In the ninety-fifth year of King Sylpherion’s reign, as the banners of the Seldonian warhosts rode against the malakiai King Erchonboldos of Kelgwyn, this one finds it fitting to recount the divine structure of our society, ordained by the gods to maintain harmony and order in the world. Let it be known to the malakiai and other barbarians, whose realms writhe in disarray and the disfavour of the Gods, that our strength is not merely in arms but in the righteous order bestowed by the divine. I shall presently return to affairs and matters of the year, but allow this one the merest of asides.
At the pinnacle of this order stand the Arestoi, the nobility whose lineages trace back to the blessings of the gods when the Horizons were young and the Towers of the Sacred Isles first ascended into the heavens. The Arestoi are the architects of the Seldonian kingdoms, entrusted with governance and stewardship over the lands and the laws. From the humble patrikioi, who might hold a kyrgoussa and a single village in fief or perform loyal service in the court, to the mighty magoarkhons who rule entire certain countries, command vast warhosts in their own rights, and advice kings on matters of policy and justice; the Arestoi form the political and spiritual core of our realm. Their duty is both sacred and practical, for their decisions shape the prosperity of cities, the balance of commerce, and the direction of war. It is through their hands that the divine will is interpreted and enacted in the earthly realm.
Not beneath the Arestoi in glory are the Arestratoi, the warrior-nobility. Though they share the noble lineage of the Arestoi, their primary vocation is on the battlefield. They are the officers of our armies, the mace of our heavy horse, and the captains of the phalanxes. These warriors are clad in unyielding theostali, bearing lances and blades forged with the skill of our greatest artisans and blessed by the Gods. They do not merely command but fight at the fore, their valour inspiring those beneath them. Many Arestratoi hold lands in fief and offices in service to their kings, and act as both leaders of war and civil administrators, ensuring the realm’s stability in peace and its dominance when the banners are called. Their dual nature is a testament to the versatility of the kinfolk, whose strength lies not only in arms but in the wisdom to wield them justly.
The Astoi, the commoners, comprise the broadest foundation of our society and number the greatest of all eulaoi estates, their toil the very heartbeat of the kingdoms. To some, the name "commoner" may suggest insignificance, but this is a grave misunderstanding. The Astoi are the stewards of the fields, the forgers of weapons, the crafters of goods, the keepers of faith, and the builders of cities. Their hands have shaped the Tolarchate cities, those radiant jewels that line the coasts of the Close Horizon and the banks of the rivers that thread through our lands. In those certain cities, philosophers argue beneath colonnades, poets compose hymns to the Gods, and merchants who carry the wealth of the grand cities over the Crossing Sea to the Sacred Isles and back. The Astoi are devout priests, skilled seafarers, learned scholars, hand-some crafters, erudite scribes, and yet many more trades. The Tolarchates are bustling centres of culture and commerce and the pride of Seldonia, their streets teeming with activity and their temples echoing with choral praise. In war, the Astoi serve in great numbers, forming the disciplined ranks of the phalanxes, the skilled ranks of archers, and as fierce lancers who are near the equal of the noble knights, under the banners of the Arestratoi and Arestoi. They are the lifeblood and sinews of the kingdom, their labour and steadfastness and industry ensuring the sustenance and stability of the kinfolk’s endeavours.
Lastly, there are the Ksenoi, the foreigners who dwell amongst us. These are the malakiai who, abandoning the chaos of their own lands, seek refuge, employment, or trade within the borders of Seldonia. Their place abounding us is as the Gods have willed; beneath our kindred but not without opportunity for service. The ksenoi are divided into two tribes. The Thyfilai, the “friends of the Kindred,” are those who earn their place through service, taxes, and loyalty. Thyfilai may hold property, enjoy the protection of our laws, and even bear arms and livery in the service of a Seldonian lord, though always as strangers and never our bosom kin; for malakiai are frail of limb and live short, vicious lives and seem to pass through the Veil where the Firstborn return from It, which is a curse from the Gods, it is said. They live in relative harmony with the kinfolk, contributing to the kingdom’s prosperity, though they are ever mindful of their place. In contrast, the Laoi, merely “folk,” have no such rights, a transient and often invisible presence within our lands. They toil as day-labourers, steading-hands, lumbers, and fishers, existing at the margins of Seldonian society. Without property, voice, or claim to protection, the Laoi depend upon the whims of their patrons and the fortunes of their labour. Some among us may whisper and place upon them pity, others with disdain, seeing in their plight a reflection of the chaos that awaits those who stray from the divine order. Yet none may lay claim to them in bondage, for unfree toil is an affront to Gods and Kin, and may the divines punish those who practice such vile customs.
In this hierarchy, decreed by the gods and maintained through generations, there is harmony. Each estate, from the Arestoi who rule to the Laoi who labour, serves its appointed purpose, forming an accord unmatched among the peoples of the Horizons. It is this order that the malakiai of Kelgwyn, of Archtouria, and other divers barbarian realms dare to challenge. Yet their disarray, their inability to mirror the divine hierarchy, will be their undoing. As the warhosts march and the phalanxes lock shields, we do so not merely as warriors but as the guardians of a cosmic balance decreed in the first days of the world. So it is said.
Cytheron’s Histories of the First World. Book μη?:θ?
It was a strange sensation, one that Selenike had never really experienced afore. The air around her was veritably dripping with kratia, as both those learned and unlearned in the ways of magicks dipped into the mighty rivers of omnipresent, but unseen power; and it was a cacophony and cascade of thought-colours that ran the gamut from triumphant gold to sanguine crimson to sangfroid steel-grey. Yet for all that which Selenike could feel, she could hardly see, her field of vision just the slits in her dragon helmet’s visor and what she saw through those were simply the backplates and capes of the riders directly to her fronts and the caparisons of their destriers, and the pennants and banners that flowed above the heads of the eulaoi heavy horse. She felt boxed in, unable to move in any meaningful way in any direction; to her right was Rhylin on Pixie, to her left one of Aliastheira’s Ivory Dragon lancers, and she could feel Lyssa on Nekmos at her back. Where the Aspilōn or the dragon knight had ended up was impossible to tell. It would have been impossible to hear any one’s voice in the clamour, the only sounds discernable being the thundering hoof beats of more than three-thousand warhorses and the clatter of plates of armour against mail or metal. All Kinfolk men-at-arms trained riding and fighting in close formations, and Selenike had done so on many occasions in the drill yards of her House’s Kitagoussa outside the circle wall of Tol-Antioc, exercising with the other noble kith of the Starborn Koichos, and the lancers and squires of the household. But even when exercising with the full might of the Starborn household, they never numbered more than three-hundred. Now she was in the midst of a massive formation of heavy horse numbering at least three-thousand.
A scrying-hawk made a pass over the field, its majestic brown-gold wings spanning the full length of a grown malakios, and it looked down on the great mass of horse and rider underneath it. Laispheira, with her green eyes rolled back into her head, smiled a beatific smile.
“Diarkhon Valiodoros has committed the entirety of the heavy horse of the left battle, Your Grace,” she said without betraying any of the effort of simultaneously seeing, hearing and translating the scrying-hawk’s poor understanding of what it was seeing into Hiaiglōtta. Blood Prince Eukration, now seated on his pristine white Korseroi Nymindas, smiled lopsidedly.
“Trust the Diarkhon to want the honour of crossing lances with the malakiai afore the phalanxes have a chance to get to grips. Has he at least formed the horse in a suitable manner?”
“Yes, my prince,” Laispheria said, ‘asping the scrying-hawk to make another pass over the massive formation, now only less than thousand yards from meeting the heavy horse of the malakiai who had bravely –for Men– rode forth to meet the eulaoi men-at-arms head on.
“They ride in a reinforced broadhead formation, with the tip of the arrow reinforced with twice as many lances as the wings; call it fourteen deep in the centre and six deep along the flanks.”
“What of the malkiai horse, what are their dispositions?” Antyakhos the Strateron asked, horsed and standing at the ready next to the Blood Prince. Laispheira had to concentrate in order to ‘asp the scrying-hawk to look at the other large body of horse and describe it back to her.
“Formed in a wedge,” she said through teeth now gritted; the experience of communing directly with the Lady of Blades earlier had drained her of much kratia, “and riding to counter-charge, though they are but two and a half-thousand at most.”
“Valiodoros will gain much honour and likely worthy songs to sing,” Dekleon grumbled while resting his bearded chin on his hands folded over the haft of his long-ax, “while we on the right wing does nothing.”
Dekleon was remaining on foot, but the top of his head still reached about midway up the Blood Prince’s cuirass; there was no horse other than the blessed steeds of the eulaoi kings’ own stables that could carry such a massive Kinfolk while armoured. The Blood Prince pointed towards the modest hilltop that sat opposite the right wing of the eulaoi army. It was a modest affair as hills went, but it was the tallest feature for miles, those being the almost sheer mountains of this southern side of the Kormand range. And crucially, the Duke of Fal-Tyras had ordered one of his chief subordinates to fortify the hill afore the eulaoi had arrived, and something like two-thousand foot now stood at the ready behind a series of ditches, earthworks and palisades; it was almost like a kyrgoussa in its own right.
“That little fortress over there needs to be carried, my dear Dekleon,” the prince said as he pointed, “and no amount of horse can do that, no matter how bravely led. The phalanx is dealing with the Kelgwyn foot, Valiodoros is over there earning honour, but it falls to your Saiphaforoi to take that hill.”
Dekleon immediately seemed to perk up and hefted his ferocious axe in both hands.
“Your will be done, My Prince, I will take my best and bravest Kin and have those ramparts down before the phalanx are done with their little scuffle.”
“Behave, you beast, your slavering is scaring my mount,” a female voice said in a haughty tone and Pharanikos hid a chuckle and mirth-green thought-colours.
“Come down from your pretty horse, A?kan Thaliene,” Dekleon growled and his gauntlets tightened around the shaft of his ax, “and say that to me again if you have any honour.”
“I would,” A?kan Thaliene Shinestar, daughter of Menthakos, responded in that same tone of voice and punctuated her words with a flick of her braided white hair, “but that would mean my squire would have to dismount to help me back up on Chernys later, and that is too much of a bother.”
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Thaliene was clad in fluted plate armour tinged obsidian black, with accents of flaring gilded wyvern wings on her shoulders, kneecups, and her besagews were double wings of the same pattern. She had yet to don her helmet, which was a close helm variant, but the double visor was shaped like the needle-fanged maw of a beaked wyvern, including a double set of “teeth” which worked as both see-through slits and as a grille. A long white plume the same colour as her hair ran along a small crest on the top, and the plume would (again, like her own hair) reach the small of her back when the helmet was worn. Pharanikos had to admit Thaliene’s armour was extremely well-wrought and expertly decorated, certainly more so than the simple white plate of Dekleon and even Pharanikos’ own red-tinged fluted gryphon-inspired suit.
“Children, please cease your bickering,” Prince Eukration chided mildly, but there was a waft of sea-green thought-colours emanating from him. “Thaliene, do not mock my Picked, and Dekleon, please do not get riled up and start duelling my knights on the field of battle. It is unseemly to send each other to face the Veil when there are so many malakiai en’front who can whet our appetite for just that.”
The prince turned slightly in his saddle to look at Pharanikos, and the knight involuntarily tightened the grip on his reins when he saw the prince’s grey eyes underneath his silver masque.
“Did you see A?s Kharaspeira off with orders to acquire what she needs?”
“Yes, My Prince, I wrote her a note to pick suitable warriors from the camp guard and as many boats as she thought necessary.”
“Good, let us hope she is as capable as her air of confidence suggests.”
“My Prince,” Dekleon said loudly and slammed his axe’s shaft against his cuirass hard, “your permission to lead my knights and saiphaforoi in a charge on the malakiai fortifications?”
“Granted, my dear Dekleon, go with the strength of Akmarchos and the alacrity of Vaystrides and bring me the head of the noble who leads the Mannish defenders.”
The armoured giant grinned widely and hurried off, beckoning for his signōforos to follow him. Laispheira chose that moment to release her ‘asp on the scrying-hawk, and she gasped for air; her knees were suddenly weak and she would have fallen to the ground had not two squires nearby grabbed her by the shoulders and kept her upright.
“The two bodies of horse are about to meet, My Prince,” she rasped, suddenly feeling completely drained of all kratia, and suspecting she would have to spend the rest of the battle in camp. Unless…
“Well done, spellweaver,” Eukration answered and whistled sharply. His signōforos came trotting up to his right side, holding his immense banner of purpure with the Seldonian winged crescent, but painted crimson and overlaid an ivory shield dripping blood.
“The Purplemanes,” he shouted loudly, his voice and steel-grey thought-colours amplified by kratia, “will remain at this point until the hill en’front have been carried by the foot knights.”
There were murmurs of frustration among the young knights and lancers, but the six-hundred or so Purplemanes formed up dutifully into lines and restlessly watched as Dekleon’s fifteen hundred foot knights and dismounted men-at-arms started their clattering and noisy advance.
Selenike had known there would be noise when bodies of horse clashed, but she had not known the noise before the clash would be so deafening. In fact, the sound of pounding hooves, braying horses, numerous trumpets and horns calling out orders, and the sheer insane cacophony of metal on metal, was so obscuringly thunderous that she had no idea the front lines of cavalry had met and lances crossed before she suddenly saw pieces of cracked lances and splintered shields in the air. Only then did she realise the eulaoi horse had met their Kelgwayn counterparts. Eulaoi men-at-arms advanced and fought in silence, but Selenike had not realised that one of the indefinable background noises had been the cheers and war cries of the Kelgwayn knights, and suddenly many of those cries turned to screams and groans as truelances bit into shields, armour, horse and flesh.
And there was magicks in the air as well. Selenike could barely make out orange balls of fire crossing overhead, and sharp black cracks of lightning that were the malakiai mages casting breaking spells. White and black magic alike criss-crossed the air, the eulaoi spellweavers and loresingers in the rear throwing a hail of damaging spells at the Kelgwayns, and the men responding in kind with predominantly white spells. Selenike returned her focus to what was happening in front of her, hefting her shield and truelance like she had done thousands of times in the drill yards of her family home, letting Ghost’s innate war-like instincts take over and lead her through the melee. In an instant, a lancer to her front and right was enveloped by a blinding light and after Selenike had blinked away the brightness, the rider’s head was missing and he sat limp in the saddle, his horse oblivious to its master’s fate. The Ivory Dragon lancer to her left couched his lance and received something to his shield which shattered it into wooden splinters, but he carried on. Selenike held on to her truelance and sent wordless prayers to any god who would listen, praying that-
She felt a very powerful jolt which almost made her drop her lance followed immediately by a wordless scream, and a barded horse considerably smaller than Ghost galloped frantically past with no rider. Her every instinct shouted at her to look around for what she had hit, but her training of decades as Men tracked time made her focus ahead. She could veritably hear Master Iysanthos in her long thin ears: You should wound with no hesitation the first adversary you find on your way and go on looking for any other – but without turning your horse around – until you get back to the other end of the melee. Then, turning your horse back to return to the action, you have time to see what’s going on; if you see some of your friends surrounded by adversaries and fighting vigorously, you should gallop through the attack – destroying it with your action – and keep on galloping through the field, eventually finding another adversary to wound. So Selenike did just that, couching her lance firmly, looking for an opponent. It was nearly impossible to see, as the ground was being churned up by charging horses, animals and warriors running in any which direction, fluttering banners and capes, knights who were brandishing maces and axes after dropping their–
There! A Kelgwayn knight in plate and a dark green and cream surcote with his unprotected lance-arm turned her way. Selenike shifted her weight in order for Ghost to turn slightly and she bore down on the inattentive knight. This time she was aware of what she was hitting as the jolt of force nearly made her drop her lance; the long theostali tip pierced the mail deeply under the knight’s pauldron and the force of the blow carried him out of the saddle with a barely audible grunt. Unfortunately, Selenike had hit him too well which she realised as she felt the weight of the Mannish knight drag her lance with him as he slid from his saddle. Instead of trying to wrench the lance back out –which would have required her to stop her horse, the most banal and deadly mistake a man-at-arms could do in a melee– she let her truelance go and thundered on. She fumbled for the mace in her belts and unfastened it, swinging it a few times in order to acquaint her arm and hand with the change of weight, and as she did she stole a look around.
The glorious charge of two massive formations of cavalry with their lances lowered and banners flying had devolved into a confusing mass of horses, armoured figures, swirling capes and all manners of weapons being brandished and swung. Selenike saw an eulaoi knight swipe the head clean off the shoulders of a Mannish man-at-arms who was not paying attention, and two armoured figures rolling around on the ground between the stomping feet of panicking horses, both trying to ram a rondel dagger into weaknesses in the other’s armour. It was a short contest, and Selenike watched the much larger and better armoured eulaoi lancer drive his dagger into the visor slit of the Kelgwayn knight and blood jetted out like a small fountain and the malakios stopped moving. She fixed her sight on a Kelgwayn man-at-arms who had been unhorsed and was fumblingly trying to unsheathe his sword. Spurring Ghost, she set forward, but the man-at-arms in question was knocked over by an errant horse. Selenike cursed and set about for another target.
***
Folcard could barely breathe in his heavy armour, feeling as if the rings of his mail and the steel of his plate were pulling him towards the ground. He was trying desperately to control his breathing like he had been trained by his father’s master-at-arms, but he dearly wished to wrench open the visor of his sallet helmet and gulp down fresh air. Not that it was particularly fresh anymore, the chaotic and frenetic fighting was seeing to that. His horse was dead, one of those Gods-damned elven lances that never broke sticking out of its chest, but Folcard had been lucky as his horse had died under him and he had avoided getting a leg stuck underneath twelve-hundred pounds of horseflesh and armour. But being on foot in a cavalry melee was a very dangerous place to be, and Folcard was constantly tossing his heavy body out of the way of both elven and Kelgwayn knights as they thundered past; trampling horses spared neither friend nor foe. Worse, he had lost sight of Syr Luidhard and that whelp Eufroy; a knight’s glaive was supposed to keep together at all times during battle. That was true enough when facing other human opponents, but it was thrice as important when facing elves. The Gods themselves must have cursed the Hither when they had sent the Dawnborn Devils to their shores five-hundred years ago. The elves were taller and stronger than any living thing with two arms and legs had any right to be, and their craftsmanship was surely the result of pacts with daemons; crossbow bolts would clink off their plate and the heftiest of warhammers only make the smallest of dents in their helms.
“Fucking King and his fucking wars,” he growled through gritted teeth, “piss upon the Duke and his rights to these lands, there is no glory to be won here!”
A large elven knight in shining white plate and bright red streamers reared their horse not four feet away from him, and Folcard stumbled back, holding his poleaxe defensively across his chest. He was no battle-virgin; he had been trained for war since he could hold a sword at seven, rode in armour at twelve, and had fought his first battle against the Valebrians at sixteen and it had been Syr Luidhard’s expectation that he would win his spurs today, on his eighteenth name-day. But that expectation had been cruelly dashed when the true size and disposition of the elven army had been revealed this morning.
Two Kelgwayn men-at-arms wearing Duke Iustin’s personal black and gold surcote charged the white-and-crimson knight, but swifter than any being had any right to, the elf dropped their lance and in one fluid motion unsheathed a long, thin sword made of that thrice-damned Godsteel, and slashed out and down. The cruel cut decapitated the horse of one of the ducal knights and lacerated the unprotected legs of the other horse. Both knights tumbled to the ground in a messy heap of armour and wounded horseflesh.
“Oh Gods above protect me this day,” Folcard heard himself praying rapidly, using up the seemingly small amount of air left in his lungs, “Great Koinon shield me from strike and blow, Cu-Eidhan hold your perfect guard over my mortal flesh, Makalar, please, not today you fucking bastard!”
“Folcard! You simpleton, over here!”
Even over the din of the confusing battle, Folcard could make out the shrill voice of Syr Luidhard, and he whipped his head around to find his knight-master in the chaos. There! Only about ten meters away Folcard saw Syr Luidhard’s sallet helmet with the golden snake-wyrm on its crest and his quartered per pale surcote with red swans and argent boar’s head of their lord Greghor af Vildenhald. Folcard wore the same surcote, though his was muddied from his fall, though Syr Luidhard looked complete fresh and unblemished yet he was unhorsed just like his squire was. He started jogging forward to his knight-master, paying attention to the battle all the whi–
***
Selenike shouted in frustration as she heaved her way up from the mud and dirt, arms quivering with effort as she strained to suck her heavy armour free from the cloying brown. Apparently Ghost needed more training hours with mages to get acquainted with the noise and smell of battle spells, as the destrier had thrown her clean out of the saddle when a sunbreak spell had landed close by. White magicks were weak compared to the black magicks most often used by eulaoi battlemages, so maybe the fault lay in unfamiliarity. No matter, Selenike would find Ghost after the battle, right now she had to get up again. With considerable effort, she managed to rise to her knees and then fully upright. Her vision was obscured by mud and she wrenched open the visor against all common sense and previous instructions, but vision was often better protection than steel. Her lilac eyes tracked back-and-forth, looking for any of her companions or her shield. Seeing neither, she cursed.
“By the Thirteen Blades, this is turning into a fine field of glory.”
A lancer in the Diarkhon’s colours rode just past her and threw a javelin at some unseen target, and a scream could be heard. Someone was furiously blowing a horn nearby, and some poor soul was screaming in pain. In fact, there was a lot of screaming and cries, and the thought-colours were almost incessant enough to send Selenike back to her knees.
“Strongwine was a mistake, a grave mistake…”
An angry shout snapped her head up. Just a few meters from her, behind the thrashing body of a fallen horse, stood a Kelgwayn knight in a red and white quartered surcote with a longsword pointed directly at her. He shouted something more and started forward, both hands on his blade. Selenike knew a challenge when she saw one. She drew a deep breath.
“O Gods and Goddesses of my ancestors, watch the deeds I do this day for the honour of mine house and mine gods.” And slowly drew her own sword.
