[…] For Duke Iustin had expected the war-march, and had secured the passes into the country by posting garrisons and watches, digging ditches, and felling trees. After undertaking this, he set up position at a place called Vithenphele with an army amounting to eighteen thousand, having predicted that the invading elves would take that direction; which turned out correct. This field lies betwixt two hill ranges, named respectively Ormanda and Kalmanda, and the way to Altebeque follows the course of the river Lesser Tyras, the bridges across which Iustin had either fortified with strong guard or taken down. The napes of the closer hills Iustin also had strengthened by lines of fortification, consisting of ditches and palisades. […] On mustering his host at Vithenphele, he placed on the level ground in the centre his shield-bearing foot commanded by his brother Tancred along with the balance of the skirmishers; the knights and horse he himself led from the right flank, leaving the left to Komte Leidrad of Eiklaven with the mustering from certain lands about Fal-Tyras, a total of two thousand foot behind ditches. A further thousand had been left as guards at diverse fords and crossings.
[…] When Evkrateon arrived, he saw at once the strength of the position of the Kelgwayns, and the skill which Duke Iustin had selected the divers parts of his host to occupy the points of vantage, so that the whole aspect of the position was like that of skilled soldiers drawn up ready for a charge. For no preparation for attack or defence had been omitted; but everything was in order, either for offering battle or for holding an almost unassailable position.
History of the Old Continent in the Third Age. Book XXV.19-25.
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“By Laitha, what brave fools these malakiai are to have chosen to actually make a stand. Makes you nearly want to admire their courage.”
Kelpharon rested his long pike in the crook of his shield-arm while grabbing a drink from his skin. He let the strongwine flow down his throat and ignored the dirty look he received from the phalangite to his right, who could definitively smell the sharp alcohol. Kelpharon, son of Kataleon, did not particularly care about his shield-brother’s opinion on drinking on the dawn of battle; Kelpharon had no intention of fighting anyone while sober especially since he was placed in the first rank at the very edge of the synados. A First Shield passed by, inspecting the ranks of the synados, and Kelpharon hurriedly resumed rest position, both gloved hands on the pike, with his blood-red shield hanging in front of his scale armour torso by a neck-strap. Once the line officer had passed he resumed a more relaxed posture.
“Any more of that to share with thirsty kin?” A voice from outside the tight formation of heavy eulaoi infantry asked, and Kelpharon had to turn his head awkwardly to the side in order for the rear of his helmet to clear his high neck collar. A thymios archer was looking at him in askance, a slight smile on his face. Like most of his kind, he was dark-haired and slightly shorter than the pale-haired helikios. Kelpharon and his ears were shorter, and he was armed with a longbow and dressed in a linen cuirass painted green-grey. His Nilethos-style helmet had long chin guards, his over-cloak covered his shoulders and though his hands were bare, his wrists were protected by leather bracers to guard against an errant bowstring threatening to flay his skin. Against Kelpharon’s linen armour inlaid with steel scales, steel greaves, gauntlets and helmet plus his longleaf embossed shield, the archer looked practically unprotected. Realising he had been looking the archer up and down for longer than was courteous, Kelpharon unhooked his drinking skin from his belt and tossed to the archer who accepted it deftly. He unscrewed the cork with his long, sharp teeth and held it out towards Kelpharon.
“Your health, Mes’re, may you find honour on this day of glory.”
He took a long draught of the potent drink and screwed the cork back into place, before handing it back to the phalangite with an appreciative nod, but Kelpharon held up a gauntlet in an arresting motion.
“Keep it, friend,” he said with a smile of his own before patting a second skin in his belt. “I always keep a second spare, and you might grow thirsty again ere long. It seems to me that the knights and nobles are eager for a turn before the foot are allowed vanward.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“I am grateful, my pike-armed friend,” the archer said and unstoppered the skin again.
“My name is Typhakos, son of Etamakhos, Second Stave of the noble Stringsingers. May I have your name, generous friend?”
Kelpharon smiled, amused at the civility of a thymios who just happened by, and growing restless by the waiting the phalanx were having to endure.
“Kelpharon, son of Kataleon, from the Tolarchate of Sankytheia. Well, from a small hamlet by the ocean in that particular Tolarchate.”
The silvery trumpets blew for the knights and lancers to form up, and Typhakos sniffed the air.
“A fine day, but there will be rain later. I hope you and your heavy kindred are up for getting your boots wet. Heavy infantry don’t do so well when the ground becomes mush.”
“Better than the knights on their mounts,” Kelpharon countered, “and my boots are plenty wet already, we had to cross several streams on our way to our placement. Just leave the malakiai foot to us, and pluck a few Mannish knights so they don’t bother our flanks. It is really hard to change formation when you’re fighting shoulder to shoulder like us.”
For emphasis Kelpharon bumped the shoulder of the phalangite to his right, who gave him a small shove in return. Typhakos smiled that long-fanged smile of his again.
“How did you end up in the phalanx, son of Kataleon? Were there no trade for you back home in your hamlet?”
Kelpharon scoffed.
“The same old story. Third son, first will inherit the farmstead, the second the boat, and my sisters married off to artisan families in Tol-Sankytheia or Tol-Vaalethos. What else was there but to walk to Tol-Antioc and offer my arms to wield pike and shield for the Blood Prince?”
“Your father is close to finishing his Journey then, since you talk of inheritance?” Typhakos made note of the purple feather in Kelpharon’s helmet, but did not comment on it. The phalangite nodded.
“My father and mother were with the Second Great Landing, and came with the fleet of King Heliander the Crosser, having left family behind in Helidonia. They have cultivated our lands for nearly four-hundred revolutions, and my sire thinks the Gods’ have deemed his Journey to be almost over. He has never looked for honour on the field, and seems to have found his Inner Peace.”
“Well, my sire found his Peace a while ago,” Typhakos said with a sniff, taking another drink, “I have only known the woodlands of Seldonia after he passed into the Realms of the Gods, and that grew tiring. Much more interesting to join the King’s army and win honour, don’t you think?”
“Tell me, are you always this talkative before battle is joined?” Kelpharon had intended the comment to be a jibe, but the archer looked suddenly very seriously over at the massed ranks of malakiai on the low hills way ahead of them.
“This will be my first battle, son of Kataleon, and I don’t know how I will perform in the eyes of the gods and the nobles.”
Kelpharon actually laughed at that. Typhakos looked at him, a somewhat hurt expression on his face.
“Have no fear, son of Etamakhos, malakiai are not the greatest of fighters and their chief strength lies in their numbers. You archers have a much easier time of it than we in the phalanx; you get to sit back and loose dark shafts at the enemy while we have to look them in the eye. As I said, leave the Mannish foot to us and see to it that their knights do not bother our flanks.”
“Have you fought in many engagements, Kelpharon?” The brazen trumpets of the infantry were sounding now, and Typhakos was testing the string of his bow. Kelpharon shook off a gauntlet and tied the chin guards together, reducing his vision but protecting his face.
“Third proper battle for me, there’s been a few more that I would hardly call ‘engagements’.
The Tall Helms for each synados stepped out a few paces from the formations, trailed by the standard-bearers, drummers and buglers.
“The phalanx will prepare to advance!” The brazen trumpets sounded again.
“Find me after the battle,” Kelpharon shouted over his shoulder as Typhakos started to move off to find his spot in the archer lines, “and tell me of your glories, and then you can repay me for the drink.”
The archer’s response was drowned out by the third and last blasts of trumpets, and the phalangites stiffened into ready position, pikes held vertically and shields in front. They shuffled their lines and ranks so they stood very nearly shoulder to shoulder.
“Battle positions!” The standards were hefted up and down vertically. As with one voice, thousands of phalangites shouted the battle cry of Seldonia, and fourteen thousand pikes were lowered or hefted. Each synados looked like a forest of steel-tipped reeds, nearly blotting out the phalangites underneath. The Orb’s rays glinted off the thousands of polished helmets and the long blades of the pikes, as if the entire mass of elves was like one enormous mirror.