respect, Arasiel. Together, I am sure we will bring many under Oghal’s banner in the time ahead.”

“Dhorvas is as good as hers. It will be good to speak to my grandchildren of how I helped the Sahraqan take her rightful place.” Arasiel said, turning and nodding to Oghal in respect.

Oghal returned the nod to Arasiel. “I look forward to that day.”

Dehqan then spoke up, gesturing with his left arm toward the city of Sarol. “Come, let me invite you into Sarol. You can rest and see to your wounds. I think a feast is in order tonight to celebrate our victory and pay respects to those lost. Then we can discuss plans going forward into the new reign.”

“Yes!”, a shout erupted from Bogun. “Nothing like a battle to make one hungry. Let’s eat.”

Oghal merely rolled her eyes at Bogun’s outburst while several others laughed.

“Dehqan, I do hope you have plentiful stores of alcohol. I feel like they may be emptied by first light, in no small part because of my boys. They get thirsty after a good scrap.” Arasiel said with a weary smile.

Another chorus of laughter moved among the group and Bogun raised his sword in salute toward Arasiel, his face split with a wide grin.

“I am sure we have enough. And with the road to Sarol freed, we can acquire more.” the Raqan said with a smirk “Come.” he said and he turned his horse to lead the others through the gates and into the city. The day’s bloody work was done and the celebration awaited.

Refuge: Part II

Copost with Ryeongse

Byeolsan, Inner District, av Varberg Residence

To say that Byeolsan bustled with life was not an understatement or an exaggeration. Granted, the streets were busy. Geomnaeajin cavalry cantered about, escorting a few palanquins or cartloads of goods. Some children ran about, chasing each other in the midday sun with wooden swords and mock bows. Scholars, military leaders, and bureaucrats lined teashops and government facilities, discussing niche matters to themselves in hushed whispers. Yet, it was not the same bustle as the outer districts of Byeolsan, nor the same in Ryogangsai or the Eskelian city of Skarhamn. There was an air of quiet around it. Of peace.

From the av Varberg residence, the avenue connecting it to one of the main streets of Byeolsan, all the main streets together pointing towards-away from the Royal Palace like a radiant sun, was lined with white walls propped up with polished dark pillars, exhibiting practically identical architectural features as the av Varberg hanok manor. Tall, red-walled buildings with black or golden roof tiles here and there signaled important government and military buildings, correlated in frequency in proximity to the Royal Palace. The main street itself to which the av Varbergs’ avenue connected was similarly lined with rooves, these rising far higher than the more suburban parts from before. It was here that saw the busiest activity, errands, duties, and even play carried out with serene smiles but ones that never raised the city’s noise to a clamor.

Lynn and Ludvig were getting ready to go out and explore their new home. They were to meet with Chief Advisor So Naehwa’s niece, So Heonmye, in a few minutes. She would show them around and help them with anything they needed. Naehwa sent her because she was occupied with state affairs that required her presence. Neither Ludvig nor Lynn were opposed to this, they did want to meet new people and Heonmye was happy to oblige, she, like many in Byeolsan, was curious as to why a foreign royal family was now residing in their country.

Outside of the main building, in the courtyard, the small detachment of the Königsgarde, no bigger than seven men, was out training with the captain. The Ryeongsean soldiers guarding the manor watched them as entertainment or as an opportunity to learn how they trained in Eskeland and perhaps pick a thing or two from their training. The captain noticed the soldiers watching and motioned them with his hand to come and train with them, they refused politely and the captain simply laughed and went back to training his soldiers.

Arriving in a palanquin for three, tall dsen bearers proudly bearing the deep red tiled vessel, was Heonmye herself. The palanquin arrived at the av Varberg hanok residence, and the dsen bearers lowered so that Heonmye could sweep back the silk curtains acting as the door. Dressed in a simple yet elegant white-topped, black-skirt hanbok, Heonmye stepped gracefully out and entered through the hanok gate, finding Ludvig and Lynn, whom Heonmye was retrieving, already in the front courtyard, conversing with one another while waiting for the heiress.

When the time came, Heonmye showed up ready to pick up Ludvig and Lynn, the two were already waiting for her in the courtyard as they sat on one of the benches conversing. Looking forward to testing her knowledge in foregn languages, Heonmye greeted them.

“God eftermiddag, mina vänner,” Heonmye called in rough Skeljaner as she waved to the siblings. She added with a chuckle, in more familiar and fluent Kostuan this time, tinged with a bit of a Ryeongsean-Hallish hybrid accent, “I’m trying to practice my Skeljaner but it proves difficult still.” She grinned and bowed at the waist before the siblings. “My name is So Heonmye, and I’ve been sent by the Chief Consul to help you get acquainted with our kingdom.” Smiling more mischievously now, she continued, “Ready to dive into Byeolsan with yours truly, the greatest municipal tour guide anyone could ever ask for in all of His Majesty’s great kingdom?” she spun around and posed in a melodramatic fashion.

“God eftermiddag till dig också.” They said back to her, happy to know someone had a bit of knowledge of their language, probably the rarest thing they would see in Ryeongse, but a welcomed rarity. And even though the way she presented herself was very casual for a noble, they did not mind at all, as a matter of fact they welcomed it, it wasn’t very uncommon in Eskeland amongst the lower nobility. “Great!, we are more than ready, yes, we can’t wait to see what this city has to offer. And allow me to say that your Skeljaner is quite good, not many foreigners learn it, it is quite difficult, they rather learn Halder first. But I might teach you some day if you wish.” Said Ludvig laughing.

“Yes, they all find learning Halder easier since it is more similar to Hallish, but going back to the other topic, I am ready to leave, and we must of course find my brother a job.” Said Lynn, chuckling., “I certainly know what I want to do for a while, I love clothes and I’ve been trying to learn the different fashions of Sokos inhabitants. They say Serulean fashion is the finest, but I personally prefer Rolesian, I have many dresses from there. But if we could stop at a local seamstress that would be amazing, I would like to learn local techniques.

“Ahh yes sister of course a job I had almost forgotten,” He said rolling his eyes, “You know perfectly what I will do, I told you many times at supper yesterday, I will either be a court musician or I will get into the military, although perhaps the administration might not be so bad, whatever allows me to meet more women.”

“Women, it seems like that is all you have in your mind recently, you couldn’t stop talking about how the Ryeongsean women catched your attention. You know what, maybe it is better for you, I heard they are quite strict with their husbands, one of them might be able to set you straight!.” She said laughing

“Very funny sister.” The two kept going at each other for a while. Heonmye stood there not understanding a word they were saying since they switched to Skeljaner mid conversation.

“Well…” Heonmye gingerly interjected, her tongue on her lips, “we should get going.” Despite her still lacking understanding of Skeljaner, she had the odd feeling that the subject matter was best left a mystery. She turned and beckoned the two to follow.

As the three exited the av Varberg residence to their awaiting palanquin, Heonmye added, “Ah, yes, no need to introduce yourselves; you’re the talk of the courts, the city, and probably the kingdom. If but for the moment.'' She stopped, turning once more to face Ludvig and Lynn and halting the three in the beaming sun overhead. The wind rustled slightly, drowning whatever sounds were filling the placid air. Heonmye adopted a more serious tone. “As a humble servant of His Majesty the King, I extend his will for you to learn and gleam from this kingdom what you can, but my personal wish is that you also find time to heal here. Are you two doing alright?”

“Yes, thank you very much for your concern Heonmye, these past days have done us some good, unfortunately I can’t say the same about our mother, she seems different ever since our father died and now she doesn’t stop talking about returning back home, but not home back to Eskeland but somewhere else, I do not know what she means by that but I guess will we find we she finally leaves. Anyhow, where are we stopping first?” Lynn said.

Heonmye’s face lit up again at the mention of destinations. “Have you two eaten yet? Let’s get some food!” She continued, leading the Eskelians to the palanquin. As Heonmye swept back the silk curtain, gesturing them to enter, she smiled, “I know the best soup joint in the entire country; we can continue planning over some noodles!” Heonmye’s face turned a bit serious again. “If you ever need to talk, you can talk to me. Trust me, I know what you’ve gone through. And I can help you.”

“Once again thank you Heonmye.'' Said Ludvig with a warm smile, “Hmm… noodles you say, I have never tried any of that, back home there were some noodle shops runned by Monsu, mostly in the east, but I never got the chance to try it, I believe Lynn did, but in secret.”

“Let’s go then!” Heonmye cheered as the three entered the palanquin. The dsen bearers lited the vessel from the ground and proudly paced to their destination. “You’re missing out on something truly wonderful.”

========

Byeolsan, Inner District, Roseojeok Noodle House

The server gently placed three gold bowls of cold noodles in front of Heonmye, Ludvig, and Lynn. “Enjoy your meals,” he said in very rough Kostuan with a smile.

In each bowl rested a neatly folded mound of buckwheat noodles resting in a sea of cold beef broth, small sheets of shaved ice congregated around them. On top of the noodles were arranged thinly sliced boiled beef loin, julienned cucumbers, paper-thin pear disks, and strips of pickled radish. These dishes joined on the lacquered table at which Heonmye and the av Varbergs were, sitting on silk cushions, a myriad of smaller side dishes on snow-white and ocean-blue Saejin porcelain. From fried anchovies to kimchi to different assortments of raw, fermented, steamed, boiled, or fried vegetables, the table was crowded with colors, different little worlds in their own right with which the three were to explore with their cold noodles serving as the vehicle for all of these. Also among the plates and bowls on the table were three cups and platters of Astral green tea, as well as a spoon and pair of chopsticks, in furbished steel, for each person. For the av Varbergs, a fine engraved fork was given to each, part of a sizable luxury bundle imported from Syrduria.

“Jal meokgess’seumnida,” Heonmye gratefully smiled in Gogwihan-eo. “Thank you for the meal,” she repeated in Kostuan.

Lynn and Ludvig also thanked the server, and they began digging in. Ludvig was pleasantly surprised at how good it tasted, expressing satisfaction through his facial expressions. Lynn also was extremely delighted at the taste, the noodles she used to eat from time to time back home did not compare to the masterpiece of the ones she was eating, they were perfect, everything from the beef loin to the pickled radishes were an explosion of flavours in her mouth. The real flavour explosion though came when they began tasting the side dishes and mixing them in with the noodles. Lynn liked the kimchi while Ludvig enjoyed the boiled vegetables

After they finished, they washed down their meal with some green tea and while it was good Ludvig and Lynn still prefered their own tea from Halder, they found Ryeongsean tea to be a tad bit strong for their taste.

Heonmye finished taking a long sip from her teacup. She giggled a little, seeing Ludvig’s and Lynn’s empty bowls. “So, thoughts?”

“I must say, this was simply exquisite, I never ate something this good, I was wrong about Ryeongsean cuisine, they do have some good food, I think I will come here for as long as I can.'' Said Ludvig extremely satisfied with his meal.

“Yes I agree, this was good, the noodles the monsu prepare back home do not compare to this, they are not of the same quality, then again it is not like they have access to the same resources and most of the ingredients they use are local, like the fish, they don’t use anchovies, they use sardines and instead of radishes they use rutabagas or turnips, whatever is in season. I guess you could say it is our own variant of noodle dishes but it is not the same.” Said Lynn

“But anyways, Heonmye, tell us a bit about yourself, where were you raised? Who are your parents? and what is your role in the court?” Asked Ludvig, wanting to learn more about their esteemed host.

“Ah, me,” Heonmye smiled nervously. “It’s you two who are supposed to be the focus here.” After this jest, Heonmye’s face shifted to that of formal neutrality. “I am of the Daemyundan So Clan, a high noble family with a history of duty and professionalism. My aunt is So Naehwa, whom you’ve met. She’s raised me ever since I was a little girl. Some internal political strife put targets on my parents’ backs. I was only nine when I returned home to see it set ablaze and…” Heonmye’s pupils scattered. Her formality had dropped, her face pale and eyes wide. She skipped forward in her narrative, stammering as she did and shaking her head to refocus herself. “My aunt’s the most amazing person there is; she taught me everything I know and fostered my education; thanks to her, I appear to be quite the scholar and the fighter, as well as noodle enthusiast,” Heonmye smiled again, her eyes still focused elsewhere. She pushed herself back to the agenda of the av Varbergs, if but a bit painfully. “Now with a meal had, I’d say next on the list is to tour Byeolsan’s main artisanal square. From seamstresses to jewelers to musicians to even weapons and armor smiths, it’s a burgeoning flower of all things art in the kingdom. Shall we?”

Lynn and Ludvig looked at Heonmye with concern, they knew from the moment she struggled to mention her parents that something not so wholesome was up, but for her sake they decided not to push the matter forward, “Of course Heonmye, I am looking forward to buying an new instrument and practice it, and perhaps a new sword, this one is getting quite rusty, perhaps the captain would appreciate a gift to thank him for his duty.” Said Ludvig scratching his chin.

Following Heonmye towards the palanquin, they got in and headed to their next destination.

========

Byeolsan, Inner District, Artisanal Square

The afternoon sun beamed down on a ring of black roof tiles, held up by white and red walls forming a large, enclosed circle at the junction of several main roads. Signs in Ryeongsean characters announcing facilities such as smithies, jewelry stores, clothiers, potters, artists, and more hung on these walls, to the wonder of several passersby surveying each store.

The Eskelians’ palanquin parked a bit outside the square as Heonmye led Ludvig and Lynn by foot to the square proper. “So this is where the square is,” Heonmye sighed contently, taking in the sights she had seen a thousand times before. “It’s only down the street from your residence, so you may from now on go and come as you wish. Today’s only introductory, so feel free to come back again and again to fully explore what this place has to offer. Now,” she rubbed her hands together, “Go and explore! I’ll also be looking around; I think I need some more clothes and I want to buy some more hairpins. If you have any questions or need me for anything else, come and find me. I won’t leave until you guys want to.”

Lynn and Ludvig went their separate ways. Ludvig went to the local luthier. It was situated awkwardly between two overbearingly encroaching shops: a jewelry store and a printmaking shop. The interior was lit by a few scattered lamps atop shelves and racks of a variety of Ryeongsean stringed instruments, from gayageum zithers to haegum fiddles, made of polished wood and arranged by color, size, and quality. In the corner of the shop, an outlier in the otherwise culturally monotonous display of instruments, was one lone Nyckelharpa. Ludvig approached it curiously.

“That is not for sale young man,” the storekeeper interjected softly in decent Kostuan, smiling, recognizing that Ludvig was a foreigner, “You must be the Eskelian prince, the talk of the town. Your name?”

“Ludvig, sir.”

“Welcome to my shop. I hope you like what you see,” the salesman bowed.

“I am, thank you very much, but I must ask, what is a nyckelharpa doing here?”

“That beauty? I acquired it during my travels through Eskeland. A bard there was selling it for a compelling bargain, so I took the deal. Collecting stringed instruments has always been one of my favorite pursuits.” The old storekeeper sighed retrospectively. “Still, that did not stop this one from breaking a few days ago, and it has since been irreparable. A shame too; it was always one of my favorites to play.”

“Hmm… Well I might be able to help, I used to play this instrument since I was little, I know the ins and outs of it, if you would allow me.”

The storekeeper’s face was washed clean of all color as he stuttered with a comical mix between humility and fear. “Oh no, sir. I could not possibly ask such a thing of a prince. How would I ever repay you for your troubles?”

“It is no bother at all sir,” Ludvig smiled. The old man agreed, reluctantly, and handed the ailing instrument over to Ludvig. He spent the rest of his time repairing the instrument for the old man.

Meanwhile on the other side of the plaza, Lynn decided to follow Heonmye to the seamstress and jewelry shop. First was the clothier. A cozy yet spacious store illuminated beautifully with translucent paper windows boldly displayed on racks rows of Ryeongsean clothing. Fine silk hanbok robes and gowns showcased their deep reds, blues, greens, blacks and whites, stealing attention away from similarly luxurious accessories that were magnificent in their own ways as well. The owner of the shop was ecstatic to have Heonmye and a foreign princess in their shop; she helped them around and exhibited different articles of clothing to Lynn with Heonmye serving as translator.

“Look at these clothes, Heonmye, they are simply fabulous. Do you think you could ask the owners if they could teach me how to make them?” Lynn asked excitedly.

Heonmye opened her mouth cautiously to respond. “Sure, they would be happy. Although if so, you would likely need to spend quite a bit of time here as the seamstress’ apprentice, likely most of the week’s daylight hours.” She smiled, “Not to discourage you; if you’re up to this, then go right ahead. I’m sure His Majesty would be interested in the development of your proficiency in arts and crafts as well as your academic learning.”

“Great, I’m eager to begin as soon as possible. I won’t be much different from my life back home, but I do believe I will need a translator.” She said, chuckling.

Some time after, they left the shop heading towards the main plaza. Their last stop of the day would be the local bladesmith’s shop, where they were supposed to meet with Ludvig. He was already waiting for them there and he waved at them as soon as he saw them approaching.

The shop was quite spacious, as one of the many smithies around Byeolsan, one of the most popular trade shops in the city, thanks to the sheer amount of military personnel in Byeolsan. The walls were a deep stone, with wooden posts, rather than purely wood or straw mixtures. Inside were polished wooden racks, with a fire-resistant coat, showcasing close-combat arms of all kinds. Racks of single-edged do and double-edged geom were arranged nicely in the center of the room, while longer polearms, like the woldo and other glaive-like weapons, lined the walls. To the rear of the store was a large smith’s workshop; although obscured by walls and doors, the sound of clanging metal and heated blades hissing in cold water signified activity.

Near the smith’s workshop, inspecting a long woldo with a black and gold staff, was a man clad in a white and blue hanbok, quite casual for the noble he presumably was but still extravagant compared to the rest of the populace. Heonmye beckoned Ludvig and Lynn forward to introduce them to him; it seemed Heonmye and the man knew each other.

Heonmye approached the man, aloof and unaware, and tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, caught off-guard, to see Heonmye chuckle uncontrollably. “Almost beheaded me there,” she eked out between bursts of laughter. “I just wanted to introduce you to the Eskelian nobility visiting here today and you gave us a show of the famed valor of the Geomnaeajin.”

The man straightened, the polearm still in his hand, and bowed to Heonmye and the Eskelians at the waist. “Forgive me of my imprudence. My name is Ro Munsang,” he apologized curtly.

“Also happens to be one of the highest-ranking military officials in the kingdom,” Heonmye added with a smirk. Munsang was not amused by her comment.

"A pleasure to meet you Ro Munsang, Ludvig av Varberg is my name and this is my sister Lynn. We have heard quite a bit about you from our short stance here. They say you are one of Ryeongse’s best commanders and a very skilled warrior too. I am glad to meet someone with such prestige.” Ludvig lightly tapped Lynn’s shoulder and whispered to her ear, “Hey Lynn, don’t you think he is quite attractive? And he is a skilled warrior, you said you like warriors.”

“Oh keep quiet now, will you? Yes sure he is quite attractive and being a warrior and all is very nice, but I barely know him.”

“Poor Christian, his future wife, taken away from him by a Ryeongsean.” Said Ludvig, laughing,
“He deserved it if you asked me, he wasn’t a good match for you, and now that we are not restricted by conventions about marriage, this could be your opportunity. As for me, I saw this beautiful girl while I was walking down the street, she looked like an angel, she had this quiet demeanour about her, brown hair and eyes, I believe she must be a noble, she was accompanied by some guards and she later on got on one of those palanquins. Might have to ask Heonmye about her much later.”

“Alright whatever you say brother.”

Ludvig tapped Heonmye on the shoulder and whispered on her ear, “I think Lynn like Ro Munsang.” He soon switched to talking normally, “Heonmye, may I talk to you in private about something.” He said, winking at her.

Heonmye furrowed her eyes with suspicion. “Sure,” she responded, understanding but still unsure of Ludvig’s hint. Regardless, with shaky confidence in that supposition, she added, “We’ll be right back. You two can chat while we discuss… whatever Ludvig wants to discuss.” She smiled and exited behind Ludvig.

Outside, Heonmye turned with a serious face to Ludvig. “I think I see what you want to do here, but it’s quite the risky move,” she began exasperatedly to a still-smiling Ludvig. “What would happen should whatever you’re planning between Lynn and Munsang falls apart? Do you think this could really work or is this another one of your games?”

“Well, nothing really, I guess that means it wasn’t meant to happen, but, I know Lynn took an interest in him, she shows it in her body expressions and I believe I heard Munsang is single? Do correct me if so, either way I do believe it will be fine, but anyways let’s go, I’m sure by now they must have spoken enough with each other.”

Heonmye narrowed her eyes. “Alright,” she nodded slowly. “I’ve known Munsang since childhood and if anything, he’s pretty aloof. Not sure how he can handle something as sophisticated as romance, but if he’s fought for His Majesty’s kingdom, then there’s little he shouldn’t be able to do.” She cleared her throat and adopted a lighter face. “And was there something else you wanted to discuss?”

“No, I think that is it.” He said, smiling

“Okay, then,” Heonmye replied, matching Ludvig’s smile. “If you wanna get in on some action yourself, you can and likely should; this provides an opportunity likely to be unmatched by anything else in your life. However, do exercise caution and wisdom in doing so.” Heonmye turned towards the door of the shop, sliding it open. “We should probably go in and save Munsang and your sister before anything happens,” she giggled.

“Yes, let's go,” Ludvig agreed.

Northward

Rendotius, 345 ATF

Lyrenz awoke to a frosty greeting from the spring morning. Though the new year had at last arrived, and with that the new campaigns of the Syrdish armies, the biting cold had not yet left Halland. The remnants of the snowstorm that had swept the land in the closing weeks of 344 ATF were still evident. Many trees were still cold and unmoving, the rest only beginning to be rejuvenated by the new spring. Lyrenz thought it a curious thing, and took to likening it to the state of the army. Many men were still sick or weary from the winter, others had begun teeming with life again, brought back by the thought of the coming campaign and the days upon days of marching that they now found themselves in.

Lyrenz, assigned to be with the huszars, found himself marching north, as had long been rumoured. While the main force under His Grace moved eastward, invoking memories of the past two years, a smaller force, put under the leadership of Count Jakob Zalan, advanced northward from Obersrath, and most of the huszars, including Ferenc’s company, had been assigned to the Count. With the beginning of spring, Jakob’s army moved with an energetic pace, departing Obersrath and marching along the Geber River, provoking the attention of those Hallish lords on the other side—Prince Konrad and Prince Frederick.

Rising from his bed, Lyrenz exited the warm comforts of his tent and took in the view for a brief, fleeting second. Ferenc’s huszars had camped in a small forest clearing, just ahead of the main army of Count Jakob. The surrounding trees shielded the camp from the outside meadows and fields, their normally still branches rustling occasionally when a gust of wind passed by, sending shivers down the young knight’s spine. Lyrenz looked up to the sky, saw that it was just barely dawn, and smiled. He had been growing accustomed to waking up around this hour, as it gave him time to organise his things before they had to go back on the march again, which took up the entire day as normal.

The huszars usually set up camp when the sun vanished, and since it was early spring, and the days were shorter, they would compensate for this by setting out at an earlier hour to cover more ground. Lyrenz was still adapting to the huszars and their methods. Whereas during winter the huszars had sat around Obersrath, spending their spoils in the city and foraging for more coin when necessary, now with the spring march they were fully on the hunt at all times. Riding ahead of the main force, they possessed a keen eye for all things valuable that Lyrenz lacked. In many ways perhaps, he was still learning, though it was a lesson he did not particularly wish to be taught.

Withdrawing back to his tent, Lyrenz donned his armour and clothing. He did not adorn himself with the full set of elaborate plate armour as usual. In the recent days, he had taken to a more comfortable style of clothing, simply donning a cuirass over his garments, which had been lined with fur to shield their wearer from the cold. There was little danger to be had during the marching, and the thought of real battle was still far off, especially since they hadn’t even crossed the Geber yet. Thus, for now, he kept to his comfortable riding gear, and saved his plate armour for another day.

Rummaging through his possessions in the tent, Lyrenz took a small brass box, marked with small engravings, then grasped at the handle of a small copper pot, which he also took. He exited the tent again, and surveyed his surroundings another time. He had not been the first to wake up. Some of the huszars had risen already. Dressed in their fine—or not so fine—kaftans, they stood or sat idly, waking themselves up bit by bit. A small fire had already been lit in the camp, as some of the men stood around it, warming themselves. Lyrenz walked over to the fire, attracting their attention, but he merely muttered a simple greeting before sitting down on his knees. He laid the copper pot on the ground, then opened the brass box, revealing what was inside: finely ground coffee.

Lyrenz had been introduced to the drink in Wyvern’s Rest, where it was a somewhat popular commodity. He had heard of it before many times, but it was only in the city that he drank it, where he became quite fond of the beverage. He treated it as a luxury, for it was quite expensive, and during the winter spent in Obersrath managed to come across a Hallish merchant who sold the prized beans. It took some trouble communicating with the man, but Lyrenz eventually succeeded in purchasing a good quantity, and had taken to drinking every few days or week. That morning was one such day.

Having had his squire Frytsche grind some of the coffee beans the night before, he laid down the brass box and copper pot on the ground, then returned to his tent to fetch two small cups and a flask of water. Returning to the fire, he first poured water into the copper pot, then the fine coffee powder, before hovering the pot over the small fire, bringing the mixture to a boil. Slowly, it rose, the top of the drink taking a foamy appearance, and when it looked like it was about to overflow Lyrenz removed it from the fire and poured the foam equally into the two cups, before again hovering the copper pot over the fire. He repeated this process a few times, until there was no more drink to boil, and the two cups were almost full.

Lyrenz laid the copper pot on the ground, then rose with the two cups in his hands and walked away, ignoring the strange looks the huszars had been giving him. He entered his squire’s tent, and with a quick kick he awoke Frytsche, who rose with a groan and a startled look, making a strange movement with his hand to signal for Lyrenz to go away. The young knight complied, and again stepped out into the open, taking in deep breaths of air and sipping at his cup of coffee. A minute later his squire arose from the tent, and Lyrenz offered him the cup of coffee that he held in his other hand. Frytsche took it, and together the two drank slowly, without saying a word.

More and more of the huszars had awoken. Their captain, Ferenc, rose from his tent, smoking pipe in his hand, as he struck a pose similar to that of Lyrenz sipping his coffee. Some of the men were already tending to their horses, armour or weapons, while the more higher ranking officers of the company had already set to delivering orders back and forth. Soon they would be on the ride again.

“Ah! Good day Sir!” Cried out one of the huszars in a mocking tone, and Lyrenz scowled, for he knew who that man was. He was dressed in a yellow kaftan and feathered hat and the man wore a thick moustache and a dark brown hair that reached down to his neck. He carried an almost perpetually arrogant expression on his face, and his hand rested on the pommel of his sabre as he tended to his steed, a light grey stallion, that Lyrenz thought bore some resemblances to its owner.

The man’s name was Lészek. Lészek was one of the higher ranking officers of the company, not an old man (though he was certainly older than Lyrenz), yet with years of experience in the tactics of the huszars. He was popular, but perhaps feared by the men, swinging his sabre wildly while walking around the camp, and always scowling with a menacing look, which he wore frequently. Yet though he loved such habits, since Lyrenz’s arrival Lészek had found a new affection, and that was pestering and belittling the young knight to no end. To Lészek Lyrenz must’ve surely represented something that he detested—knighthood, which he always spoke disparagingly of. It was for this that Lészek took great enjoyment in his new hobby, speaking to Lyrenz always with a mocking and taunting tone.

Lyrenz, for his part, had mostly ignored the man. From the beginning he had sparsely spoken with the huszars, always acting with a cold and lofty air around him, which did little to endear him to the company. When he was enticed into conversation with them, he adopted a tone of such scorn and aloofness that it had made him a very hated man in the company. He was aware of this, and he did not care. In his eyes, they deserved that tone with which he spoke.

“Sir, Sir!” Cried out another voice, and turning his eyes from the cup of coffee Lyrenz saw the easily recognisable and warm face of one of the other huszars, a man named Sólyom. His words made Lyrenz give a sudden frown.

Lyrenz was a man who found it easy to develop not just deep friendships with those around him, but also bitter rivalries. When meeting a man, he would think, evaluate the person he had just been introduced to, take mental notes of what he said and what he did, and by the end of the day it was likely that he had made up his mind on whether or not that man was bad or good. When he had made up his mind, the matter was practically set in stone, and it was quite difficult for him to change it.

Sólyom, meanwhile, was a man who confounded this system. At times he was a detestable little thing, at other instances he was a good conversation partner. On one day he would irritate Lyrenz so much that the knight was sure that Sólyom was bad, but the next day the two would engage in a fun little conversation, which left the young knight unsure of the man again. It had been going on like this for nearly a month now. There was a strange quality to that huszar, which had made Lyrenz find him both repulsive and charming, annoying and pleasant, and a friend and enemy at that.

“Me, Antal and Csaba are going hunting today.” Said Sólyom curtly, a strange smirk crossing his face. “Perhaps you’d like to come.” He suggested.

Lyrenz mulled the matter over, knowing full well why Sólyom had proposed it. The other night he had engaged in a conversation with the man over hunting, and their two wildly different interpretations of it. Lyrenz—raised like all nobles—always treated and spoke of hunting as a most noble sport and pastime, making flattering remarks over the qualities of his method of hunting par force. He then spoke belittlingly of Sólyom’s method (which was to say, hunting efficiently with bows, arrows and traps), almost mocking it during the conversation. He argued there could be no thrill or pleasure in it, to which Sólyom responded by saying that the pleasure in his efficient method of hunting was that he could have dinner later, which shut Lyrenz up for the rest of the night.

Now Sólyom was proposing to show Lyrenz his method of hunting, and the young knight pondered over the matter for a few seconds, taking another sip of his coffee. His squire Frytsche looked between him and Sólyom curiously, intrigued by the huszar’s offer, before he adopted a cold and aloof expression, almost as if he was laughing at the fact that the huszar had even proposed such a thing. To his surprise Lyrenz accepted.

They went hunting later that day. For morning and most of the afternoon they kept with the rest of the huszars, but when it was clear that they would set camp soon, Lyrenz, Sólyom and the two others went off into a nearby woodland to hunt. Adhering to the huszar method, which Lyrenz still did not consider to be ‘true’ hunting, they bagged a few hares and were prepared to ride back to the camp, only for Lyrenz to catch sight of a deer just moments before. He trailed it carefully and quietly, then struck it in the neck with an arrow, felling it instantly. The four returned to the camp with chipper spirits. When they came back, Lyrenz aided in skinning the animals they had caught, for he had experience in this, and then they feasted, revelling in the cooked meat, full of pride at their accomplishments. The young knight’s mood had brightened for the day, and again he pondered over Sólyom, who sat there with a bright face and sly smirk, making humorous remarks whenever he could, that strange quality shining in him again.

***
A week later, in the midst of the month of Iskrenil, the army of Count Jakob Zalan prepared to cross the Geber River. For the past few days the army had been locked in a peculiar standoff with the force of another Hallish lord—Prince Konrad of Gelbau-Kotzburg. Adhering strongly to the Proposal of Ulmefurt, which he had signed, the Prince was guarding the Geber River closely with his retainers and men-at-arms, a small army that numbered some 3,000 men, dwarfed by Jakob’s own force of 10,000.

Count Jakob had no wish to fight a bitter river crossing, and he wished even less to even engage in a proper battle with Prince Konrad, so while he kept a large part of his army to maintain the standoff with the Hallish force, he sent a smaller force further north along the river to construct a series of pontoon bridges, which would let him cross without much effort, and catch Konrad by surprise. They set to work, and within a day had fashioned a series of makeshift bridges, unbeknownst to the Hallish. The Syrds began crossing the next day. The huszars were the first to pass the river. Some companies were sent forward to scout the nearby countryside, but Ferenc’s company and a few others formed a sort of vanguard to watch over the crossing, in case Prince Konrad became suddenly aware of what was happening, and attacked the Syrds with all his might.

Lyrenz, riding with Ferenc’s company as always, watched calmly as columns of men crossed the three small boat bridges. He paid close attention to their banners, and along with his squire Frytsche had been pointing out the numerous companies and nobles that were crossing, recognising them just from their flags. When it came to the third hour of the crossing, however, there was a company of men that neither Lyrenz nor his squire recognised. They carried a curious looking banner, and the men themselves were more intriguing, wearing flamboyant doublets in a style that reminded Lyrenz of Bartin de Marnont, one of the King’s many knights and aides, and a Rolesian at that. The men held arquebusiers in their hands, resting the middle of the firearm on their shoulders. All two-hundred of them or so possessed a matchlock, which only intrigued Lyrenz further. He kept on observing as more companies crossed the bridge, his eyes occasionally darting back to that small battalion of arquebusiers.

“‘O are they?” Asked one of the huszars curiously, his mind also focused on that company of arquebusiers. Ferenc, who as captain of the company was much more connected with high command than any of the others including Lyrenz, opened his mouth to respond.

“Rolesian matchlocks. ‘Is Grace brought ‘em in during the winter. Led by a…’Eynaurd or something. Peculiar lot. Nothin’ else to ‘em though.” He said loudly, his gaze turning back to the pontoon bridges. His words eased Lyrenz, who smiled proudly at having identified their clothing as Rolesian, though he flaunted it to no one. He too looked to the boat bridges again, his eyes jumping from man to man as he watched them cross.

Prince Konrad could not be fooled for too long. Eventually his scouts caught wind of the situation, and the first skirmishes were already beginning to break out between them and the huszars. The Hallish Prince and his army, which had been guarding a crossing a few miles south, rushed northward, forming up for battle. Yet Count Jakob’s force outnumbered the Hallish more than three to one, and Count Jakob had no intention to risk his men in a potentially costly battle. Sending a messenger into no man’s land, he requested a parley.

Konrad accepted. He could already see where the wind was blowing, and he knew his men did not have much chance against the far more numerous Syrds. He rode forward into the rolling hills and meadows to meet with Count Jakob. One of his servants bore the banner of House Verstenfeld and of Gelbau-Kotzburg, the flag laying motionless and idle, for the wind was not strong enough for the banner to flutter. Count Jakob met him half an hour later, his own servants bearing the banner of House Zalan and of House Kristoberg. The two men were dressed in their finest armour, an extravagant show of their respective power, but it reflected little on the actual state of their two armies.

His cold and aloof expression betraying his own anxiety, Count Jakob grimaced as he gazed at Prince Konrad. The Hallishman himself gave off a stern look, as he used his right hand to fiddle with the reins of his horse, while his left twitched nervously. He sat in silence for a moment, the only noise heard being the occasional grunt from their horses. It was Konrad who made the first remark, his lips curling into an anxious smile, as he opened his mouth to say the first words.

“A fine day to make battle, no?” He began, in Kostuan.

“I would rather we not make battle at all today, Your Grace.” Shot back Jakob, not in Kostuan but in Hallish, which caught the Prince and his servants off-guard—they had not expected the Count to speak their tongue.

“But alas we must. You have marched north, and now I see the aim of your army, and His Highness. You are here to uproot us all: our lands, our titles, our estates. The Greatest wills me to stop you.” Spat the Prince in Hallish, a bitter tone in every word he spoke. The Syrdish count only frowned.

“Has the King or the Kiralstág ever declared you a traitor? Have we ever declared your lands forfeit? Your blood attainted? Have we taken up arms against your, or your allies, those who signed that proposal?” Retorted Jakob, quite sure of his words.

“You march an army into my lands!”

“And I will be gone in a week. I, and His Grace Duke Martyn, seek only to deliver justice on those most wicked of lords, who did declare themselves to be independent and sovereign from the King. My army marches to Leuchstal, not to Kotzburg.”

“Your war has brought nothing but suffering to Halland. I only aim to keep the peace, which your King has failed to do.”

“Which the Duke of Korbek has failed to do. I should not have to remind you of that, Your Grace. I ask you this: is this how peace is kept in Halland? By marching to meet me with an army three times smaller than mine, and throwing your men into a needless bloody battle, only for me to continue on my way to Eltenhof?”

“You are so sure of victory?” Questioned Konrad, but Jakob brushed aside his words.

“I offer you peace. Return with your men to Trübenach, Kotzburg, Schberön, it does not matter to me. Return, and I will guarantee that I will be out of your lands in a week. And I can give you a guarantee, backed of course by His Highness, that your lands will not be…how is it you said…ah. Uprooted. If you will not accept these terms, then at least forgo battle now in exchange for another day.” Said the Count and Konrad mulled over his words—there was indeed little point in battle today. Yet he felt honourbound to do so.

“I will consider it.” He answered, some truth in the words he had spoken, but an air of uncertainty surrounding them. Count Jakob squinted, himself uncertain of whether he had succeeded or not. Yet when Konrad made it clear that the parley was over, he departed, anxiety again attacking his mind, as he pondered on whether he had been too harsh in his words, or had not said them properly, or had delivered the wrong message entirely.

Small skirmishes between Prince Konrad’s force and the Syrdish army continued for the better part of the day. Ultimately the Prince consulted his commanders, and as afternoon approached, and the time for battle having long passed, Konrad’s army retreated towards Trübenach, having sustained relatively light casualties. Jakob, for his part, marched northward with full haste, and departed Konrad’s lands after eight days.

The Southern Defence Pact

Written with The Pink Seas

Heavenly Palace, Tajima

Emperor Kiyoshi was sitting on his throne, waiting for an answer from his courier regarding the invitation he had sent to the leaders of The Pink Seas about coming over to discuss future plans. The emperor had, for a while, thought of forming an alliance with the Pink Seas in a move to secure hegemony in the southern part of Tylos. His fear of the resurging savoset, the ikori and now the avernai, drove him to take the decision.

After an hour of waiting the courier finally arrived, with a letter in hand, it was signed by one of the leaders of the Pink Seas. The couriers handed it over to the emperor who took it and gave it a good look. Someone by the name of Yama Daitan would come over as a representative, she was one of the citylords, and would arrive in two weeks time. More than enough to make the preparations. The emperor had barely any knowledge of who ruled that country as he was more interested in the politics of the mainland, but maybe it was time for him to learn a bit more about his neighbours.

The emperor closed the letter and ordered his servants to gather everything necessary to make the preparations, including a small fireworks show for the delegation, a staple entertainment in Tokawa, usually used during important festivities, it would be used for the first time in front of a foreign delegation and with good reason.

From one of the seats lined along the carpet that led to the emperor’s throne rose one of the guardians, he approached the emperor to voice his concern over the recent incident in Harima and how the perpetrators could cause problems for the delegation on their way to Tajima. The emperor was more than aware of the incident, “Do not worry about it Haruto, I had Guardian Minoru dispatched over there, he will take care of the problem in the meanwhile, but if you are this concerned about our image, I will send some members of the Kangun to keep watch and accompany them all the way over here.”

“Thank you.” Said Haruto bowing before returning to his seat to await the end of the court

—----------------

Yama had had a rough trip. She had arranged to visit Tokawa as a representative after talking it out with some of the other citylords, who were too preoccupied with the war to care much about a small nation on the continent. The voyage out of the isles wasn’t pretty: a few storms and constant fear of being spotted by Pink Seasian enemies’ ships made it hard to sleep. But, eventually the Ship managed to get past the islands and soon the land of the continent was visible over the horizon.

“We are some kilometres off where we should be.” Yama noted when the coast became closer.

“Yes, ma’am” the captain acknowledged, “We ended up going up north more than expected trying to dodge Tsukian fishing boats to avoid detection. We’ll have to go south following the coast”.

The ship continued with land on sight, and eventually they started seeing more and more trading ships and fishing boats, most making their way in or out of a city that could be spotted in the distance. Big walls surrounded what looked like the ceiling of a majestic palace. On the docks, countless vessels docked and left, among them many military ones. Some others made their way through channels that headed further into the city through rivers.

The Pink Seasian delegation made their way to the docks, where they were guided to a place where they could anchor themselves.

The Kangun led by one of the guardians, Uyou, the guardian of Nakai, were there waiting for them. They would serve as their escort all the way to Tajima where they would finally meet the emperor. As they descended their ship one by one Uyou greeted them, welcoming them to the country and thanking them for coming until he saw who he assumed was Yama, “You must be Yama right? I bid you welcome to the country” He said bowing in a cordial way .

Yama bowed herself, “thank you for the warm welcome. I am, indeed, Yama. Who might you be if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I am Uyou Totsuka, one of the guardians of Tokawa and loyal protector of his heavenly majesty. I was sent to receive and escort you and your entourage to the capital. We had transports arranged for this. Accommodations have also been arranged for you in Tajima. We can speak of it more once we are there. I would prefer if we kept talking to a minimum as on orders of the emperor, we are to depart as soon as possible.” Uyou show them the way to the carriages. They were of similar construct to the ones one could see in Sokos but with a more Tokawan look. Instead of wheels it had horses. Anyone could easily confuse it for a litter.

Yama had never seen any carriages like that before. She commented nothing, though, and got on the carriage along with those accompanying her. "How far is it, Tajima?"

"Quite far, and we have to travel up through the mountains, but thankfully the roads have been given maintenance so there won't be any problems along the way. Now if there is nothing else we might depart." Said Uyou. He gave the signal to the carriage master to depart and so the small convoy of carriages departed towards Tajima, the Kangun on the side of each to protect them.

The convoy would pass through the middle of Nakai and any other village or town they had to pass by, at orders of the emperor. It was a move to show the foreign dignitaries, the grandeur and beauty of Tokawa, but to the guests this would seem as nothing more than just the best way to get to Tajima. Yama and her delegation were able to observe the diversity of the Tokawan countryside, from jungles to deserts and from deserts to grasslands in the more rarer areas, Tokawa had much to offer. The many villages and towns of the country varied in architecture and its citizens' clothing too. A representation of the many cultures that inhabited Tokawa.

—----------------

Many days later, Tajima

After a long and safe trip through the Tokawan countryside and one rough trek through the mountains, the convoy arrived at the gates of the city. The gate guards opened the doors for the convoy after Uyou gave them the order and they were able to proceed to the palatial complex where the emperor was located. The streets were lined up with people who came to welcome Yama and her entourage. The only ones in the country who were made aware of it.

At the complex were the rest of the guardians, except for Minoru who was occupied with more important matters elsewhere in the country. They all welcomed Yama and the rest. All introduction and formalities done, Uyou led them all inside to the first part of the complex to finally meet the emperor. The halls were decorated with tapestries depicting the history of the country, the main hall was supported by green columns gilded with gold and at the very end was the heavenly throne of the emperor, made fully of gold, other materials used for the smaller details to distinguish the features.

The delegation approached the throne and the emperor stood up to greet them, ”Welcome, welcome! Welcome to my beautiful country. I hope your trip was pleasant and you were able to enjoy the many beauties that my country has to offer. I believe you must be Yama?” Said Emperor Kiyoshi, bowing to greet them and proceeding to shake everyone's hands.

Yama bowed her head slightly before answering. “Your Heavenly Majesty'' she said, following the indications Uyou and the others had given her on royal customs, “I am, indeed, Yama, citylord of Karafuru. You clearly are Emperor Kiyoshi. I am very pleased to meet you. I come to talk to you as a representative of the Pink Seasian Commonwealth, and bearing gifts”. One of her companions unveiled a small detailed model of the Bōkensha, a legendary Pink Seasian ship Yama herself had sailed in years before.

The emperor was more than happy to receive her gift, he himself being a collector of unique items, he was pleased to add another one to his collection and none other than of Pink Seasian craftsmanship, “Thank you for this wonderful gift, we ourselves also had gifts prepared for your delegation, we wouldn’t want to be bad hosts but it will have to wait until the end of this gracious meeting. But setting that matter aside for the moment, I believe we have some important things to talk about. The whole reason you are here. If you would follow us into the conference room, we might be able to talk about it better.

The emperor, followed by the guardians, showed the Pink Seasian delegation to the conference room. The room was on the right side of the complex, they had to go through an open corridor to be able to get there, decorated with flowers on the sides. The conference room however was more impressive than a mere corridor: the walls were decorated with maps of the country and of its neighbours, in the middle of Tylos itself. More columns held the building in place and finally in the middle of the room the centrepiece, a round table made of the finest wood, along with the chairs. One of the chairs stood from the other for being made of gold, which was where the emperor sat.

They all sat on their seats, the table divided, on one side the Pink Seasian delegation and on the other the emperor and the guardians. Some of the guardians remained standing in the corners of the room to stand guard, but also to free up seats for the foreign delegation.

“This is much better, I believe we can formally begin our meeting now. Once more I thank you for coming, as you all know, Tylos is a very treacherous continent, different races vying for its control. The savoset might not be anymore, but one never knows, the Elotomeki are unpredictable and now the avernai with their dragon emperor. I fear for the security of the south. That is why I believe this meeting was in order. We are the two biggest powers in the south and I believe you, like us, don't wish to see the south threatened by these people.” Said the emperor in a serious tone.

“The Commonwealth has previously established defensive pacts and alliances with other Tylosian powers in order to safeguard our interests and protect our people. I do believe that your empire would pose a good ally, yet I feel the need to confirm a few things before we continue this topic”, she answered, now seemingly much less relaxed than she looked like in the throne room. “Some of my peers have expressed concern at your rapid expansion and wish to know what are your naval ambitions. As you may be aware, our economy and military is primarily based on the seas, and so we wish to know of your goals in the area”.

“I see… Well, I believe there is no need to worry. In that case, our priorities, with our navy, are to safeguard our waters. We have no naval ambitions, ours are mostly on land. That is why your help on the seas would be essential for us, and we can give you a hand on land should it be required.”

“That’s certainly a relief for most of us. It can indeed be extremely beneficial for both to excel in the area the other lacks, though it also means that assisting the other on the part each of us is lacking might be a difficult affair”. Yama played with her hair nervously and continued. “The other question I have concerns our ability to communicate news to each other. Given that your capital is located far inland and doesn’t seem to be accessible by ships through rivers, I’m afraid any quick notice of any of our needs or news might arrive mostly late. Do you have any propositions to attempt to fix this issue?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Every city has a guardian, they are the most powerful people in the country after me, they are allowed to make their own decisions accordingly, so should a time like that come, they will act accordingly in the meanwhile while I receive word of it. We have had this system for centuries and it hasn’t failed us yet. For example, Uyou here is the guardian of Nakai, should you send a message there, he is who you must give it to. He will know what to do.”

“It seems both our nations have more similarities than I thought of,” Yama laughed lightly. “It seems, then, my main worries are resolved. What are the terms of this pact you propose?”

“Yes, quite, I am glad there is someone else we share similarities with. But as for what I propose, that would be an alliance, commercial and military. I see great benefit in it. Both our nations can come together to defend the south from any threats. That is my vision, so what do you say?”

“Is this an all-encompassing alliance, or just a defensive one? Should we expect your support were we to attack a nation ourselves? It is currently highly unlikely, though we can never rule out the possibility”

“An all-encompassing alliance of course, we are ready to defend our allies and join them should any conflict arise.”

“Excellent. If you don’t mind, then, I’d like to take some more of your time to write it up somewhere so we can make it official.”

“Of course, oh and allow me to bring some paper, Gidayuu, bring us the scroll and some ink.” Gidayuu stood up from his seat and went to the next room where supplies and other objects were kept, and came back with ink and the scroll, it had in it words already written for the occasion. “Perfect.” Said the emperor, “Here have a look at it, and if everything is of your and that of your delegation’s liking, then you may proceed to sign it, you and those who wish to.” Kiyoshi handed Yama the scroll.

She read three or so times and deemed it enough, and so she grabbed the feather and noted down her name besides the emperor’s. She then bowed her head slightly towards him again. “This has been a great meeting, your heavenly majesty. I hope this alliance leads to prosperous times for both our people”.

“Yes, I do hope too, now, before the guards show you to you rooms for the night, allow me to present you with our gifts.” The emperor clapped and from the door came in a few servants carrying in the different gifts, “This have been chiselled by out most professional chisellers. These are statues, made of our finest marble, of the different spirits in our religion. Each one brings a different fortune, the one you are being given represents victory. I do have a few more statues as gifts so that you can bring them to your fellow citylords.”

Yama bowed again, slightly thankful now that actual negotiations ended and they were back to formalities, where she felt more comfortable. ”I kindly thank you for these gifts. They look beautiful and I’m certain my fellow leaders will pride themselves with having one too”.

With the negotiations over, the emperor proceeded to retire to his quarters. Yama and her delegation were escorted by one of the guardians to the quarters they would stay for the night before departing once more towards Nakai and finally back to the Pink Seas. And so the Southern Tylos Defence Pact was born.

Children of Kisemanito
Founding Post

From the Imperial city of Ezkelon rode a party of ten old and wizened imperial scholars, and one hundred and one soldiers for their protection. Charting a path north from the city was easy at first, as decades of Imperial rule had pacified the countryside and civilized its peoples. But the further north they rode the poor the roads became, going from paved stone to unpacked dirt all too quickly. The people grew similarly wild, eyeing the Imperials with suspicion as they came past their meager villages and hamlets. Soon permanent villages became a thing of distant memory as they rode north into the Onimiskian plains, and it was here that their true destination lay.

Here the people did not build houses out of stone and wood, instead living a nomadic life in tents made from animal skin and hide. There was no unifying force among the nineteen disparate tribes, the only commonality being their religion and the priesthood, the Thunder Shamans. Horses were revered among the dozens of tribes and bands of Onimiski, bred for speed and endurance above all else.

Such was the skill of both horse and rider, that when the Imperials were peppered by a few arrows from a pair of outriders, that the attackers were easily able to lose the heavy Imperial cavalry before they had even organized. The leader of the cavalry, an aged Imperial named Gren, threw his helmet to the ground and shouted curses to the plains for minutes on end before the head scholar, a man older than Gren by a few decades named Hekan, put his hand on the raging commander in an attempt to calm his rage. He spoke gently,

“Easy Gren, easy. You won’t catch them now by throwing a tantrum.” Gren took the words to heart and calmed down, collecting his dented helmet and calling for his horse. He mounted and and spoke to Hekan with barely contained rage,

“Three weeks out from Ezkelon, and the only sign I’ve seen that these lands haven’t been abandoned by the gods is a few arrows fired by children, who my men can’t even catch!” He ignored the grumbles of his soldiers and leaned down in the saddle, “Why are we still here Hekan? What reason compels you to not turn around and end this folly?” Hekan straightened his posture, standing tall as he said,

“I had never taken you for a deserter or a coward, Commander. The very future of the northern Empire on the line, and you want to turn and run back to Ezkelon?” Now it was Gren who stood tall, his armored, gray feathered figure towering over the feeble scholar,

“Now I know you are wise enough to not question my honor, so I will not question the soundness of your mind, or your ability to lead this expedition. I do not suggest we return to the Emperor in failure because our journey has become difficult, I suggest we return because the Maskwas have failed to meet on our agreed terms. We’ve been riding a week longer than we were supposed to, and still we’ve seen no evidence of our hosts. How do we know that they still mean to make good on their promises, or that they haven’t been swept away by another one of these infernal tribes?”

Hekan had begun to speak when they both noticed that usually wind ravaged plains had become eerily quiet. What confused Hekan concerned Gren, and he began to draw his sword as he ordered his men to stand ready. The heavily armed and armored Imperial soldiers moved quickly in forming a defensive circle around the scholars and diplomats, but as they moved they noticed they had already been surrounded by a war party of Onimiskian tribals, each warrior had picked out an individual soldier and trained their bow on them, leaving the entire Imperial delegation frozen with their weapons still in their scabbards.

As Hekan’s expression turned grim and Gren’s turned furious, the leader of the war party presented himself. Riding a red maned stallion covered in war paint , the leader’s feathers were black and the cloth he wore was made from the finest of animal pelts. Long streaks of red and white paint covered his body and discolored his feathers, the war paint granting him a disturbing visage. His bow was slung over shoulder and was decorated with dozens of trophies taken from worthy enemies; from broken talons to Lopexi finger bones. The tomahawk at his side was covered in similar trophies.

The leader jumped from his horse and motioned for his warriors to lower their bows. They did so reluctantly as he stood before Hekan and looked down at the scholar, sizing the old Imperial up. Hekan was not intimidated, and he spoke very slowly in Imperial Avernic,

“We…” Hekan circled his hands around at his retinue, “Come to you…” he pointed to the Onimiskian and mimicked walking with his talons, “in peace.” He locked his hands together and eagerly stared at the warrior. Most of the war party stared in bored silence at the Imperials while a few who rode close to their leader laughed openly at Hekan’s display. Their leader blinked a few times before speaking eloquently,

“You… you are aware I can speak Imperial Avernic, right?” Gren could not see the face of Hekan at that moment, but he could tell the old scholar's beak would be stammering for a response after such a foolish speech. Hekan rallied though, and he spoke in a much more respectful and dignified tone,

“Apologies sir, I had no clue. I hope you will forgive me for my foolishness.” The warrior was silent for several seconds, his gaze burrowing into Hekan as he verbally prostrated before him. Then he laughed, and rode forward, ignoring the worried and stern glances from the Imperial riders. He held his hand out to Hekan and shook it eagerly as he said,

“My name is Sakowew, of the Maskwa people. I welcome you to our lands, and I pray you hear our words and offer well.” Hekan slowly took Sakowew’s hand and spoke carefully,

“Our Emperor Rak'kretai Kalanuta Ark'adis sends his greetings to your proud people. He hopes that this meeting will be for the benefit of the Empire and all its peoples.” Sakowew nodded slightly as he mounted his horse again and spoke,

“That will depend on if you choose to heed our words. But for now you will follow me and my riders to our encampment. The ride from the Imperial city is long, and you must be tired after such a trek.” None among the Imperials could dispute Sakowew’s claim, and they all followed the natives closely. They followed as they were led well off the beaten path, what was once well packed dirt became wild growing grass, trampled slightly by the combined party. They rode for hours with seemingly no direction until they came before a ridge, and creating it they looked down onto a large nomadic camp.

Hundreds of tipis and tents stretched over the valley with thousands of Onimiskian tribespeople milled around their camp. Women gathered around communal fires and basins, cooking food and cleaning clothes while talking between themselves. Children ran between the tents with their dogs, playing games and earning the ire of their mothers. The men of the camp were engaged in a variety of tasks, some watching and patrolling the outskirts, others keeping watch over the horses, and some gathered in groups of their fellows to discuss and plan raids on their neighbors.

Gren surveyed the camp and came to a thoroughly disappointing conclusion. He had counted, at most, six hundred shelters in the valley. He assumed an equal number of warriors would come from each lodge, and in his own estimate he believed that no more than a thousand fighting men had gathered here. Hardly enough to threaten even the weakest of border posts, let alone disrupt the entire status quo of the north. Gren rode forward until he was side by side with Sakowew, and he spoke disapprovingly,

“This… this is it? I would’ve expected you to gather more tents, more fires, more warriors if you wanted us to take your bid seriously. You’ve hardly enough men here to raid a pantry, nevermind taking the mantle of the Northern Warden.” Sakowew turned away from Gren and towards the camp. He pondered on the Imperials words before speaking,

“What you see is not all of our people. The Maskwa have brought maybe two thirds of all our bands, while the other four only brought half of their bands. The distances we ride are long, and not all of our wayward brothers are able to gather in time for a meeting. Once a majority has arrived, the latecomers will simply have to abide by our decision. Though not all of the great tribes have come to gather here, I know that all suffer greatly under the Sihkos, and with Imperial support they will support the Maskwa as the new Warden.”

Gren said nothing and rode along in silence, wondering of the ultimate fate of these people. He did not ponder for long before they arrived at the center of the camp, and the great wooden lodge that formed its heart.

The great lodge was set atop a large hill and dominated the landscape of tents and tipis that stretched beneath it. The wooden walls were lined with the dried hides of a hundred different beasts, all stitched together to form a coherent whole. Sakowew bid for Hekan and Gren to dismount their horses, a Lopexi captive turned servant exiting from the lodge and taking the reins to their horses, while another led the rest of the Imperials to the edge of the camp to set their own tents and rest.

Inside the lodge the leaders of a dozen differing bands had gathered, and old rivalries and grudges had risen to the surface, and more than one brawl had broken out before and during the Imperials' arrival. Those who broke up the grudges and tempered the egos of the band leaders were the Thunder Shamans, the unofficial priests of the Onimiskian peoples. The disparate tribes each spoke their languages and held their own unique ceremonies, and it was given to the Thunder Shamans to act as liaisons and ambassadors between them all. Each leader present had brought their Shamans, to act as translators and as arbiters.

The entrance of Sakowew and the Imperials prompted the gathered chiefs to calm themselves, and they separated from their rivals, grumbling their discontent to their Shamans. Sakowew and ignored them and made to present himself to a white feathered elder seated at the far end of the lodge. It was his lodge that they all met in, and it was him that called the Imperials to attend this meeting. The elder was Nixkamich, long time Chief of the Maskwa peoples and previous favorite to be chosen as the Northern Warden. While his last bid had failed when he was a younger and more energetic leader, he was now wise though trailed by age, and he leaned heavily on the arm of his Shaman, the blind and brown feathered Matwau.

Sakowew stared at the blind Shaman as he approached Nixkamich, taking the tomahawk from his side and holding it before him then kneeling before the elder and speaking,

“Father, I have done as you asked and brought the Imperials into our lands.” Nixkamich said nothing, he simply nodded and raised his left talon to send his son away. Matwau whispered into the elder’s ear, and Sakowew grumbled something before noticing an odd arrival seated atop brightly colored blankets. He approached and spoke in the tongue of the Maskwa, and the Shaman sat beside the young leader translated for him,

“Greetings, Chatan. I had not expected to see the Akecheta gather with us. Where is your father, does he intend to lend us his support in our endeavor?” Chatan shook his head slowly before replying,

“No Sakowew, my father is far from here. He does not know this meeting was called. My band and I were hunting with Ayimâsis when he was told of it. I had thought it best to go with him, though if I am intruding I will go.” He made to stand, but the elderly voice and hand of Nixkamich bid him to sit. When the elder spoke the lodge went silent as everyone hanged on the words of Nixkamich.

“Let him stay. We will need the Akecheta to ride with us if we want this confederation to succeed. We will need all the tribes, if we hope to survive.” Nixkamich rose slowly, taking the arm of Sakowew to balance himself. Once on his feet he let his voice fill the lodge as he proclaimed,

“With the arrival of my son, the majority of the Maskwa people have gathered, and I would say that we can begin. My sincerest thanks to all those who have gathered here today, and especially to our Imperial guests, the representatives of our Great Father Rak’Kretai Kalanuta Ark'adis. I will speak plainly to you, honored quests. We have asked you to come here because we believe that the Warden of the North Wind, Ahanu Sihkos, to be unworthy of his position and the trust of the Great Father.

“And now I will ask you, wise elder, why our most glorious and mighty Emperor should strip the honorable Ahanu Sihkos of his position as the Warden of the North?” Sakowew translated the Imperials response for his father. Nixkamich leaned forward, the confusion in his eyes fading as cold determination replaced it. He spoke slowly, not out of senility but instead prestige, and Sakowew did his best to imitate his fathers regal tone as he translated the speech,

“For decades and centuries, our people have been preyed upon and stolen by slavers from the iron ring of the four great cities of Lopexi. They’ve taken advantage of us, because there was never a coalition great enough to challenge them. There was never a Warden who could unite the tribes against this evil. The Sihkos are too weak and decadent to unite our people. We can form such an alliance. We can drive the slavers from our lands and save our people, and we can safeguard the northern plains for the Great Father. The Maskwa will do this for the Empire, but we need assurances that the Great Father will know that we only act in his interest.” Sakowew finished speaking his fathers words, and Hekan spoke hesitantly, almost sorrowfully,

“Unfortunately, the Emperor will send you no official support until you can claim to represent the interests of the majority of the tribes. Until then, He will consider Ahanu Sihkos to be the rightful Warden of the North.” Sakowew translated for the whole tent, and shouts and threats rose from the crowd like an angry tide. More than one Onimiskian present had placed their talons on their tomahawks before Sakowew calmed them. Hekan rose to his feet and spoke again, this time facing the whole of the great lodge,

“However, our most glorious Emperor has many concerns, and as such will be unable to spare any men or material to reinforce his current Warden. If you were to unite the majority of your people and diminish the current Warden, the Emperor would recognize the elder Nixkamich as the legal and rightful Warden.” Conversation spread throughout the lodge like fire, and only the booming voice of Sakowew silenced them. Nixkamich rose and leaned on Matwau, his voice unbowed by his age.

“Then it will be so. In the past our people have formed Confederations to unite against enemies that threatened all peoples, and I believe the threats of the slavers and our own Warden warrants a new Confederation. What say you, my fellows?” The very moment each leaders Shaman finished whispering Nixkamich’s words, each one jumped to his feet and spoke in favor of Confederation. Unanimously it was agreed, and unanimously was Nixkamich elected as the First Chief, the first among equals in this endeavor.

“We must also nominate a War Chief, who will lead our combined warriors against our foes. Does anyone have any candidates?” Matwau lowered Nixkamich back onto his blankets and spoke for the first time, his beak spreading wide into a smile as he spoke,

“I would nominate the Imperial Commander Gren, to serve as our War Chief.” Outrage followed, and if Matwau had eyes to see he would have seen more than one angry gesture and threat hurled towards him. One of the leaders, a Mahikan named Anakausuen spoke the loudest and shouted,

“He knows nothing of our ways and our traditions, much less our ways of war!” Matwau smiled again. This was the response he had hoped for.

“And that is why he will make for the perfect War Chief. The Sihkos and the slavers will know what to expect from us if we elect one of our own to the position, and how best to crush us. But Gren is an expert on the Imperial ways of war, and that is something no one will expect. If we move fast enough and with enough shock, we will destroy them before they have time to rally and adapt.” The anger subsided and grudgingly Gren was voted in as the Confederations War Chief, commander of all warriors the leaders had gathered. The bewildered Imperial was led from his seat near to the entrance of the lodge and sat beside Nixkamich on his left, where Matwau had graciously vacated his previous seat. Once Gren made himself comfortable, or as comfortable as he could manage under the circumstances, Nixkamich spoke again, his voices power beginning to wane as his energy fled from him,

“Let us seal this confederation in the traditional way. Bring out the pipe.”

Nixkamich took the first puff of the pipe, as was customary. He had called for this meeting, they had met in his lodge and they had elected him First Chief of this confederation. He inhaled long and deeply and when he unleashed the smoke it danced with the smoke from the central fire, the smokes merging as they scattered out the lodge and to the winds. Nixkamich passed the pipe to Gren, who as War Chief would take the next puff. Instead he held up his hand to the elder and politely spoke,

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.” Shouts of outrage erupted throughout the lodge. They did not understand the words he spoke, but they knew what he had said by his hand alone. One warrior had even made to draw his tomahawk before Sakowew stood and spoke for the deeply confused Imperial.

“Peace my brothers, peace. Our War Chief is new to our culture, he cannot expect to know all that we know. He must be given time to learn, time to fully become one of us.” After a few tense moments the warriors lowered their weapons and grumbled acceptance of the explanation. Sakowew moved quickly across the lodge and sat next to Gren, speaking quickly in Imperial Avernic,

“The pipe is sacred to all tribes, it’s one of the few things we can all agree to. We smoke to seal contracts, to bless marriages, to honor confederations. To reject the pipe is the gravest insult among all our people. I suggest you take it and smoke.” He passed the pipe to Gren, and the Imperial gingerly took the pipe and took a small puff, quickly coughing and sending smoke spilling from his beak. This mollified the Onimisikians, and the pipe was passed around to all present without further incident.

With the final formal acts of Confederation sealed, the leaders vacated the lodge and announced the preceding to their gathered peoples. Any misgivings were quickly drowned in a tide of celebration, and a great festival was prepared, with a large central area cleared for a massive bonfire.

As night fell the valley came alive with the sounds of drums and dancing, as the Onimiskian peoples celebrated their new Confederation. Men and women had painted their clothes and feathers in a hundred different colors and danced around the fire with bells and jewelry hung from them, their singing a prayer to the great Thunderbirds that prowled the skies of the north freely. The Imperials sat to the side of the clearing, processing the day's events. Hekan turned slowly to Gren, who examined a tomahawk given to him by a warrior earlier in the day. He spoke slowly,

“Tacit support and advice. Not becoming a bloody warlord in overthrowing the Warden of the North.” At the absurdity of the situation, Hekan could only laugh much to Gren’s rage. He rallied quickly and spoke somberly,

“For better or for worse, we have thrown in ours, and perhaps the Empire’s, lot in with the Maskwan Confederation. Either we will help it succeed or we will help it fall, but we are a part of this, the same as the rest of them. The sooner we accept that the sooner our mission will be resolved, in triumph or ruin.”

Before Gren could speak, the clear night sky quickly turned clouded, covering the light of the moon with a deep rolling sound of thunder. While the Imperials rose quickly and made for their tipi, the Onimiskians instead turned to the east, where flashes of light frequently broke the pitch black horizon. They began to fall to their knees, prayers quietly falling from their beaks as rain began to fall and a mighty, furious screech broke the steady booms of the thunder.

A giant Thunderbird appeared above the encampment, breaking the clouds with the flap of its wings and revealing its glory in the light of the uncovered moon. Its feathers were a stark and pale white, and lightning rolled over its body so quickly the creature seemed to be formed from an over moving tide of thunder. The tribespeople were euphoric at the sight of one of their living gods, the appearance was interpreted as Kisemanito’s blessing over the Confederation.

Though none would say it aloud, the assembled tribal Chiefs each knew it would take more than a little divine favor to succeed in uniting their people once and for all.

The Octava "Rebellion"

Ruby Plaza, Octava

A crowd of people stood and stared as a man dressed in soldier's armour delivered a speech. He was passionate about it and anyone who passed by would be attracted to listen in. The guards allowed him to continue, he was not any ordinary person, he was the margrave's son, Emil, yet his speech was of hate, of hate against his father and the way he had been managing the Margraviate. The soldiers did not react to it as they also supported most of what he said.

From his stool he spoke," Why must we continue to tolerate what the central government wants? Why must we continue to do their bidding yet be neglected by them at the same time? We don't have to, they own us. Ever since this humble and hardworking town was founded, we have been the protectors of the kingdom's northern border, yet what have they ever done for us? We sacrifice ourselves everyday to keep the borderlands safe from anything and yet we are left to fend for ourselves, because they refuse to send us aid. If anyone asks me this is unacceptable.

The crowd cheered as they agreed with Emil's words, one of those in the crowd raised his hand to ask a question, "But aren't you the son of the margrave? Why are you doing this?"

"I do it because I care, and unlike my father who has gotten all comfortable with the authorities back in Tidahamn for his own gain, I haven't been bought by them and I refuse to be."

"But then, what are ye planning to do, sire?" Said another one.

"That is a very good question my good man. I plan to turn things around for the better of course, get the economy back on its feet again, give more rights to those that deserve it, and actually listen to the requests of the people."

"And how do you plan to achieve this?" A young woman holding her baby asked.

"Independence! The people have the right to choose their own fate, as dictated by Iskren."

"Iskren? I don't believe in that Iskren fella. I don't know about any of you, but he just seems like another form of Miskunn. Are you one of Miskunn's followers?" Asked another peasant inquisitively.

The inquisitive crowd looked at Emil waiting for an answer, "No, no, of course not, haha... you know I only... Uhh... " Emil cleared his throat, "Like I was saying, the gods gave us the right to follow our own faith, as it was written in the sagas."

"The sagas? Never read those. Does it say that in the sagas? Well I can't read to begin with, I only believe what the priests tell me." He said, scratching his chin pensively.

"Hmm... Can't read either but I believe the priest at the temple said somethin' about working in the fields."

"No, that doesn't seem right, I think it was drinking a lot and enjoying life. Yeah it must have been that! Let us all drink in the name of the gods!" The crowd cheered at the man's words.
Emil couldn't help but facepalm hearing the crowd talk , "Alright everyone listen, I have read them, I know how to read, and it says what I said."

"We know you know how to read sire, but I'm still not entirely convinced about this. I never trusted those books much."

"Can't believe this." He sighed, "Fine, the priest confirmed it as well, Happy now?"

"Well why didn't you say so sire? To arms!" And the crowd cheered with emotion once more, picking up pitchforks, shovels, rakes and whatever they could find along the way as they followed Emil to the castle to meet with the margrave and demand his abdication, peacefully or forcefully. However their visit to the palace would be met by no one, the margrave wasn't there, the guards told them he had left days prior and would not come back until days later. This left Emil wondering where his father had gone without telling him.

---------

3 Days Before

"Helena! Where is my hunting bow? It is not on its display."

"I believe I saw Emmerich take it, he is in the courtyard practicing."

"Of course he did, why does he always have to take it?" Friedrich sighed, "I guess it's about time I teach him how to hunt, he is seventeen already after all. Helena, I am taking Emmerich to go on a hunting trip. We will spend some days in the forest with another group of nobles, hopefully this time we will be able to catch that beast."

"Are you talking about that white stag you are so infatuated with? That is just a myth, why don't you simply hunt normal deer or elk."

"Impossible! It is real, I can feel it, and we are closer than ever to hunting it down. The only things that always stop us from doing so are those damn forest bandits trying to protect it, saying it is sacred. Bah! We shall see how sacred it is when his head hangs atop of my throne in the hall."

"Well alright dear, oh and before I forget me and Theresa are going to Skarhamn, we are spending some days with my mother at her estate. I think it is about time we paid her a visit, she keeps sending me letters wanting us to come."

"Good luck with that then and since you are going to Skarhamn, could you bring me the sword I commissioned from the blacksmith? I believe it should be ready by now. I would pick it up myself but I can't skip this year's hunt."

"I swear, hunting is going to consume your soul." Helena sighed, "But alright I will see if I can pick it up. Then what about Emil?"

"What about him? I haven't seen him in days, but who cares? He can take care of himself, he is a man already after all. You know, my father left me alone in a forest to find my way back to the castle when I was eight years old, he is twenty. So I trust he knows what he is doing, and anyhow, it's just for a few days. What is he going to do in such a short time, get himself killed by a bandit or a thief? I don't think so, anyways, I am leaving, see you in a few days, take care."

Helena sighed, "You too dear, be careful with the wolves and other creatures."

"Ha! They are the ones who should be careful of me." Emmerich left the room laughing to himself.

---------

Back to the present

"What do we do now?" Asked one of the peasants.

"I guess I just take over, just like that. This was somehow easier than I expected... I guess you can all return your normal lives now. I shall select some amongst you, who shall help me bring our new country to fruition." Emil raised his arms in sign of victory over what was probably the silliest moments in the history of Octava. But Emil was nonetheless pleased that he took over that easily.

Hours after taking over, Emil was in the main hall of the castle, together with other people, planning and smoothing out the details of the new government they were going to set up. In his mind, Emil had planned a government less autocratic, but with some aristocratic elements. He would be interrupted by a guard that came into the room asking Emil to go outside because someone wanted to see him. Emil followed him outside to find his father looking rather angry.

"Emil! What is the meaning of this? Where is your mother and sister? Why are the guards not allowing me in? Let me inside the castle now! I hope this is not a prank of yours" Shouted Friedrich at him.

"I don't think so father, the Margraviate is mine now, mother and sister are not here either, so go back to the king's court where you belong, together with the rest of the pigs that answer to him." Emil answered back at him from the top of one of the walls of the castle.

"What?! What did you say to me? How dare you say that to me boy! And who said the Margraviate was yours? The king won't recognise you as the margrave for as long as I am alive."

"Oh? But who said I was going to answer to the king?"

"No? Then who will you answer to, the gods?" Friedrich laughed.

"We are not going to answer to anyone! We are declaring ourselves independent and establishing a republic!"

"A what? Come again? I certainly hope your mother did not drop you when you were a baby. That is madness boy, a republic? I would understand if you called yourself King of the Fools but a republic, by the gods... And who is going to support you in this idiotic endeavour of yours?"

"Mikhail, King of the Eskelians! I vowed to support him if he supported me and that is exactly what he did."

Friedrich's face turned into one of disappointment, "Alright so let me get this straight boy, you want to declare independence, establish a republic, support that traitor? Now I am certain that she dropped you. Everyday you become a bigger disappointment to the family. Just let me in before I tell the guards to hang you from your neck or I will do it myself."

"Guards? The guards don't answer to you any longer father."

"Is that so? Guards arrest him and open the gates immediately!" But the guards did not respond to his words, "What are you doing? Arrest him!"

"Sorry sire, but we answer to him now, he promised to increase our pay." Said one of the soldiers guarding the gate.

"So this is how it is then, fine, very well, keep it, do whatever you want, but heed my words boy, I will come back with an army and restore order, and once that happens I will personally put you in your place. Emmerich let's go, I guess you are the heir now."

Emil once more claimed a victory against his father, and happily so, but if his words were to be believed, then he wouldn't last long governing his new republic wouldn't last long. Emil would have to prepare himself and his new country for what was about to come.