The Orb had finally risen over the mountains in the east, and glinted fiercely off of Selenike’s armour as she strode out into the organized chaos of an army preparing itself for battle. She finished tying her secondary weapons to her two sturdy leather belts –a mace with a head of flanged black steel and two thin-bladed stingswords– and finished tying her pale blue half-cape to rest over her right shoulder. The grass her armoured boots trod on was still wet with dew from the night, the light of the orb not having reached so far down as to dispel it. She looked around the camp for the first time in daylight and was impressed by what she saw. Ordered rows of rectangular tents for the rank and file were organized along cleared routes for easy transport and access to the central smithies and horse lines, as well as the victual wagons. The pavilions and tents of the nobility and the knights stood in small clusters, although Selenike had been forced to pitch hers where she had found room the previous evening, her party arriving late. The paths between the tent clusters were filled with Helikiai and Thymai soldiery moving with purpose, phalangites donning their scale armour and tall plumed helmets, and slotting the halves of their long pikes together, archers stringing their bows and adjusting the feathers of their arrows, and grooms barding horses before leading them to their knights and squires. There were quite a few Thyfilai in the army Selenike noted, seeing many of their number pass by wearing mail and surcoats issued to them by the royal armouries in Tol-Sankytheia and Tol-Nilethos. The air was filled with the sound of drums, pipes, trumpet blasts, and the smell of a camp of thousands of soldiers; sweat, cooking meat and bread, excrements from the many animals, and a constant whiff of uncleanliness and filth. Selenike’s nose twitched, and she had to concentrate on holding the meagre contents of her stomach in place.
Rhylin came out of the tent and handed Selenike her helmet, a tall-crested close variant, with a visor that mimicked the gaping maw of a lyndwyrm, her House’s celestial-bond animal. She nodded her thanks, but did not put it on; she was still waiting on Gage to return with her coif.
“Have you emptied your body completely, my Aïs?” Rhylin asked in a tone that brokered that he was awkward with asking the question, but it was his duty as Selenike’s Aïon.
“I went to the latrines before you joined, Rhylin,” Selenike replied, irritated at herself for feeling the tips of her long ears flush with heat. If Rhylin noticed, he had the good graces of not mentioning it. Instead he held out two water sacks to her. Selenike hiked up a silvery eyebrow.
“Surely I would only need the one, Rhylin?”
“The first is water, Mamzel, the second is strongwine. I heard from my upbringer, a full Aïros with sixteen glories and twenty-nine kindlings to his name, that it was a prudent stratagem for any warrior, regardless of age and experience, to start the morn of battle with the bravery of hard drink in their hearts.”
Selenike considered the offered sacks for a few moments, her stomach and hearts roiling with the imps of anxiousness, before taking both. Not wanting to seem like a waif in front of her squire, she took a hefty glug from the one containing the strongwine. Sharp, burning liquid made its way down her oesophagus and she could feel as it landed in her stomach. Immediately she could start to feel its effect, and she looked an unspoken question at Rhylin, who shrugged with an accompanying small smile.
“A noble had already ridden off to join the van, and leaving behind a barely touched cask of blessed strongwine, by Tymeon’s Favour if the label is to be believed. I simply helped myself before some fool thyfilai sneaked off with it.”
Selenike smiled and took another sip.
“Good work, Aïon, I appreciate it. Now run along and help Lyssa with her armour before you bring Ghost and Pixie over. Furthermore, where did you store my truelance? I cannot be seen riding to battle without my truelance and banner.”
“Of course, Mamzel, the truelance should be with the rest of the gear in the guarded baggage train camp. I’ll send Gage to get it for you once he returns.”
“No need,” a perky voice in very dubiously accented Hiaiglōtta piped up, and a malakiai lad of about sixteen of the lesser race’s years, rounded a tent corner, carrying in one hand a mail coif, and over his shoulder a long tilting-spear tipped with a foot long spike of theostali, and a furled pennant attached to the tip’s base. The boy, Gage, was significantly shorter than any of the three Helikiai that made up the rest of Selenike’s very modest lancie, now that Wyck apparently was no more, but he was a stocky and heavyset youth that would with time surely grow into a formidable man. His nose was slightly crooked which suggested he had broken it at some point, and his hair was a poorly cut mess of shockingly orange curls. He wore a long-sleeved tunic that had at one point been white, but was now a dirty beige, and a pair of baggy grey trousers, as was apparently the fashion of the malakiai race, and wrapped sandals on his feet. Despite being slightly uncomfortable with having a malakias as a groom, Selenike, Rhylin, and Lyssa would –if asked directly– admit that Gage was a capable and industrious part of their small lancie. He did the tasks that Aïons were too elevated to be performing, such as grooming and feeding their mounts, clearing away their refuse, acquire food from the supply train (but not cook, that was Rhylin’s responsibility), and run errands like he was right now.
Selenike held out a gauntleted hand and accepted the lance while Rhylin snapped the coif from Gage, who simply shrugged and took a few steps back to look at the knight in all her martial glory, while Rhylin went to put the coif over Selenike’s head, tucking her white-purple hair underneath the leather-ringmail headdress. Selenike’s armour was made by the forge masters in personal employ of House Starborn, and the months they had spent crafting Selenike’s suit of plate had not been wasted. Tight-fitting plates of shining theostali covered most of her body, with the ringmail of her long, underneath hauberk polished and oiled so well it shone with the light of dawn, giving protection where plates did not. As was the fashion for the scions of the great arestratoi houses, their armour was designed to tell a visual story in addition to provide excellent protection, mostly through its shape, inlaid detailing and carefully crafted ornamental pieces. Selenike’s told of the great lyndwyrm Val-Thrakax as he burst forth from the Golden Glade of Eunome-Löön, the armour plates of her legs partly shaped like flowers and spring blossoms, gradually giving into the vast, dreadful shape of Val-Thrakax over her torso, her shoulder pads being the top of the beast’s wings, the fingers of her gauntlets its claws. The gorget imitated the drake’s fire-belching thorax, her helmet its fearsome head, with fringe-wings of polished steel protruding from the sides of the visor. Gage never grew tired of looking at the insane forge-craft the Elven master smiths were able to create, forgetting at times that the worn works of art were in fact heavy plate armour.
Rhylin completed Selenike’s armour by tying on the mail coif, ensuring that her braid coiled comfortably down back of her neck as to not get in the way. She left her helmet hanging by a hook in her belt.
“I’ll go get the horses once I’ve helped Lyssa, Mamzel,” Rhylin said and hurried off.
A white hand reaches out and touches a bright-dim light of both shimmering gold and consuming darkness, alabaster fangs dripping with a single perfect drop of crimson blood.
“Mamzel, are you ill? Should I call a healer?”
She didn’t know how she’d fallen to a knee, but Selenike was suddenly looking up into the surprised and slightly concerned brown eyes of Gage. She managed to stand up, her armour creaking, but finding that her legs were shaking ever so slightly.
“It’s nothing, Gage,” she managed with what she hoped was seen as an air of confidence, “just a combination of little sleep and excitement, I would wager.”
“Doesn’t help that you haven’t broken your fast,” the groom replied in a tone that suggested that his concern might have been more for his own empty stomach than his knight’s, but Selenike’s forming reply died in her throat.
Worry not child, for you have the Blessed Light within you. Listen to your inner heart, and know always I shall be there to guide you. Blessed are those who walk in the Light of the Higher Voices. The voice was almost a whisper, but Selenike heard every word as clearly as the shining light of the moon on a calm summer night.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
No, Gods please, I cannot hear the Voice now, not while I am awake, not on such a day. Please, Voice, have pity and return later, tomorrow even. Just let me be at peace with my mind today, you can haunt me all you want on the morrow!
The Voice didn’t answer and Selenike let out a deep sigh, realising she had been holding her breath. New trumpet blasts filled the air, and Selenike’s long, thin ears twitched as she recognised the signal for the host to form up into their companies, and Selenike realised that she had no idea where to report.
“Gage,” she said, turning to the thyfilai groom, “what lords’ sígnōn have you seen?”
The expression on the lad’s face told her she could just as easily have asked why the Orb rose in the morning and set in the evening, and she rolled her eyes.
“Banners, Gage, have you seen any large banners with iconic heraldry on them? Animals or symbols in striking colours? The lords and knight-captains make their presence known by having their herald-knights carry their large standards in battle.”
“I’s seen more than a few banners, Mamzel,” Gage said, seemingly trying to remember, “but it’s all a mess of colours and symbols for me, I cannot tell one elf lord from t’other.”
“Don’t use that word in our Mamzel’s presence,” the cold voice of Lyssa interjected as the squire joined them. Lyssa’s armour was far from as ornate and elaborate as Selenike’s, but it was superficially similar in being a suit of close-fitting plate armour with a long split-skirt hauberk underneath. Over her plated cuirass she wore the surcoat of Troadtowers, three crenelated spires argent and a silver wispwing rousant on a field azure, the linen cloth reaching past her knees but was split-skirt like her hauberk to enable her to seat a mount. Under her plated left arm she held her helmet, a cavalry version of the ones common among the First Shields of the phalanx, with a tall apex leaning slightly forward rather than backwards, with a long, lobstered neck and cheek-guards so tightly placed that it did not require a visor.
“Ap’logies if I’ve offended, My Lady,” Gage stammered, his Hiaiglōtta slipping a bit, but Selenike waved an armoured hand at Lyssa in a disarming gesture.
“Let it be, Lyssa, it is what malakiai call us anyway, just the same as we call them ‘malakiai’ instead of ‘Men’.”
“Well, it is an apt name, is it not?” Lyssa protested and crossed her armoured arms over the chest of her cuirass. “They are ‘blacklings’ in heart as well as in act, if not necessarily in appearance. ‘Elf’ carries no inherent meaning but as a name from ancient malakiai myths.”
“As fascinating a discussion on etymology of names is,” Rhylin shot in, walking up to them, leading three barded chargers by their reins, “maybe the focus should be on something else entirely, like the prospect of rapidly approaching battle?”
Rhylin was a junior Aspirant-Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Bloodied Lily, and as such his armour was only slightly more elaborate than what the First Spears of the astoi phalangites wore. He wore a sky blue linen cuirass inlaid with salmon-steel scale bands and the cuirass joints fashioned in the likeness of lilies, plus a further long, mounted-split steel scale hauberk underneath, as well as full steel greaves, pauldrons, gauntlets and a gorget. Rhylin’s helmet was similar in pattern to Selenike’s, but without the wings and ornate visor, a simple all-enclosing close helm with a tall crest, with a small stream of lilies-of-the-valley running down the crest’s back. Neither Lyssa nor Rhylin had theostali armour like Selenike; only their truelances were tipped with that blessed and enchanted metal, their armour instead made of “mere” steel forged and tempered by Thymai warsmiths.
Selenike took the reins of Ghost, her large grey Nemeian charger, barded as he was in a caparison of House Starborn’s blue, white and royal purple, a steel chamfrain on his night-grey head and a coat of steel scale covering his front under the caparison. She gently ran her armoured glove over the horse’s barded neck, to which Ghost snorted and lowered his head as he recognised her scent.
“Nothing different from any other ride, friend,” she whispered as she leaned in towards the horse’s ear, “disregard the noise and smell, and focus on the ground under your hooves, let me take care of the rest.”
Gage held the reins of Ghost, Pixie, and Lyssa’s charger Nekmos in turn as each rider, accompanied by the clatter of armour, seated their mounts, and adjusted their saddles and their leafshields –panoplied with their individual heraldic charges– hanging on saddle-hooks. Each rider had their truelance in their right hand, their personal weapons (mace, longsword, and two stingswords for Selenike; battle-ax and longsword for Rhylin, and an arming sword, warhammer, and no less than three stingswords for Lyssa) attached to their multiple belts, but in addition they also had two or three further lances attached by hook to their saddles. Those would be used once their truelances had found their marks in the initial charge and abandoned to be picked up after the battle. A warrior’s truelance was as personal as the crafted armour they wore, being enchanted weapons, and in eulaoi culture it was common courtesy to ransom truelances back to their owners if they should fall into enemy hands. The other lances were the regular kind, made of wood and steel and were disposable.
The trumpets blew again, seemingly more insistent this time, and Selenike had to rein in Ghost, the charger threatening to rear up as the blasts scared the horse. To the shouts of First Spears, First Shields and Tall Helms, helikiai and thymai phalangites streamed past in their hundreds, holding their long pikes upright in two hands or resting them on shoulders as they double-quick marched towards the plains beyond the camp, archers following the heavy infantry in unorganised clusters. Mounted officers and knights joined the cacophony of orders with their mounts’ steel-shod hooves. A herald-knight in shining blue-tinged plate and with the tell-tale banner with doves sable on field argent fixed to the back of his armour, stopped his horse in front of Selenike and her little lancie, and dipped his helmeted head in a bow as he recognised the Starborn heraldic lyndwyrm charge on her truelance banner.
“Apologies, Mamzel,” he said in Andrasyian-accented Hiaiglōtta, “but might I assume you have not received a placement in a battle yet?”
Selenike smiled lopsidedly, and tucked a lock of hair back underneath the mail coif.
“Is it that obvious that I’m new here?” she half-joked, to which the herald-knight smiled politely.
“Most of the men-at-arms are already on the field, Mamzel, only the reserve and the Picked of the Purplemanes remain in the camps to round up the last of the infantry and the thyfilai auxilia, and direct them towards the battle lines.”
“I see,” Selenike replied, stretching up in the saddle in an attempt to see over the tops of the tents, and try to discern where the infantry was headed.
“Well then, can you direct me to where the Prince has placed his banner, Kyr?”
The herald-knight’s polite smile disappeared as quickly as the morning dew.
“Mamzel, begging your pardon,” he said in a tone bereft of all emotion, “but if you do not know where His Royal Highness has made his sígnōn flow, then in all likelihood you’re not supposed to be in His Royal Highness’ company.”
He made to ride away, tugging at his horse’s reins, but Rhylin interfered by urging Pixie forwards a few steps.
“If not His Royal Highness’ sígnōn, Kyr, what other great lords are leading battles on the field? Perhaps my lady can find a place amongst them?”
The knight seemed to think for a moment, while looking Selenike up and down, apparently making note of her exquisite armour and the fact it had no scratches or dents.
“His Grace,” he said at length, looking Selenike directly in her lilac eyes, “the Diarkhon of Emerald’s Hold has command of the left wing, and the majority of the cavalry has been allocated to that flank. Your lancie might find a spot in the line there, Mamzel.”
Without waiting for Selenike’s reply, the herald-knight spurred his horse and rode off past a row of tents, narrowly avoiding running down a trio of thyfilai archers who shouted invectives back at him.
“Remind me, Lyssa,” Selenike asked, turning to face her squire, “who is the Diarkhon of Emerald’s Hold again?”
“That would be Valiodoros of House Greenhawk, Mamzel,” Lyssa replied, a slightly sour tinge to her voice, and Selenike cocked her head quizzically, but her squire simply didn’t follow up on it.
“Well, might as well try our luck there,” Selenike said at length as another group of phalangites jogged past, their scale armour clinking rhythmically, “seeing we actually just arrived last night and haven’t been attached to a lord’s battalion yet.”
She turned towards Gage, who had remained at a respectful distance during the exchange with the herald-knight.
“Go grab a blade from the common armouries, Gage,” she said sternly to the groom, speaking slowly so he could grasp the importance of what she was saying, “and protect our baggage. If the enemy breaks through, you are to form up with the rest of the grooms and the camp guards and help defend the camp and the followers. If you see the battle is won, I want you up on the field with one of the pack horses and the baggage cart to help with assisting the wounded. Do you understand, Gage?”
The thyfilai youth nodded emphatically.
“You can trust me, M’zel, I’ll guard your tent and possessions with my life.”
He came to a facsimile of attention and slammed a closed fist over his chest. Selenike couldn’t help but smile. The thyfilai lad was clad in dirty peasant clothes, but still acted as he thought a soldier should act; Selenike felt she warmed a bit to her groom at this ridiculous sight.
“We’ll see you after the battle, Gage,” she said and spurred Ghost forward. Instinctively, the two smaller horses of Rhylin and Lyssa followed the large charger. Lyssa put her helmet on over her coif, fastening the straps tightly. Rhylin bowed his head and rattled off a prayer to Strateia-Iokasta, the Great Goddess of War and Strength of Arms.