Prologue: Exodus (Part 6)

Mid-Autumn
Year One (counting from the Exodus)
Mirynium


The river Ardran was an artery. It supplied the trade that nourished Mirynium and allowed it to grow. It provided the food for the city in the fish that many ate. As the cradle of the Erennin nation, that had grown up here, where Mirynium now stood, on its banks, it had a special place in every Erennin’s heart.

The river Ardran was a walk through time. A casual stroller along its banks might occasionally pick up an arrowhead of bone of a design that none had used for over two thousand years. Or it might turn up, sometime or other, the footprints of creatures large and terrible, leaving the discoverer to wonder at the size of the beast whose one foot was already as huge as a man.

The river Ardran was a road. For the countless vessels that passed up and down it in any given day, it was a mode of transport. For the traveller going south, the river provided a convenient compass. And for the assembled multitude before Mirynium, it provided an escape route, the glimmering ribbon of water appearing to them like a shining road to the south and freedom from the onslaught of the Ismaransi.

The intervening months had vindicated Jodias’ suspicion that the barbarians would return; raids increased and many thousands more were killed. The Ismaransi did not come in strength anymore, but the number of their raiders seemed to amount to several hundreds of thousands, at least, spread across the countryside. The people had streamed towards Mirynium in their carts and wagons and on foot, driving their flocks and herds before them, driven by a fear that had once been great but now was merely another part of life. And with them marched their menfolk, some armoured veterans from the Fields temporarily dismissed back home to help with the harvest, some young men with barely any hair on their chins still holding spears and swords like the weapons would burn their hands. They came, and by midautumn all the harvests had been completed and the food brought to the capital. There had been three years of surplus before this, thankfully, and the recent harvest was also far above normal, despite the ravages of barbarian violence.

Now they stood, a little over five hundred thousand Erennin, the sum of the nation, dwindled by more than half since the onset of the war. They were organised into ten clans, each led by a chief. In a long line less than two hundred paces wide the clans lined up one behind the other, hugging the river bank closely. Along their landward edge, the remaining still-considerable phalanx strength of the army marched in neat line formation, ready at any moment to turn outwards to face any threat. At the front and back of the entire procession the Erennin horsemen swarmed, enclosing the commonfolk of the Erennin nation in a rectangle of armoured safety. In the Ardran a flotilla of boats guarded the refugees from attack from the other side of the river, each boat filled with archers well-trained and equipped with an almost unending supply of poisoned shafts. The poison was running low, but for all it was worth, every soldier carried poisoned weapons against possible attacks as the slowmoving column made its way south.
It was mid-morning when the gates of the already long-emptied city opened. From Mirynium’s southern gate, for the last time, Jodias rode out at the head of the Royal Guard with Talamioros. The column was already formed up with the sole exception of the centre of the phalanx, which, as was customary, belonged to the Royal Guard. They now filed into place with the practice of many years of constant drill. Jodias rode to the head of the column. The autumn wind was beginning to take on the chill of the oncoming winter. There was fear in every heart—an uncertain future made them shiver more than the wind itself.

The people had been told what would happen on this fateful day. Now they silently walked forward as Jodias raised his spear and pointed into the south. Slowly the column seemed to glide down the river, a ponderous entity, a black rectangle making its way along the river Ardran. As they began their journey without an end in sight, a song of mourning and revenge arose from the crowd, almost spontaneously begun. It was a familiar song; a familiar tune with well-known lyrics. It was the song sung by Queen Lydira as her husband was stabbed to death by treacherous Ariantynian assassins, two hundred years in the past. It had a ring of truth about it now, as the procession left for good their ancestral homeland.



My heart is full sore as my love dies in my arms
I can do nothing but stand and watch
My love is gone from me!
No lightning could strike more painfully
This death
This death I refuse to accept
Revenge will be mine upon those who did this
I will watch
I will wait
But to the ends of the earth I will never forgive
I will never forget
Under the blades fallen, the love of my life!
He will live on in my memory forever.
I will be revenged!

Prologue: Exodus (Part 5)

There was no music; no accompanying majestic celebration suiting the magnitude of the victory won that day. Silently the Guard marched through the streets of the New City, headed into the Middle to reach their final destination, the Palace overlooking the city. Even the cheers of the people lining the street to see the martial spectacle were muted, subdued as if they felt that joy was not the main emotion needed here.

No observer on the ground would have seen the doors to the main building of the palace flung open, the royal family rushing out to welcome the returning king. No one would have seen the army arranging itself into neat blocks of a hundred within the small parade ground before the palace, their leader passing through the crowds with his bannerman. It was a sight reserved for only the Guard—the king dismounting, walking slowly up the steps to the portal, then suddenly rushing to pick up his queen, standing there with tears of relief in her eyes, their embrace tight and filled with a month’s longing, worry and sorrow dissolving into the morning like the mists from the fields beyond the walls.

“It has been a long time, jewel of my heart. Many were the days when I missed your smile and your kind words. Now I see it again, and it is as if a heavy cloth were lifted from my heart. I feel lighter and more joyful now. Let me introduce you to someone. There is a decision I have made.” Jodias turned to the Guard assembled expectantly.

“Guards! From among you, I have singled out one who has shown himself worthy of much praise and reward. This man saved my life at Falcorea Field, when the battle was all around us, and the might of his arms was proven to be far beyond all that we have known so far. Before you all today, my beloved Guard, I will honour him. Talamioros, dismount and come forward.”

Talamioros did as told, coming up the steps to stand three levels below the King, as befitted his status as an ordinary Guard. With a murmured word from the King he moved to stand beside Jodias. A ripple passed through the ranks of Guards of surprise and approval. Talamioros’ reputation was great among the Guards, even before the battle. Jodias put a hand on Talamioros’ shoulder, the youth standing only half a head shorter than the king.

“Let it be known today that a king’s gratitude knows no bounds, and neither does his largesse where he sees it deserved. Today, for his fighting skills, for his honourable conduct, vouched for by the Guard, and for his saving of my life on the battlefield without regard for his own, I name him Prince Talamioros and adopt him as my son. From this day on he will command the Guard directly and will be responsible for the safety of us his parents. Guards, you are dismissed. Return to your barracks and homes, but I will have need of you shortly.” So saying, he turned away from them and entered the Palace, and it seemed as he did so that a cloud passed over his face. Talamioros turned and followed, leaving the banner in the hands of a Guardsman who saluted smartly, then turned away to rejoin his unit in the march back down the slopes of the plateau. The portals of the palace slammed shut with a resonance that left the air ringing.

As they passed through the palace corridors, Jodias’ entourage increased in number as officials came to walk alongside him. Turning to his seneschal, Tyrenoia, he commanded, ‘Send out riders to all the remaining cities and towns. Let them carry the message that after the harvest this year they are to assemble before Mirynium with all their belongings. Tell them to spread this news to every village and hamlet: we are leaving Erennia for the south. Command them to be ready, and let every man who can bear arms do so. They will be equipped when they arrive here at Mirynium. Go quickly, we have work to do.”

The seneschal shot a startled glance at his king, then hurried off quickly to do his bidding. He knew better than to question his king, especially when none of the King’s decisions hd ever been wrong. Riders would be sent out, speeding along the roads and across country like arrows, to cover the twenty leagues from the capital to the furthest limits of the kingdom’s border in two days flat. Talamioros frowned as he walked behind the king and queen, troubled by the decision the king had made, seemingly on a whim.

“My king—“ he began, but was cut off by a reproachful finger from Jodias, a wry grin suddenly appearing across his face.

“Now, Talamioros, my son, you must call me father. Titles are not needed between us.”
Bryseini broke in, her queenly words cutting through Jodias’ obviously faked lack of worry.

“Don’t cut him off, Jodias. You owe us an explanation. It is no small decision, assembling the entire nation to travel south. We will abandon this our beautiful city?”

Jodias muttered, “Yes, even Mirynium must be forgotten. We must go south. Where are my advisors?”

“In the throne room.”

“Ah. Then we shall go there with all speed. I must speak with them, even though my decision is already made.”

The throne room of the palace was a grand affair, well-lighted with lamp sconces along every wall with reflecting mirrors throwing the light into the middle of the hall. Some thirty paces long by twenty paces wide, it was hung all over with tapestries and well-floored with rugs and carpets of intricate design and weave. At the far end stood the Crescent Throne, a grand chair of iron and gold towering above the ordinary man. To its right a smaller facsimile stood, for Queen Bryseini. Along the sides seats were placed at regular intervals for those who were called to council with the king. These seats now were occupied by the king’s advisors, twenty in number, all high nobles raised from the common people. They rose as Jodias entered the room, then sat as he took his seat. Talamioros remained standing on Jodias’ left, left hand casually placed on his sword hilt ready to draw in an instant on the first sign of danger to his king and now father.

“I have adopted Talamioros here as my son and appointed him commander of the Royal Guard. I now present him to you.” There was polite applause as Talamioros stepped forward and bowed.

“And now on to something of great import for our kingdom. I wish to inform you that I have sent out messengers to the rest of the kingdom to assemble before Mirynium in autumn to make a journey to the far south.” As expected, a murmuring arose, shocked and sharp. The air took on a tinge of fear and tension.

“But why, your majesty? Are the Ismaransi that mighty a foe? We have won victory after victory!” Kolpitha, a middle-aged duke who had never seen battle, rose to speak. He was fat and obnoxious, but he had important trade contacts that could be, and were, useful. However, if Jodias had had a chance he would certainly have executed that oaf, who always opposed his military policies made necessary by the Ismaransi.

“And how many more victories can we win? Ninety thousand were engaged in battle at Falcorea Fields a week ago. Of these only seventy thousand can return, only sixty thousand of these on their own two feet. Does the Ismaransi not seem mighty enough, then, when they can send in ever bigger armies against us despite defeats every single spring they cross our borders? Only five years ago they were sending fifty-thousand man armies that the Guard alone could defeat. Now they have sent in a million. We counted; did you know that at the end of Falcorea Field more than seven hundred thousand dead barbarians lay on the field for the crows? It was slaughter on both sides. I gave some thought to the matter as we made our way back to Mirynium. If they somehow manage to send in another army like such, we cannot hold them back for long. Our population is now only a half-million. Even if we took all the able-bodied men to fight, they would be at best somewhat more than a hundred thousand in strength. With this last gasp of our strength we must make our way south to empty lands far from the Ismaransi.”

“Why do we fear the Ismaransi? Our army is strong enough that we can stand against them for many years yet. If they have taken the lives of so many of our men, have we not taken many, many times more of theirs? We can hold them off for a long time yet!” Kolpitha again. Jodias resisted a nagging urge to walk down to the duke and give him a punch between the eyes.

“Alright. Even if we can resist them for a few more years—so what? Look around you. Graethia, Comyntha, Geroe, Cralos, Maris, Morcu Savad, Argut, Birynes, Rondyr, Reonia, Mngora, all these kingdoms have fallen. The Thirty Five Kingdoms has become but the Twenty Four. Erennia is now the northernmost kingdom not yet conquered, a bulge into Ismaransi territory. They will concentrate all their efforts on us. And even if we defeat every army they send against us, what then? We have the strongest army among the Kingdoms. What use is our strength if the other kingdoms around us fall to the barbarians and we are surrounded? Can we hope to survive then? And what if, after many years of war, the Ismaransi adopt our phalanx? Or start using archers? Can we then stand against them?”

Kolpitha sat down, seriously pondering what Jodias had said. At least something had been drummed into his thick skull for once.

“I need you my advisors now to organise the exodus. We must plan out every single thing we must do from now till mid-autumn. Let us discuss.”

Prologue: Exodus (Part 4)

A new sunrise, a new beginning. As the orb of light rose into the sky, it illuminated a tall plateau, some fifty paces high, a pinnacle of rock amidst the flat plains. Gleaming on the summit, safely surrounded by sheer cliffs, a splendid palace stood, with short towers and many balconies and walled all around. It was made of white stone, not quite marble, but smooth like it. Around the side of the cliffed plateau a path, three paces wide on average, wound its slow way down to ground level, terminating amidst the spacious rows of buildings lining the wide shaded avenues of Mirynium, capital of the Erennin and city of almost a hundred thousand souls.

The great city had been designed as a perfect circle a long time ago, centred on the plateau whose crowning palace served as citadel and heart of the kingdom. The kings of the past had built the walls ten paces high, of heavy masonry blocks of black granite, cut so well that not even the thinnest blade could slip through them. In sharp contrast to the black circumference of this the Inner City, the actual gate portal was surrounded by a band of brilliant gold two paces in width, intricately worked and polished to gleaming brightness. At each of the four quarters there stood one such gate, reminding any who passed through them, trader or Erennin, of the kingdom’s great wealth, in times past, and in the present.

From that Inner City two more rings of walls expanded the size of the great city, with its manor houses, parks, inns, and markets, its towers soaring as high as twenty paces into the air. The Middle and the New City were almost identical in architecture and in atmosphere. On top of every high place, the blue and gold banner of the Erennin flapped in the spring winds that now and then gusted across the rooftops. They were relatively young compared with the old Inner City, the outermost ring of buildings, the New, having only been built a hundred years ago. There was an air of…history…about the city. It exuded a charm that went far beyond its beautiful buildings, or the idyllic calm that could be found in some of its streets. There was some sense that the millenia—for that was surely how long the city had stood, one of the First Five Cities of the Thirty-Five Kingdoms—had imparted a grace to every brick, beam and rafter that stood within the walls, giving a peace to everything, making even the marketplace an unhurried centre of economic activity but nothing more bustling than that.

Imyra’s stall was an affair of several tables lined up beneath an awning, selling trinkets and herbal cures. A visitor would find Erennin bead necklaces, treasured for their intricacy and their colours, arrayed before her smiling wrinkled face. Arranged around these would be other pieces of jewellery, bronze bracelets inlaid with gold, silver and leather, gem-studded brooches, and inexpensive philters, potions and other concoctions intended to remove fevers or heal ulcers, and poultices to seal open wounds. The marketplace bustled around her, the awakening city sending its inhabitants forth to find sustenance for the day. At the edge of the marketplace the clamour that a visitor deeper in would experience was muted to a soft buzz. Just one of many marketplaces in the New City, Nerris Market was near to the northern gate, called the Serimris Gate after the artisan who had designed the beautiful carvings on the bronze-plated portal that gaped open some three hundred paces away, five paces wide and ten paces tall.

A merchant walked slowly up to her stall, fingering some of the items she had for sale, a considering look on his face. From his dressing he was Boroni, from a southern kingdom that had not yet felt the ravages of the Ismaransi that were scourging the lands to the north. He lifted a bracelet up, studied it closely, flashing a grin of slightly yellow teeth.

“Don’t touch them. You can see them well enough on the table, trader.”

The Boroni looked at her, regarding the wizened old woman with some seriousness. Putting the bracelet down, he asked, a bemused look on his face, “Old lady, why that request? Most peculiar…I must inspect the goods well before I buy them, no?”

“And how do I know that you won’t run off with that bracelet once you’ve decided you like it, young man?”

“Young man? Hardly, old lady. I have seen forty years of age, surely that is past my prime. I’m just waiting to die now. And I have a name. It’s Terpila.” He said it with the last syllable drawn out. “Furthermore, I am most certainly not going to run away with your bracelet. I’ll pay for it.”
“Well, since you have honoured me with your name, it is our courtesy to return you the honour. I am Imyra. And I have seen seventy winters, so I certainly think you are young compared to me, young Terpila. Now, are you buying that bracelet, or not? You waste my time bandying words.”

“I want…this one,” replied Terpila, picking up a moonstone bracelet with fine gold chains hanging from it. “This will be a fitting present for my wife back in Argana. How much is it?”

A fanfare of trumpets drowned out the bargaining of the two. Consummate traders, they did not stop to find out what the fanfare was for until a price had been agreed upon. Terpila left with the bracelet, his purse two silver marks lighter. Pocketing the money, only then did the two of them investigate the vibrations in the ground that were increasing in intensity. At three hundred paces, Imyra’s slightly blurred vision could make nothing out but a black mass coming through the gates. She reached out and carelessly yanked at the first piece of cloth that came to her hand. It turned out to be Terpila’s cloak. Irritably the Boroni merchant responded.

“What’s going on? I can’t see a thing.”

Some silence followed. Imyra was about to yank on the cloak again when Terpila replied. “It’s your King, I think. He’s coming back. He has come through the gate with his army on a horse at the front. There is a man riding beside him, too.”

“He has returned victorious again, then. Thank the gods for that. That’ll be the royal guard entering the city, then…the rest of the army never enters with him. They encamp outside the walls until they are disbanded. But someone riding next to him, now…that has never happened before. I would surmise it is someone Jodias intends to honour greatly. Ah, I can see them clearly now.”

The clip-clopping of hooves passed Imyra, and the old lady looked up at the figure of a young man, seated straight-backed on a black charger. He passed by, looking straight ahead, dressed in full armour. He held the king’s banner, the crossed crescents on a field of blue and edged with gold and red, next to Jodias himself, head raised high in a kingly way. He seemed to have aged since he last rode out of Mirynium a month ago—his wild locks of brown, almost-black hair showed streaks of white. And behind them both, the impeccably dressed ranks of the Royal Guard, their armour polished and cleaned since Falcorea Field, marching in five abreast in perfect unison.

Prologue: Exodus (Part 3)

“Talamioros, is it. A good name. ‘Ever-Vigilant,’ is that what it means?” At the nod from Talamioros, Jodias went on, keeping one eye on the battle while speaking. “When were you accepted into the Royal Guards?”

“Some three months ago, sir, at the beginning of winter. An officer saw me at midautumn in one of the villages he was passing by and tried me. The next day I was headed for the capital at top speed, as fast as that officer’s horse could gallop.”

Jodias paused to think for a moment. If an officer saw fit to bring him into the Royal Guard before the actual tests in midsummer, it had to mean that Talamioros was an exceptional swordfighter. Especially if the officer had ‘tried’ him, meaning he had taken him on singly in combat. There was more to this seventeen-year-old than met the eye. “Tell me, Talamioros. How did you get chosen? Why did this officer notice you?”

“It was midautumn games. One of the games involved fighting with wooden swords, and I entered on a dare. I beat every opponent and somehow I ended up facing five men, all older than me, at once. I defeated all five of them, and that was when I saw him sitting on his horse looking at me. He…challenged me to fight him. So I did. And when it ended—I don’t know how—he was sprawled on the ground with my swordpoint at his throat. And the next thing he said to me when he got up was, ‘You are going to be a Guard.’ That’s how I came to be here.”

“Talamioros…who was this officer you defeated?” The arrows were still falling from on high, but it was thinning. The archers were running out of arrows, and it would take some time before the archers sent back on horses to fetch more arrows could arrive. The second phase of the battle would commence soon. Jodias prepared himself mentally to fight as the first few barbarians broke free of the killing zone, rushing headlong at the line of spearmen. Swinging their swords, they rushed at other sectors of the line, to the left and right of Jodias and Talamioros. The combats were short and sharp, and soon they were down on the ground, motionless.

“He gave his name as Bordesio, your majesty.” Jodias started a little at that; Bordesio was one of the finest swordsmen the kingdom had, and possibly the best warrior as well in any weapon. Jodias himself had sustained quite a few hard knocks from Bordesio’s wooden sword during Guard training in his youth. Bordesio was still alive and somewhere in the ranks; his shield was razor-edged so as to provide the officer an alternative method of killing. He looked Talamioros from head to toe again before turning his attention back to the developing fray. The youth had forgotten his trembling and now held his spear steady.

“You are definitely one of the finest swordsmen in the kingdom, then, to have beaten Bordesio. I am honoured to fight beside you, for only two others I know of have beaten old Bordesio in single combat, and I am neither of those.” Jodias paused for a while, turning back to face the front. A small knot of some one hundred men had broken free of the arrow curtain The men were running straight for his section of line. Jodias picked out the man who would meet him head-on, and readied his spear.

The first swordslash passed through the air where Jodias’ head should have been; but Jodias recovered from his dodge and started forward, catching the man in the chest with his shield. Temporarily losing his balance, he created the perfect opportunity for Jodias to stab him in the chest. Another immediately took his place, screaming his rage and defiance as his swordblows rained onto Jodias’ upraised shield, making it impossible for the Erennin king to thrust his spear into the man. Just a scratch…just one…

The spear thrust that took the barbarian in the throat came from his right; from Talamioros. Shooting a startled glance at Talamioros, he saw the boy stabbing and parrying blows from three fighters in succession, then could see no more as looming before him, a gigantic fellow raised his sword overhead in a blow that would surely cleave his helmet in twain. Jodias’ spear took him in the throat before the stroke fell, and he shoved the Ismaransi backwards into those following behind. As the arrow-clouds diminished, so larger and larger units won free of the mountains of corpses, and very quickly, the combat became general up and down the line, the Ismaransi breaking into the lines at parts and slashing madly with their swords. They were in a bloodlust, and they fought without method or strategy; it was the only thing that allowed the numerically inferior Erennin to withstand the onslaught. The arrows had done their work, though, and the shouts of the Ismaransi horde were now noticeably lower in volume.

Jodias had his spear broken; drawing the second one from where it was sheathed in his shield he continued stabbing, even slashing a few times with the blade. Thanks to the poison on the blades there were soon a pile of bodies at the feet of every Erennin soldier. Sadly, those bodies were not all Ismaransi. A clash of weapons from the left and right indicated that the cavalry had begun their charge against the Ismaransi flank; the battle was now becoming confused. All around him, barbarian and Erennin were becoming mixed into one homogenous mass; yet all this while Talamioros was at his side, coolly despatching the enemies he faced as if his bout of fear had never come about. But if the battle was going well for Jodias and Talamioros, it was not for the whole of the army in general: huge gaps and salients were torn into the originally unbroken Erennin phalanx. With cohesion destroyed, the Erennin were left to fight as individuals and groups as best as they could. It was time.

“Draw swords! Charge!” Almost as one, the scraping of swords being drawn from scabbard followed the cloud of spears that arced above the heads of the spearmen as they hurled them at the enemy. In an instant, spearmen had become swordsmen, and in far looser formation than the packed ranks of the phalanx they moved to the attack. But yet, remaining behind while the swordsmen charged into the sea of barbarians, the rear half of the phalanx yet engaged the enemy, advancing one ponderous step at a time, forcing Ismaransi off-balance where they were easy prey. The slaughter was terrible; crows already circled above the field waiting to descend and feast. The ground was made slick with red and in some places it formed puddles, the soil being too waterlogged to absorb any more.

Feet churning up the bloodied mud, Jodias advanced, despatching anyone who appeared before him with ease. As individuals the Royal Guardsmen more than held their own against the Ismaransi, darting under the barbarians’ guard, their shields holding off the longswords while their own blades found nesting places in abdomen or chest or throat. From time to time, when Jodias could see Talamioros, what he saw was a blur of death, a dancing man seemingly swinging his shield and sword around him in wild abandon, the barbarians falling away from him like wheat cut by a scythe. That youth would have to be well-rewarded for valour and skill, Jodias noted.

The rain stopped sometime in the melee, and the sun came out—was it afternoon already? For the sun was already on its way down from its zenith. Deeper and deeper into the formation the swordsmen carved their way, many falling in the fighting taking another five or six with them. Some engaged the barbarians in combat; others simply ran through the packed thousands and scratched each person within reach, letting the poison do its work while avoiding single combat where possible. But yet no matter how many Ismaransi were killed, still more took their place, and yet deeper the swordsmen advanced, the Guardsmen individual harbingers of death while the ordinary veterans clustered together in knots of three or five, watching one anothers’ backs.
Jodias was surrounded by the swirling tides of barbarian fury, but none were able to stand before his calmly swinging blade and remain alive. It was afternoon; Jodias’ arms were tiring. Here and there an Erennin horseman would sweep past, his spear or sword doing its deadly work as he passed along, his horse riding down Ismaransi that did not get out of the way; the cavalry, too, was inflicting horrific casualties on the invaders. But yet, Jodias could not hold on much longer. His sword felt like it was made of lead; it swung ponderously from his bloodied arm. Yet he fought on, until he came upon a group of five Guards, facing together a huge bear of a man, dressed all over in furs, wielding a huge axe as tall as his person with a cruel, gigantic half-moon blade already dripping with blood. The battle swirled around these men; none dared come close to that wildly swinging axe. Looking closer Jodias saw on the ground six Guards, their lifeblood spilled out by this one man. As Jodias looked on, a man leapt at that Ismaransi, to be caught hard on the side of his head by the flat of the axe. Crumpling to the ground the axe split him in half with an overhead stroke.

The king charged in, dodging the man’s wild strokes, trying to distract his attention enough for the remaining four Guards to kill him. But to his horror he felt a huge impact on his head, and he was sent flying, losing his sword in the process, the blade skittering away into the masses of Ismaransi. Dazed, he watched haplessly as the remaining four were cut to shreds by the berserker. Then that barbarian was on Jodias, one foot on his chest and the axe raised ready to strike. Jodias closed his eyes, waiting for the blow to fall.

A wind. And the blow never came. Jodias opened his eyes in surprise. The berserker was gone from his vision. Getting up, he saw a familiar figure darting here and there around the man, his sword probing and stabbing, hoping to get through to flesh. Talamioros danced his dance as he and the man fought closely, each one trying to destroy the other. Jodias watched on, amazed, as he picked up a sword from one of the Guards’ corpses. For several seconds they battered at one another’s defences. Then it was suddenly over; Talamioros’ sword swept through the man’s arm, severing it at the wrist, swung again, biting deeply into the man’s throat, and buried itself into the man’s side. The man crumpled.

“Your majesty, are you alright?” Talamioros came to Jodias’ side, almost relaxedly despatching the sole barbarian who dared challenge the youth.

“I am…alright. You fight well. I give you my word that you will be well rewarded for coming to my aid. Thank you, Talamioros.’

“It is nothing, your majesty. Let us begin returning to the lines.” Talamioros pointed up into the air, where into the now blue sky, another angry black cloud of arrows was rising. The archers had been resupplied and were continuing their constant shower of darts. Acquiescing, Jodias blew the horn signal that called for a return of all swordsmen to the phalanx still fighting on to the southeast. On the flanks, the horsemen would also be retreating—none wanted to be caught in the arrow storm since one scratch meant death.

Talamioros danced a path clear for Jodias to walk through. His blade flickered through the barbarians, punctuated with an occasional kick or a punch with his shield, opening a gap in the Ismaransi such that Jodias rarely, if at all, needed to move his sword arm. It was from Talamioros that the first barbarians threw down their weapons and ran from. Singlehandedly the youth broke the spirit of the Ismaransi as the panic of a few spread to more and soon the whole of the survivors were racing away, back northwest where they came from, screaming the whole time, this time in fear rather than fury. Suddenly finding themselves in the midst of a rout, Talamioros randomly reached out and stabbed several barbarians as they passed while Jodias hacked away with what was left of his strength. The battle was most clearly won. Stumbling out into the open, Jodias found himself in the killing zone where so many barbarians had fallen at the opening of the battle, still a hundred paces from the phalanx which had advanced one step by one, leaving bodies in its wake. Raising the horn to his lips, Jodias commanded the archers to stop their firing, and unleashed the cavalry pursuit. As the horsemen poured forth in victory to harry the defeated foe all the way back across the distant border, Jodias raised his bloodstained sword to the roaring cry of the remnants still left alive in the aftermath of the bloodbath. Beside him, Talamioros stood quietly, his dripping sword by his side, gazing in awe at his king whose life he had saved. Into the sunset the horsemen rode, herding before them the scattered horde.
“Victory! VICTORY!” The cry resounded into the darkening hills.

Prologue: Exodus (Part 2)

Before every battle, Jodias would walk before his troops, speaking to them, letting them hear his voice. Now he did so again, stepping out from the front line where he stood, and stalking up and down the front of the phalanx. Every eye expectantly followed his passage across their field of vision, but no head turned to follow; such was the discipline of the army that every man remained motionless. Using his spear as a walking staff he moved up the line, hollering as he went.

“Ten more minutes. Ten more minutes and another battle will confront you! Erennin, be strong. Show them no mercy, these who have slaughtered your family and your friends, burnt your villages to the ground! They stand before you a million strong. They outnumber us ten to one. Seven times have they dared to cross our boundaries, and seven times they have been thrown back. Let this the eighth great battle be such a one that they will never return again! Let this rain wash them from our soil forever!” Raising his spear, a cry burst forth from his throat, and he shook his shield in the rain.

“Erennin! ERENNIN!” And with a great roar the Erennin host took up the cry, beating spears on their shields rhythmically, drumbeats of vengeance and doom that sounded across the field through the rain, giving even the most ferocious Ismaransi champion pause. Jodias returned to his place; the din of his countrymen was deafening. He could barely imagine what it was like among the Ismaransi. Turning his attention back to the opposing horde, he could make out, through the now pouring rain, the horsemen spurring to the attack, shaking their spears and swords on high as they recklessly charged to the attack. And behind them, as one, the million warriors of the Ismaransi charged too, an immense tide sweeping across the half a kara separating them from the Erennin shieldwall. This was a tactic Jodias had seen often; the Ismaransi knew only one tactic: the charge. It was a tactic that he took advantage of, using their habit of committing all their forces to the battle at once against them. Covering the five hundred paces took time, and Jodias calmly unslung a horn from his shoulder. It was from a great ram, and its baldric was deep blue in colour. The horn of kings, it had been passed down through the generations of Erennin rulers till it came into his hands.

The archers were ready; the instant Jodias blew the arranged signal—one short blast followed by two long ones—a rustle told him that the already loaded bows, arrows nocked and ready to fire, were being raised to point into the sky. Tipped with poison, the merest scratch would render even the strongest Ismaransi prone and lifeless in an instant. All along the line, the soldiers were in a state of highest tension, and in the back ranks of spearmen the anxious creaking of the stretched bows could be heard. The archers would loose at a hundred and fifty paces, Jodias decided, when the barbarians had reached their maximum speed and were going all out. The front lines collapsing under a rain of arrows would completely destroy the momentum of the barbarians. It was a lesson learnt from four years ago; without archers at the battle of Helumios, the charging barbarians broke into the lines of spearmen, dashing the shieldwall aside from sheer momentum. The battle had almost been lost, then; only the timely return of the horsemen gave the barbarians enough confusion to allow the Erennin to turn the tide.

Two hundred paces. Jodias blew two notes, very familiar ones that every spearman had heard at least once before—the signal to link shields. As one unbroken line they joined their shields, holding their spears underarm to stab the unwary enemy in the guts. The phalanx compressed slightly as men closed the distance between them to form a wall of blue bronze, stretching across the field, a comparatively thin dyke to hold back the sea. The battlecries of the Ismaransi were swelling in volume as they closed the distance, and they seemed to never need to draw breath. They ran at an astonishing pace, their legs covering the paces at an alarming rate.

One hundred and fifty paces. The archers waited, the trained eyes of the observers standing on slightly taller platforms telling them that the range was closed and it was time to fire. For what seemed an eternity there was only silence form the ranks and the shouts of the barbarians coming closer, closer, closer. Then at last, the three notes again, and there was a rippling snap of bows, the soft twanging of bowstrings barely audible. Rising high above their heads the flight of arrows rose, ten thousand shafts of whistling death, a black rain mingling with the water falling onto the Field turning it to mud. With a sickening thud some seconds later that rain crashed into the front of the Ismaransi charge, dashing it to the ground almost as if the weight of the arrows had physically slammed the attackers into the mud. All eight of the chieftains on their horses went down with the first flight, falling off their horses either with an arrow through them, or through their mounts. Tripping on the corpses of the already-dead, those that followed behind fell in a massive stumbling that piled still-living bodies up on those who had fallen to the first arrow flight. In the blink of an eye, those still living bodies joined their dead comrades as the second flight of arrows plowed into the exact same zone, adding yet a few thousand more bodies to the carnage in front of the Erennin lines. And the slaughter continued, those who had fallen trying to get up, only to be cut down by the archers’ deadly missiles. The piles of corpses were eerily still; normally there would be some fatally wounded still thrashing about.

But no; the deadly touch of the arrows ensured that the slightest brush was enough to lay a man low. None moved in that long line of dead. Not a single Ismaransi had yet reached the Erennin line. None had passed that awesome curtain of poisoned death to meet the spears of Erennin fury. Jodias averted his eyes from the carnage being created in front of him. Expanding the number of archers the army brought into battle had been a wonderful idea; it had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Indeed, the shamans who had amassed the huge pools of poison needed to coat every single weapon edge with deadly essences were also to be highly rewarded on his return. But even so, it was almost too much for him to bear; the screaming as men and women alike collapsed before the onslaught of arrows. Jodias turned away, and in doing so, saw beside him a young boy, barely seventeen, dressed in the Royal Guard armour. He was a very skilled swordfighter; that was the main criterion to be chosen a Guard. But holding his spear at the ready, making up part of the hedge of spears extended before the Erennin shieldwall, Jodias could see his knuckles were white and his hand was trembling slightly.

“What is your name, young man?” Jodias looked with some care at the boy. He was youthful; he bore no scars that he could see. Evidently this was his first battle. The boy was tall; he stood almost to Jodias’ height, eighteen spans high. He stood straight, trying to show he was not afraid. But he was; his face, within the helmet, was pale. He did not turn to face Jodias; his discipline told him to remain watching the enemy in any situation because any situation could change in the blink of an eye and soldiers had to react fast. When the boy finally mustered enough composure to speak, it was with a tremulous voice that was neither clearly deep, or sharply high-pitched.

“My name is Talamioros, your majesty.”

Prologue: Exodus (Part 1)

The two armies faced each other across the field, banners flapping in the breeze with a brisk snapping as the spring winds swept down from the mountains, chilling the soldiers to the skin, causing them to shudder uncomfortably. Faraway thunder sounded as dark clouds advanced from the west, blocking out the pale early morning light. Long had been the conflict between the two powers, many the battles and deaths they faced. Now the two armies came once more together, meeting on Falcorea Field, to renew their seven-year struggle with yet another sickening cycle of carnage and pain.

Seven years; had it been so short? But seven years ago the Ismaransi peoples had overrun the Erennin Kingdom’s borders, butchering, pillaging, driven by the hunger of a life spent in the frozen wastes of the north, driven south by a population far too great for the snows and pines to support. They were beaten back; their initial raids and attacks were shattered and sent reeling back across the Erennin borders. But they came back every spring, and it was no longer enough for bands of Erennin riders to guard the hamlets and villages from the marauders crossing the northern frontiers. Battles came to be fought, with large, then even larger armies, growing in numbers and deaths every year. The Erenin were ever victorious, but at high costs. For every ten thousand men only eight thousand would return from every battle. Sore was the weeping of the people as the victorious armies returned, for terrible was the fury of the Ismaransi barbarians, and long and sharp were their fearsome blades, and many were the lives ended with a mere swing of that powerful weapon.

While the greatest armies yet assembled by the two combatants faced one another year after year, all around them the kingdoms neighbouring Erennin lands fell, one by one, to the onslaught of the barbarian tide, no parley or peace being sufficient to halt the fate of enslavement and massacre by fire and sword. Of the Thirty-five Kingdoms fifteen had fallen in the ten years since the Ismaransi had crossed the distant northern mountains and boiled down the slopes in hunger and fury and wonder mixed. Now, while the surviving kingdoms sought to stem the tide of the invaders, Erennia, farthest north of those still remaining, the one kingdom with a strong army remaining, hurled the might of its soldiery at the might of the Ismaransi, it was slowly being surrounded by barbarian fires of destruction. It would not long escape the fate of the others, for its resistance was solitary among a sea of defeats across its borders. Soon, even the greatest of victories would not matter.

King Jodias saw all of this, and was sorely troubled by the imminent end of his people. The seven years of his reign had been spent in the field, leading army after army to their victorious deaths almost from the moment he ascended the throne, the appointed successor of King Armines, who had died childless. A general by training, he had seen his populous empire of a million souls dwindle by almost a third, enslaved by the barbarians and carried north into barbarian territory, or simply cut down where they stood as the raiders set fire to their villages and dashed their babies onto the walls of the burning brick-and-thatch houses. The strength of the armies would not now hold out for long—its supply of men was being bled away through battle after battle, carried away on the black horses of the Ismaransi raiders, lost as swathes of territory were depopulated, its inhabitants fleeing in mindless panic to where no eye or sense could discern, disappearing forever.

But yet, while there was yet an army, battles would still be fought. And where there were yet battles, Jodias would be would be at the forefront, standing with them through victory or defeat. Here on Falcorea Field he stood once again, in the centre of the Erennin line, in the midst of his great army of seventy thousand spearmen, ten thousand archers and ten thousand horsemen. While by far the largest proportion were Erennin, here and there a gleam of strangely designed armour or a differently tipped spearhead could be seen—contingents formed from the refugees of the conquered kingdoms, fleeing to any sanctuary they could find. Many of these were fanatics, ready to die on the field if need be, but who would never retreat once contact was joined with the enemy. These soldiers were almost immune to the fears of battle; almost all of them were veterans. After seven years of constant warfare, almost every able-bodied man past his sixteenth year of age had taken up arms in a battle. Many bore scars from multiple campaigns, the survivors of many battles. That was the way with fighting the Ismaransi; you were fast and learned to fight well, or you were dead upon first contact.

Falcorea Field sprawled as more a plain than a field. Fully three karas by eight, the Field was an ideal battlefield, its ground flat and grassy. Roughly aligned southeast-northwest, on the southeastern end stood the mass of Erennin, their footsoldiers drawn up in a massive phalanx that stretched two karas long, a huge rectangular block, solid and impenetrable. The Erennin wore bronze cuirasses lined with leather, heavily armoured with blue-painted shields bearing the national emblem, two crossed golden crescents with a silver star in between. Their helmets were of bronze, and they rose high, giving the already tall Erennin soldier a fearsome stature accentuated by the crest of feather and horsehair rising above the bronze dome of the helmet. At their sides hung sharp swords with blades as long as a forearm, in scabbards hung from their shoulders. Well-greaved they were, and in their hands they held a stout spear, two-and-a-half-pace shafts tipped with a leaf-blade of iron, sharpened to a razor edge. Some held a second spear in a sheath tied to their shields. In the centre of the phalanx, Jodias stood, among his Royal Guard, ten thousand strong. Their shields and armour, edged with gold, gleamed brighter than the others’ in the dying light of the morning, quickly being dimmed by the swiftly-advancing clouds. Behind the spearmen, the archers stood, wearing only light armour and tunics. Each carried two quivers full of arrows and a long bow that, in trained hands such as theirs, could send an iron-headed arrow over two hundred paces and pierce light armour at a hundred paces. Undoubtedly, every single spearhead, swordblade and arrowhead that the Erennin could get their hands on was coated with ravensbane or tamensdock sap or poytera juice or some deadly poison or other.

The cavalry stood just out of sight on the flanks, five thousand on either flank, their long lances raised proudly, pointing defiance at the sky. They would be armed similarly, a small round shield serving to protect their unarmed side. They wore hardened leather covered in small bronze discs for armour, relying on their speed and power to break into enemy lines. At their saddles were tied bundles of javelins. They stood in serried ranks, led by Jodias’ two brothers, Tamenor and Gerliz. The horses pawed the ground in anticipation, but in perfect communion with their masters, they moved not an inch from where they stood drawn up, in squares that could quickly form into wedges driving deep into the enemy mass.

And there, coming into view through the morning mists, from the northwest the Ismaransi advanced, and their footsteps were as thunder echoing that sounding from the rainclouds now almost directly overhead. The sky was dark, but not as dark as the churning horde of almost a million men and women marching at a thousand different speeds, clustered into groups following their leaders, their drawn swords and their readied spears aglitter like some sinister constellation. They came on with bloodlust and murder in their eyes, and the ground groaned with their passing as they trampled the new-grown spring grass flat with their myriad pairs of feet. They wore no armour; only their chiefs were rich enough to afford any. They carried no bows; they saw archery as a weapon of the coward. They carried no shield; their swords required two hands to wield. Many came half-naked, their bare chests tattooed with sigils of mystic power and invincibility. Jodias scorned those; they had not served them in their battles, and they would fail the barbarians again.

In utter contrast to the silence lines of Erennin, the barbarians were shouting, singing, ululating in their guttural language, interspresed with whistles and clicks. Their din carried across the field, the sheer volume of their numbers causing their battlecries to take physical form as waves of sound that seemed to push the Erennin backward. Passing before the host, encouraging them with shouts and screams, the chieftains of the Ismaransi rode on horses, ten of them on huge black horses half again as large as the greatest Erennin mount. Apart from those ten horses, no other cavalry was to be seen; the Ismaransi fought exclusively on foot.

Thunder soudned overhead; the storm was on them. Darkness shadowed all things into grey as the first droplets fell, the tinkling of the rain on the helmets and armour of the Erennin almost musical in nature, a song of farewell, a funeral dirge for those about to die. The solemn almost-rhythm of the rain gained in complexity and speed, until it was a constant dull ringing, soft and shimmery, expanding an aura of soft sound around the Erennin silence. Spears planted on the ground, bows held at the ready, the soldiers of the kingdom stood in unrivalled neatness and discipline as the rain traced runnels down their faces and armour.