O nobly-born, heed and harken, I will tell the tale of the how that shaped the now.

Common opening of The Songs, date & origin unknown.

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The great signōn fluttered in the surprisingly sudden gust of wind, and the knight given the honour of bearing it into battle struggled to keep it upright.

“If my family’s crest even so much as comes close to the ground, it will be your head, Baliophoros.”

The harsh rebuke was delivered by a voice that was used to being both heard and obeyed over the din of war, and the knight who had been directly addressed straightened up in his saddle and couched the standard’s lance in his stirrup.

“Now, where were we? Ah yes, add another thousand foot to their deployment of the left, plus a further dozen or so of what passes for spellcasters among the malakiai. What does the disposition read at current standing?”

“Twelve-thousand foot, some twenty-five-hundred horse, and in the vicinity of a hundred war mages, Your Grace,” Selymakhos answered, scribbling down the numbers on a piece of parchment stretched out on the neck armour of his warhorse Tekhneia. It was awkward to use an ink-reed when your hand was covered in layers of steel ringmail and theostali plate, but the figures and drawings were at least somewhat legible.

Diarkhon of Emerald’s Hold, the Honourable Valiodoros, commonly called Mageslayer, snorted in derision, apparently unimpressed by the numbers.

“A pitiful assembly the malakiai have managed to scrape together to check our progress, would you not say, Kyr?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Selymakhos dutifully replied, and put the ink-reed back into the small scribe’s pouch he carried on his saddle, next to the saddle-hooks holding his shield and extra lances.

“Unless the Duke of Lys-Tyras is hiding a significant portion of his force somewhere, this will be a very short and one-sided affair.”

“One-sided indeed, one would have imagined the good duke would have mustered a greater part of his warhost than this,” the diarkhon scoffed, seemingly amused at the notion of malakiai being able to put up any sort of spirited fight or concocting any sort of stratagem to counter the eulaoi host.

Valiodoros, son of Xyphodoros, was very large for a helikios, passing eight feet tall, and he filled out his armour to the point where the rings of his mail hauberk was taut against his under-tunica. True to the name of his domain, his theostali plate armour was tinged a deep green, and was fashioned to look like it was made up of hundreds of wolfhawk feathers, his armet helmet like the head of the same animal with rapturous wings spreading back and out from the sides. Tied to all three of his belts was the sheath of the large godforge sword which had been his family’s heirloom ever since the Firstborn had trod on the sacred soil of Hierias. Where other knights these days showed their strength with maces, lances, or poleaxes, Diarkhon Valiodoros heralded to the old ways, the ways of war from long before King Heliander the Crosser had made his Great Landing and re-forged the ways that the Eulaoi had wrought for untold centuries, and therefore he chose the straight blade as his main weapon. But these days the greater part of the royal force was made up of lowly astoi phalangites and archers, and the less said about the inclusion of the thyfilai, ever the better, and the arestoi and arestratoi had allowed the sacred blade to become commonplace and secondary weapons, adopting cruder instruments of war. No, Valiodoros could still remember the days when the monarchs of Hierias led their armies composed of nothing but arestratoi, and they had conquered all the lands from the extremes of Chor-Hieras to the end of Las-Anthelma and all the lands of the Thychora.

“The phalanxes are in position, Your Grace.”

“What?”

“My apologies, I said, the phalanxes are…”

“I heard you the first time, Selymakhos.”

Selymakhos, sometimes called Brightblade in mocking derision behind his back, bit his tongue and did not reply. The steady trickle of knights and their mounted lancies up to the knoll where Diarkhon Valiodoros had placed his great banner was thinning out, and the arestratoi chosen at the start of the campaign to be First Lances were organising the hundreds of mounted warriors into wedge formations. Selymakhos, like most of the mounted host around him, wore his own colours and heraldry, and it was a most impressive sight, he had to admit. Flags and banners flew everywhere, the lance-poles held by squires and non-noble kantorforoi, and knights with their heraldic shields slung on their back or on their saddles created a spectacle of colours and figures. He judged there might be as many as three-thousand men-at-arms and about the same number of lances all told on the knoll, most of them half-hidden by the low slope away from the no doubt prying eyes of the Men on the field opposite.

Erytharion came up to him on his own charger, Brasas, and handed Selymakhos his true-lance and Selymakhos accepted it from his aïon with a smile. His shining white theostali gauntlet closed around the handle of the lance, its spell-reinforced aster-wood painted ivory white and his mauve pennant flapped lazily in the mild breeze, just barely stretching out enough to show his family’s crest, a golden panther passant. Selymakhos’ armour was less ornate than what was expected given his noble birth and rank of aïr, the only major ornamentation was the winged moon of Seldonia carved into his cuirass over the chest, jutting out slightly at an angle to deflect blows. Instead of mail of rings under his tight-fitting plates, he wore a very long hauberk of steel salmon-scale which reached his greaves. In his belts he wore the heirloom weapons of his family, four, thin-blade enchanted stingswords, and an arming sword as insurance. His grey eyes squinted a little in annoyance when he ran his one free hand over the swords’ sheaths to insure they were fastened properly, reminded of why many of the more pompous of eulaoi warrior society called him “Brightblade”; stingswords were a weapon born of battlefield necessity, there were no duels and no honour to be won with instruments of war that was wrought to pierce the most vulnerable parts of an enemy’s armour when they were caught unawares. It mattered not that these were enchanted by the Magos Ironsinger of Veilhammer from Yal-Kyvala, they were still unseemly in the eyes of the arestratoi. He put his helmet on to hide his expression, a high-crested apex helmet with three silvery plumes of faeriedron hair and a facemask visor resembling the stern visage of Great Father Archeon. It helped focus his thoughts for battle, but he did not lower the visor for obvious reasons.

“Are you of a mind joining the va’ward, Selymakhos?” the Diarkhon asked over his pauldron in a tone that made it sound like he did not care what answer the junior knight gave in reply, so Selymakos held his tongue. Instead he turned to his squire Erytharion.

“Did you see the tents off properly? Have you informed Klothon and Menithos about their duties once the glory is joined?”

The squire, as brightly red-headed as his name suggested, nodded firmly, the steel rings of his aventail clattering on his cuirass. The squire’s armour was white plate, unadorned but for fluting on his cuirass, pauldrons and vambrace; he denoted his affiliation to Selymakhos’ house by way of wearing his knight’s heraldic charge on a halfcape that he wore over his lance arm.

“Klothon has been told to join the reserve wing as soon as he is dressed and fitted out, and Menithos to second him as squire. The servants have all been instructed to assist with carrying arrows to the archery lines, and then act as stretcher bearers when the melee ensues. Nylthakion has been put in charge of the servants and the camp guard for a hundred paces of the camp perimeter, but I very much doubt that will be needed, Kyr.”

Selymakhos nodded, satisfied that his orders had been transmitted and hopefully understood and would be carried out. His mind would be too occupied to think of what his lancers and servants were doing half a mile to his rear once the charge was sounded. More and more nobles of prominence were coming up to the top of the knoll where the diarkhon stood, the presence of his banner seemingly attracting them like flies to honey. It was not long before Selymakhos was on bordering of being blockaded from access to the lord of the arm- ah, but he is not lord of the army, is he, Selymakhos thought with glee of the diarkhon’s irritation colouring his thoughts blue-yellow, he is merely lord of the left wing, the honour of the right is the prerogative of the Blood Prince.

“My lords,” he found himself saying out loud as another strateron and his immediate retinue threatened to block him completely out, “I am the Diarkhon’s aspilōn for this campaign, I would most appreciate access to His Grace.”

A few knights and nobles around him looked like they wanted to protest, but instead pulled back the reins of their chargers and allowed Selymakhos and Erytharion to lead Tekhneia and Brasas respectively through to return to Valiodoros’ side. Valiodoros for his part seemed to not have noticed Selymakhos’ absence and instead scratched the tip of one of his long and thin ears.

Stolen novel; please report.

“If this is all Men of this land can muster in defence of their home and hearth,” the Diarkhon said in a loud voice so he could be heard by all the nearby nobles, “then I pity what they would do if they faced the full might of Seldonian arms.”

He was answered by laughter and same-sounding comments on the warhost assembled on the field opposite. Selymakhos chose to remain silent. He had learned over the revolutions since his time as a podling that was often the keen mind’s soundest approach. He watched as more of the Mannish formations prepared, having chosen a long reverse slope to place their banners. The main strength of Lys-Tyras foot had amassed in a chequerboard of smaller blocks of infantry armed with spears and shields, but very unlike the synadoi of the eulaoi phalanxes, much smaller in number and much shorter spears. Like the Seldonians, the Kelgwayn –to use the name the Men had chosen for those of these lands– had placed their horse on the wings, but seeming to favour their right wing, opposing Diarkhon Valiodoros’ flank. A prudent move, Selymakhos mused, but it was an exercise in futility; their much smaller body of horse –literally and figuratively– would be pushed aside with ease. Which was why…

Selymakhos was interrupted in his musings as was Valiodoros interrupted in his boasting as a party of men-at-arms on white korseroi and dressed in red streamers loudly made their arrival known. No, I stand corrected; one of the men-at-arms is responsible for all the noise.

As if on the drill ground, affecting no care in the Sphere, Aliastheira simply rode up towards the Diarkhon’s banner, the horses of the other nobles and lancers instinctively giving the sacred mounts from Chor-Hieras room to pass through, their riders too stunned by the insolence to their stations to respond, though their thoughts immediately turned red-purple-green. Almost unnoticed, a trio adorned in light blues followed in their wake. The bright colours of thoughts made Valiodoros turn his head before the hissing and angry mutterings became loud enough for him to notice. The newcomers were still a few yards away, but they were practically within the circle of the diarkhon’s own retinue, and he looked them over two or three times. His eyes fixed on the white dragon on field sanguine, and a loud laugh escaped his lips.

“Tell me, dragon knight,” he said as he turned his warhorse around to face the lead knight, the one with the long white-blonde hair, “are my eyes growing poor having seen so many revolutions, or have dragons shrunk in size since I last espied them?”

That drew a lot of laughs and chuckles from the nobles within earshot. The dragon knight Aliastheira simply drew back her reins a bit, her seemingly fixed half-smile never even wavering.

“It would seem, Your Grace, that both your eyes and your mind have become cloudy with time if you mistake a warhorse for a dragon. Every podling knows dragons are hard to stir to war these days, and they are fickle about the company they keep around them. A glory like this, sadly, is underneath their stature and dignity.”

Many around them drew in their breaths, and the thoughts of the diarkhon turned almost instantly red-purpure-midnight. It was all Selymakhos could manage to suppress his smile and the colours of his own thoughts.

“Your order,” replied Valiodoros through gritted teeth, “and its high station and honour, precludes me from cutting you down where you stand, dragon knight. Yet I will have your name and rank so that I can make formal complaints to His Grace the High King.”

She did the same impressive bow in her seat she had performed earlier.

“Aïkan Aliastheira Drakesblood, First Sword to Lady Stratodōra of the Order of the Ivory Dragon, at your service Your Grace. I carry with me the best wishes of Our Sacred Lady, and her sincere hope that great honour is achieved in this glory. Great portents sent by the Spyregoddess Ceithnir She-Of-Fire-and-Wings, have been seen and felt by the Scalewhisperers of our order, promising the deeds of heroes and chosen on this day.”

“Please spare me the bluster and ramblings of half-mad truthmancers, if I desired that, I would simply stroll into camp and toss a hepth-silver to any old drunkard.”

The squires in Aliastheira’s retinue bristled visibly at the insult, but their leader let it wash over her, thoughts as white as her hair with a tinge of maroon.

“Well, what the gods decide is scarcely up to us, is it now.”

“And who’s the ones in the rear? Sold-lances you picked up along the road-of-war?” Baliophoros, the diarkhon’s signōforos asked, nodding in the direction of Selenike’s party who had up until now remained completely still, their thoughts grey-green-salmon. Valiodoros grunted.

“Curse mine eyes, who has dressed a barely-weaned waif in plate and put her on a warhorse? By whose loins’ efforts are you sprung from then, little war-pup?”

Selenike sent a quick prayer of thanks to Selenaīs, Kythia, or any other god who cared to listen, that she had already donned her cap and coif so no one could see her long pink ears at that moment. It took all of her emotional energy to suppress the thought colours as she tried to sit straight in her saddle.

“Your Grace, I am Aïs Selenike Startears, daughter of Antyakhos of House Starborn, of the first familial line, and I will not stand my noble father and mother addressed in such a manner.”

She hoped that she at least sounded dignified and not merely a youth’s attempt at putting on airs. She even managed to put a little purpure in her thoughts. Ghost stamped the grassy ground a few times and nodded his armoured head a few times in sympathy with his rider.

Valiodoros looked her up and down a few times, actually taking care to look properly now. And scoffed. But with a smile.

“So you are, Kyra. How you got your title so young I can but speculate. But would you not find a more suitable place among the Purplemanes, under the Prince’s signōn, rather than with the main host of horse? I have heard he likes to collect young and pure things such as your noble self and the dragon knight here to his royal banner.”

The laughter among the knights and nobles was open and raucous this time, thoughts coloured mirth-hurting.

“Aye,” Strateron Vourneous laughed, using one armoured gauntlet to hide his wide smile in a faux-courteous manner, “you are just as like to find your way into court riding with the Purplemanes. Or stand, I should say, as the Blood Prince is said to have never lowered a lance.”

“Oh, but he sits the saddle so well,” Aïr Iakthalion Gildthistle quipped on, “and he wears his splendid armour like any fine knight. Shame that is all he does, and he never graces anyone, be they courtier, arestratos, archer, thresker or courtesan with the honour of showing his face. He always hides his eyes and thoughts behind that silver archlekin-masque of his. And who said anything about lowering his lance, with that many fair and comely maids and parthenes in his Purplemane retinue, he must be raising his lance well and often.”

Selenike’s thoughts were screaming pink-crimson now, as was Lyssa’s and Rhylin’s as the cruel laughter surrounded them. Even Aliastheira’s white was taking on a tinge of salmon, but unlike Selenike, she was not showing any physical reaction to the cruel mockery. There were only a few surrounding them whose thoughts were not notably coloured cruel. In fact, as Selenike fought with all her emotional energy to ride this storm of thoughts, she found one who burned a fierce crimson-midnight, and she looked right up to a knight stood just by the mocking diarkhon. Her lilac eyes found his grey ones directly despite the fifteen or so yards separating them.

He rode a dark grey charger of Nilethos origins, adorned with a mauve caparison and plates of burnished steel on the flanks, neck and a chamfron shaped like the snarling head of a panther. His armour was mostly white theostali plate, but for a chiselled winged Seldonian moon on the concave of the cuirass and couters in pauldrons shaped in the same wing-shape. The only decoration was on his truelance’s banner and the mask-visor of his plumed apex helmet. The face inside the helmet was not old at all for a Helikios, no more than twenty revolutions more than Selenike herself, and his face was slightly less triangular than was normal for a eulaion, but with the same high cheekbones and long nose. A single lock of brown-blonde hair had managed to escape the knight’s cap and coif and hung unrestricted just over his right temple. She stared longer than was polite in any sort of social setting, before she hurriedly nodded her silent thanks to the knight. Suddenly flustered, the knight adjusted a strap on one of his stingswords’ sheaths.

The single silvery blast of a trumpet could be heard in the distance, its call picked up and repeated down the line of the gathered eulaoi warhost.

“Ah, we will have to dispense with the merriment until after the glory has been won,” Diarkhon Valiodoros said in a disappointed tone that betrayed –without needing to read his thought colours– that he could have gone on for a lot longer. He straightened in his saddle and looked around him.

“What are you all still here for? Find your places in the formation and prepare for the sound to call the beginning of battle. I wish you good luck in this glory, and hope you earn great honours and rekindlings.”

As the nobles and their retinues started to move away to take up position at the vans of the great wedges of men-at-arms and kantorforoi that had been formed, he pointed a great gauntleted finger at Selymakhos.

“You, Brightblade, find a spot in the va’ward for the warmaidens here. And find a spot for yourself there as well, I will have no immediate use for you anyway. Your services as an aspilōn is wholly unwelcome on such a great day for honours.”

With rude dismissal and a wave, Selymakhos’ thoughts became night-grey and jade. All of my father’s ploys and offerings, for naught? For the “honour” of witnessing the Diarkhon’s blustering and rudeness? He stood crestfallen for a few moments, the realisation of the loss of his house’s honour rooting him to the ground.

“Mes’re Kyr?” a mellow voice brought him back to the here and now, and he looked into Selenike’s eyes, now only a couple yards away.

“I beg forgiveness, Mam’zel,” he managed to produce after a moment to gather and discolour his thoughts, “if you and Mam’zel Drakesblood would follow me, I have been assured a spot in the main va’ward wedge of lances.”

The trumpets sounded their signal to make ready again as Selymakhos, son of Nikomakhos of House Goldtharion, led Selenike Startears of House Starborn and Aliastheira Drakesblood of House Drakekin to take up places for the first battle of their lives. In times to come men, elves, and other races would tell stories and sing songs of this moment and this day, and learned scholars would note it as a defining date in the histories of the Hollow Sphere. And Gods and Goddesses smiled as they wove their threads and prepared schemes within schemes.