He could sense the green-jade-red thought colours from across the field, and Eukration allowed a small smile to form underneath the lip of his gilded silver masque. Of his face, only his chin, his mouth, and his pale grey eyes were visible, the rest hidden behind a beautifully wrought masque that loosely mimicked the ones worn by the graceful history-dancers of the archlekins, the artistes who dedicated their whole existence to telling the great stories of the Firstborn. Eukration –not yet given a cognomen–, the Magoarkhon of Lower Seldonia, Anthypatos and Tolarch of Tol-Antioc, and Blood Prince to the Kingdom of Greater Seldonia, smiled as he tasted the unbridled envy and unmasked -ironic- disdain from his nominal war-lieutenant all the way on the left flank of the large Seldonian warhost.

“I wish Valiodoros would curtail his emotions somewhat,” a lilting female voice spoke up, “such an ancie- I mean venerable lord such as him is so attuned to the energies of Kratia simply by virtue of his age that he has a foot plunged into the Stream at all times. It is an annoyance for any spellsinger or mage in the vicinity.”

“I would tell him that,” Eukration said, his half-smile not abating one bit, and he shook his head, his long curly locks of auburn hair wafting freely, “but I am afeared he would simply burn a fierce maroon upon hearing it, accomplishing absolutely nothing. Please, back to the situation at hand, Laispheira. Antyakhos, hold down that end of the map, if you would not mind.”

The Prince leaned over the vellum roll stretched out over the low camp table that a page had brought forth, the theostali scales of his lamellar hauberk clinking as he rested his gauntleted hands on the table. Aïr Antyakhos of the Purplemanes took out his roundel dagger and stabbed it through the upper corner of the map, pinning it to the tabletop.

“That was ill done, Kyr,” Laispheria complained, leaning on her ebony-white staff, “that map is worth as much as a good horse, and took a considerable time to make. Do you know how many trips my scrying-hawks made to provide enough information to put onto a map?”

“I know I do not care,” the knight replied, crossing his arms over his chest cuirass with a metallic clatter, and Laispheria pouted in annoyance, and swung her head so that her long sand-pale braid moved from her left pauldron to resting over her right.

“Children, your attention is required,” Eukration chided mildly, “and Dekleon, put away that wineskin and come join us.”

A massive thymios walked up to the assembly of officers and mages surrounding the prince. Dekleon, son of Korleon, flashed the prince a huge smile as he with deliberate motions brought the half-full wineskin back up to his mouth and drained it in a series of enormous gulps. He held it up to let the last few drops fall into his mouth, then tossed it away and ran a steeled gauntlet through his massive black beard.

“As Your Grace commands,” Dekleon boomed while grinning. He was exceedingly tall and large for a thymios, who as a rule were generally shorter than most helikiai, standing at eight feet and some inches, with thighs almost the size of a man’s torso, and his arms were as thick as small trees. The armour smiths who had managed to fashion the steel plate the giant wore had to be masters of their craft, as its dimensions were skewed very differently from what the other knights and nobles in the loose circle around the Blood Prince wore. Dekleon eschewed wearing a helmet, instead letting his long, curled black hair lay loose over his shoulders, yet his large black beard was neatly trimmed. He planted the six feet aster-oak shaft of his long-axe in the grass and rested his hands on the axe head.

“You have my undivided attention, my Prince,” he said while smiling, “now regale us how we will accomplish a flawless victory here at…” Dekleon looked at the hills yonder and ran a gauntlet through his beard again. “What is this field called anyway?”

“If you all would direct your attention to this map,” Eukration said, his tone stern and commanding now, regal purple-and-silver colouring his thoughts. The nobles and knights of his retinue shuffled closer to the map laid out on the camp table. Eukration pointed a slim theostali-clad finger to the scribbles of ink on vellum.

“This field lies at the convergence of a tributary of Mother Tyras as it snakes down from the north here, and into the major stream of Daughter Tyras, which goes all the way from western Lyaronia in Lower Seldonia, and well into Lys-Tyras here in Kelgwyn, before splitting off into further smaller waterways. The local malikiai have no set name for this place, it is uninhabited, and the closest major settlement is this kyrgoussa which commands the only major bridge over Daughter Tyras within thirty miles.”

“My Prince,” a knight in shining theostali plate decorated with a very long purpure surcote worn over one shoulder, said while putting on his gauntlets, “the trumpets for mount up has sounded, should we not discuss the current battle before worrying what lies beyond the boundaries of the horizon?”

Eukration smiled again and he looked up at the knight.

“Patience, my good Pharanikos, we have a while yet. It is important all my captains and lieutenants know the stakes of the campaign, and know what lies beyond the next hill. The good Duke of Lys-Tyras will no doubt oblige us a few more moments of planning afore our lances cross. Now, Laispheira and her fellow spellsingers have sent numerous scrying-hawks over the river and the passes yonder, and as far as they can tell, the malaikai have either torn down the bridges leading over Daughter Tyras, or have placed strong guard at the crossings, like the aforementioned kyrgoussa.”

“How large of a fortification is it?” the knight called Pharanikos asked, looking at Laispheira. Laispheira, daughter of Kallinike, was clad in a salmon-scale hauberk, with a blue-tinged steel cuirass and large pauldrons shaped like upturned crescent moons, and a long set of pristine white robes that draped over most of her arms and legs. She had no helmet on her head, her braided blonde hair held in place by a thin golden circlet inlaid with a large blue jewel, a focus stone for Kratia that amplified her magical abilities. Her green eyes became partly obscured as she squinted in annoyance at the question from the knight –ignorance on his part.

“Beasts have but the most simple of understanding of constructs made by craftier hands,” she said, her tone more than a little overbearing, “my hawks told me it was a stone creation hewed by two-legs, but for most birds, size is hard to describe. ‘Smaller than a mountain’ they said, ‘bigger than a boulder’ they also said. Take from that what you will.”

“Very helpful,” Pharanikos, son of Makharion, replied with a scoff, “it could be a simple watchtower or a walled fortress.” Pharanikos was tall and thin, slightly taller and slightly thinner than was usual for a noble helikios, and his dark red hair was in the process of being covered by cap and coif, as his squire held Pharanikos’ crested armet helmet, the visor the shape of a griffon’s beak and a tail of horsehair dyed purple ran down the crest.

“Holdfast or bulwark, its ramparts shall fall before me,” Dekleon boasted loudly, the only response being the condescending glare of Laispheira finding a new target to bore into.

“I aim to find out just what we are up against,” the Prince interjected, making Dekleon settle down a bit, “but that means unfortunately to deny some of you the honour of finding rekindlings in this glory. I must apologise for this.”

“Bah!” the hairy giant in steel plate guffawed, “none of you younglings have a single tear in your eyes; do not be so hasty as to look to getting one.”

Dekleon lowered his voice a bit and his tone became serious.

“The Gods are good, make no mistake, as the Firstborn are by their grace passed through the Veil to return to the Hollow Sphere without fail. But do not ask the Gods how many revolutions it takes, or risk incurring their wrath. It can be a single full passing of seasons, or twenty winters. The Gods are good, but fickle.”

He lifted his immense axe and with gentler motions than thought possible by such a large eulaos, he tapped the upper edge of the blade to the skin just underneath his left eye. Four small drops were etched in dark blue on his skin.

“My first death was as a youngling before the Crossing, during riding practice. I broke my main spine, and the bastard of a healer who saw to me decided that it was a greater mercy to send me to my Gods, rather than to actually mend the injury. The second was fighting a dire lion in the wild woods of Gargathon. The beast mauled me to pieces, and when the Gods remade my body and mind, fourteen winters had passed, and there was a town where the beast’s forest had been. The third–”

“My dear Dekleon,” the Prince interrupted, holding a hand up in a placating gesture, “I would love to hear your stories from yesteryears and how you won your scars and tears, and I promise we will do so over a cask of strongwine in the camp tonight. But right now, we have a campaign and battle to address.”

The giant thymios harrumphed and almost petulantly scooted over to regard the map again. Many of the officers and knights hid their smiles and thought colours, not daring to risk incurring the wrath of mighty Dekleon. He was an oddity among the other highborn that surrounded the Prince, the so-called Purplemanes. They were all very young, largely untested knights and nobles, who had various decorations on their armour like capes, surcotes, feathers or crest plumes dyed purple to denote their affiliation. Their plates and scalemails were well-wrought, gleaming and pristine, only a few showing the wear and tear of having seen battle afore. Dekleon’s plate was simple white steel, completely utilitarian and bereft of any ostentatiousness like carved markings or special shapes. It was designed to deflect direct blows and lessen the impact of blunt ones, and was hammered and repaired in several places; his hauberk had missing rings and was polished with ash and oil to be smooth, but not shiny. Dekleon was a warrior, whereas the other Purplemanes only believed themselves to be so.

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“This encounter with the Duke’s forces is a foregone conclusion,” the Blood Prince continued, “our host outnumbers his horse three to one, and our foot are twice the number the malakiai have mustered. Our lances will shatter their men-at-arms and their foot will flee before our pikes, or fall to our arrows and hooves. But even if a tenth of this army makes it back to this kyrgoussa, they can frustrate our advance for weeks if no other crossing is found and carried. Attacking fortifications while simultaneously crossing a bridge is sure to cost us much too dear.”

“Our soldiery will return to us, Your Grace,” the knight Antyakhos said, but Eukration shook his head.

“You are not wrong, son of Agenaior, but as Dekleon just pointed out, while they will pass back through the Veil like all the Firstborn, we do not know when. A phalangite who falls today might return to the temple of their patron God tomorrow or three revolutions hence. Better to avoid the Passing in the first place.”

The fingers of his theostali gauntlet curled into a closed fist.

“My noble sire gave me honour of this flank of the advance into Fal-Tyras to prove my strategic acumen and my ability to command. I intend to prove that by losing as few eulaoi warriors as possible, whilst securing the flank of the main army’s thrust towards Altebeque and the Nape of Kormand for my father’s main force. Therefore, we need to seize this crossing before the retreating elements of the Duke’s force can reach it.”

“The malakiai have no doubt put a guard there already,” Pharanikos said, holding his helmet under his left arm, the free hand scratching his beardless chin.

“It will be a tough task to dislodge the defenders, even if there are only a few score of them, with a detached force.”

“Allow me, Your Grace,” Dekleon boomed, reinvigorated, “let me have a hundred picked knights and I will hasten there as soon as the battle joins, and have the portcullis raised to greet your welcome when you are done mopping up here.”

Eukration smiled mildly again, a smile which never seemed to reach his eyes.

“Alas, Dekleon, I need you here to command the saiphaforoi. The phalanxes are well-led by their own officers, but the men-at-arms who have chosen to fight on foot would only be commanded by one of their own.”

If the giant felt snubbed of potential glory, he did not show or voice it. Pharanikos and Antyakhos both stepped forward, as did five other nobles from among the assembled Purplemanes.

“Let me have the privilege, my prince,” Pharanikos said, and placed a gauntlet over his chest as he bowed. Antyakhos, son of Agenaior, dressed in pink-tinged plate with couterers and armour-joints shaped like ice-pansies, bowed as well, his long blonde ponytail falling over his left pauldron.

“I swear on the honour of my house,” he said in a reverent tone of voice, “I will carry the malakiai fortifications afore Your Grace has had chance to re-horse after the coming victory.”

Similar petitions were voiced by at least a dozen more knights and nobles, each of them from young and untested warriors, swearing by their ancestors or their patron gods and goddesses. Eukration looked them over, letting his gaze rest a bit on each one of them. Then he looked at Laispheira.

“Daughter of Kallinike, Chosen Acolyte of the Spear-Maiden, thou who hear the voice of She Who Clarions, whom amongst this noble band have noble Iokasta’s favour on this day? Whom would the Goddess of Strategy and Honourable War elect as her favoured champion in this endeavour?”

The Purplemanes and their squires all looked at Laispheira, excitement stirring and making their thought colours run excited blues and yellows. The mage in her turn squirmed slightly under the sudden attention of around a hundred excited and expectant nobles. Flags and standards flapped as mild blasts of wind bade them into motion. Horses neighed, restlessly scraped the grass and dirt with their hooves, and defecated. Laispheria gripped her white staff tightly and felt Kratia envelop her. Her senses disappeared, and returned, but wrong. She smelt the wind with her eyes, and saw the colours of thoughts with her lips. The only sounds she could taste were those made of metal and flesh.

Who art thou that approaches me this day? The voice was flanging, like ten voices with slightly different tonality interlaced and interposed on top of each other, but twisted and swam in every which direction.

Ah, a young magi of the Firstborn? Thou should’st be aware, thou are not the first nor the second, nor the last to prostrate afore me on this blood-red day.

Laispheira found herself standing in an immense hall, columns placed at regular intervals, and the floor was made of a massive mosaic. She looked around in wonder, taking it all in. There were swords and lances, maces and bows, shields and helmets proudly presented as trophies on the walls, and sconces holding torches glittering with bright white flames on the columns. Laispheira looked up, and realised there was no roof to the grand hall. The columns disappeared into a cloud-filled skyscape, impossibly blue and ivory. Her nose started to bleed.

Be calm, daughter of mine kin, all is as it should be. Yet, thou hast a query to posit?

“O Lady of Blades, O Heavenly Warrior Queen,” Laispheira heard her voice as something far in the distance, muffled like underwater, but she felt her lips move. “I approach, humbly seeking a reply I might offer my liege and master.”

Ask, child of mine kin.

“O Great Sword Mistress, whose blade never dulls and arm never tires, I stand with the host of the Blood Prince Eukration of Seldonia. In only scant moment’s time, we will do honourable battle with the mala- the Men of Kelgwyn. I humbly beseech thee as to whom amongst the host of the eulaoi has your divine favour on this day of red deeds.”

Ah, daughter of mine kin, a sensible query at the onset of battle and glory.

Laispheira’s nosebleed intensified.

Heed and harken, daughter of mine kin, there are many among the eulaoi host who have the favour of the divine adelphoi. She who is Veliadrys, She who is Lysta, He who is Sidvaa, He who is Sirkle, all have picked their own and marked them for great honour and great deeds. But be aware, daughter of mine kin, there is one who is marked for deeds that will eclipse all. She who is Ilmathaia has among your kin found an epilekteles, a Chosen Champion. I cannot tell if they will come to their full in this revolution or three-hundred hence. But be warned, o kin of mine kin, they are marked by the Queen of Alabaster and Purple Blood.

Laispheira felt her body being sapped of strength the longer the Great Queen of War spoke, each word feeling like the metaphysical weight of adding more and more heavy armour on the mage’s body.

“Please, O Great Lady of the Noble Spear, what would you have me do and say? Should I tell the Prince, or should I-”

Hush now, daughter of mine kin. Your mind’s temple grows weary. With this, I will leave you to return to the field afore ye, and the strife yet to be fought. Beware of the Chosen of the Queen of Bright Light, the White Teeth. They will find allies in the ones held up by the Throat of Cleansing Fyre, and She Who Is Never-Wrought. But look to your own now, there is a child of mine close to thee that will be the one thy seek. Look for the one that will sing with blood in their mouth, and smile all the while.

“Someone get a healer over here!”

Laispheira came to, looking right up at the skies above, clouds forming gentle wisps. She tasted copper in her mouth and brought a hand carefully up to her nose. She looked at her fingers. They came away clean.

“I am fine,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded completely normal when she expected to croak out the words. Powerful, armoured, hands grabbed her under the armpits of her cuirass and robes and lifted her up. Close to seventy pairs of eyes were focused on her, but she was only concerned with the one pair hidden behind a mask of silver.

“Did you see her?” Laispheira was annoyed the Blood Prince was able to speak without betraying his thought colours.

“I saw the Great Spear Maiden.”

“Did she have a name to give?” Prince Eukration folded his arms across his chest plate and Laispheira became suddenly aware of how effortlessly he moved in such heavy armour, despite having such a frail physique. And then the words of the Goddess came streaming back to her.

Beware of the Chosen of the Queen of Bright Light.

“Not a name as such,” she managed as her nose hurt, her fingers lost their senses, and she felt like throwing up.

“But I was told to look for the one that will sing with blood in their mouth, retaining their smile regardless.”

The Purplemane knights and officers looked at each other, many of them studying the others’ teeth, which made Laispheira’s thought colour turn mirthfully emerald-green. She smiled physically as well, the pain of her divine correspondence almost forgotten. A voice she had never heard before made her break out in a sudden sweat.

“Your Grace, I approach thee in the hope of being considered for the task of carrying this malakiai kyrgoussa.”

Laispheira found herself fallen to one knee, and she was unable to rise as the Blood Prince looked over her shoulder towards the female knight who had spoken. He flashed his enigmatic smile again, his silver mask shifting ever so slightly.

“I think you might suit this task just fine, young Kyra. Yet you will have to forego the opportunity to earn rekindlings and honour at this upcoming glory. What is your name, mamzel?”

Laispheira could feel the thought colours from the female knight behind her. She could feel the tight-fitting plate she wore, the scale-hauberk of brightly polished steel, the red-tinged fluted theostali cuirass, gauntlets, greaves, pauldrons, and the couters shaped like sea-dragons. Her thought colours tasted like copper. And smelled like salt. They were amethyst blue.

Kharaspeira, daughter of Lokaron, bowed before the Blood Prince of Seldonia, right gauntleted hand clasped over her two hearts on the left side of her cuirassed chest. Her long jet-black hair was tied into a practical ponytail, but as she looked up to her prince at his inquiry, she smiled. Her teeth were perfectly alabaster as she answered Prince Eukration.

“Your Grace, I am Aïs Kharaspeira, daughter of Lokaron, Strakomos to your noble father, the Astral King. I am known as the ‘Waterscourge’ by those who have felt the keen edge of my blade afore.”

Across the field, Selenike Startears felt a rush go through her body, feeling a salt-ice thought colour wafting in her direction.