War. They spoke of it often in songs and old tales. Songs to prepare and rally men, perhaps catch their interest in it and cast more warriors from the commons. It was a wild, hot thing, but all Tyr felt was a chill. True and total war was not a thing meant for man. Only monsters, the real ones who hid beyond the mist in waiting. It was a thing that varied wildly and was near impossible to plan for. No song could paint a proper picture of all that it was. No massive hosts slamming into one another, fair and even. That was just the show. Tyr was not confident in his talent for anything, but he had a fine enough mind for strategy, at least on a field of battle. Since the day he was born, it'd been drilled into him, and he remembered these lessons, some of the few he'd been interested in learning. To divide and conquer, to beguile and trick with no regard to personal honor, for the lives of 'his' men and people were worth more than that of any foe, that was the Harani way. To win, at any cost, and to grind the enemy to dust until there was no chance of them rising again. Haran didn't make a habit of signing agreements of ceasefire. All those save one that they'd ever warred with did not exist anymore. Simple as that.
Only Varia remained as an exception to this rule, but nobody would ever consider them the victor in that bygone age. The first empire had tempted the mountain tribes in those days, and died in their millions just to lose land in exchange.
But these men were not Harani, they didn't have the iron in them. They didn't view the taldarim mountain range as a challenge to be conquered, they were farmers and shepherds.
Massed infantry was a monolithic error in judgment in the modern era. Wars were won by small elite teams and squads, any strategists watching this farce would be spitting blood, insisting that those who'd do such a thing were fools. Rafael certainly had, but it didn't matter. That was the idea, in any case, act a drunken fool until well within reach of the enemies throat. Bait them, hook them, and grind them to bone and dust. Beat them so badly that the few survivors not left for the crows feast would serve as walking scripture. Thou shalt not incur my wrath. Those who do shall will bear witness to a desolation of everything sacred until their minds could scarcely form a thought without his face at the foremost of their memory.
His hand-print on every page of the book they called life, from birth to death. A long shadow, so that they might remember their grave mistake. These were thoughtless, empty things, but he didn't need to allow any to live, which was a benefit in and of itself.
“First rank!” Tiber shouted, his voice well used to the training yards, carrying easily above all the rattling armor and nervous whispering. Most of these men were not warriors. Tyr knew that they were brave, though, if there weren't, they wouldn't have followed them inside this damned gate. But when the moment came, they'd most assuredly panic and run.
Tyr had never fought in war before. Nothing even remotely close, but Tiber knew best. Thus, since he'd been given more face than his status would typically allow for, he allowed those of experience lead the army, Tyr was just here because Rafael believed him a primus, a standard of some kind. The ranks split, the first fell to one knee, resting their pikes on the ground and leaving enough room for another man to walk between them. All the way back down the line.
“Second rank!” And so on, and so forth. Drawing lines and about facing, while the archers jogged down the aisle formed between ranks, arraying themselves before the stone spikes jutting from the ground.
They had the high ground, Gerald insisted the enemy could not approach from behind due to interference in the 'rift wall' around the astral aperture. It made it easier, only one direction they could come from. Hard, rocky ground, treacherous, made jagged by geomancers and what physical barriers they could raise. It was fortunate enough, this setting piece of theirs. The city officials, those still alive at least, were too cautious to drop the barrier to allow for the transit of cavalry through the city. If this were flat terrain, they would be really and truly destined for the grave. Even now, he could see the pikes held by the mid and rear ranks shaking precariously in the wind. Weak grips. These were normal men, farmers and shepherds, fathers and sons... Forced by conscription into an alien world and told simply to 'hold their ground'.
“Daito.”
“Yo.” His mentor stood beside him, as relaxed and easy going as ever. There was a frown on his lips, though. Daito liked to fight, but he didn't like all the killing. There was no point to this, it was just bad luck. A slaughter, no matter which side was right or which side won. He didn't feel the romance that some of the adventurers did. Unlike the common soldiery, the adventurers were frothing at the lips, already dreaming of the haul only they could claim.
“Do you think you could help them? With an enchantment or something.” Tyr asked, feeling some anxiety, a foreboding that they'd break into a rout at any moment. A wasted trip, if anything was of value to him it was 'time'. Whether the city beyond fell or not was... Irrelevant, but he didn't want to bear witness to a mass slaughter. These people did not deserve to die for nothing, a mans death should have whatever meaning they'd earned through honest effort.
Daito shook his head. “Even if I could project an array that big, which I don't think I couldn't... I can't do it while I'm holding the interference ward. It's one or the other.”
“Hmm.” Tyr's hands were shaking, he felt sick to his stomach and he didn't know why. Fights always excited him, but this. It was like... There was a black cancer clutching at his heart, intent on swallowing it by any means necessary. It sat on the tongue and back of the throat, half in bloody anticipation and other part something akin to honest fear.
“You're afraid.” Daito said. “This is understandable. Be afraid. Fear will save you when all else fails. It is not something to be ashamed of, it is an instinct at the heart of all men, that which has made us something greater. As with any man, know when to surrender to it – and you will thrive. There are few emotions I'd prize as more worthy than fear, to feel it is to be human.”
“I don't think I'm the one that's afraid.” Tyr scowled. It was something else. It wasn't that he didn't feel fear, perhaps not the fear of a normal man but he knew what it felt like. This was different, alien to him, like he was feeling the emotions of somebody else.
“Oh?” Daito raised an eyebrow, looking sidelong at Tyr. He could hold this array indefinitely, but he couldn't do much else. Not even move. This was warfare adapted to counter mages. Or, at least, one of the many methods. An indistinct bubble around the army that would intercept and hopefully destroy or deflect any long range mana combustion. He hadn't felt any mages just yet, but in a world of magic it was important to be ready for the eventuality, especially with no war mages supplementing their infantry. “Could've fooled me with those clammy hands of yours. Admitting fear and accepting what many call this great weakness is perhaps the most important step on the path of progression. All the power in the world won't save you from a lack of discipline, for all of their might – countless users of magic have learned that the hard way.”
“I don't think it's me.” Tyr asserted. “I think it's them.”
“Huh?”
“I think... I think I can feel their fear.” There were so many people. Tyr had never stood inside of an army before. The closest he'd ever been was on the road back to Haran, and they were legion men – with no reason to feel anything in particular facing down a group of fifty odd men to their thousands. Here in this place... “Abe said that astral spaces magnify emotions to the point that they can become ripples in reality. Do you think... Like... Is their fear contagious?”
“It's very possible that you're an empath.” Daito frowned. “I am not. I sense intent as practically anyone with the training can, but I feel nothing specific from all these people so close together. Except for the smell, it's a bit much to be honest. Several have soiled themselves already.”
“Does it have a more practical use?” Tyr asked, squinting. He'd suspected, even if he'd not been told before that he was an empath, it was a rare ability but not unheard of. Like Tythas' predisposition for darkness magic, few knew how or why, but it did exist as an adeptcy. He was quite sure that it didn't exist on such a large scale, though, the empath was the vocation for hand readers and astral mages – not often so passive.
“If you want to be sick and ill just before the battle lines become one, sure. For you, I've no idea, you seem to pull tricks at random out of your rear with fair regularity.” Daito smiled. “How are your shamisen lessons coming along? Have you been practicing?”
“Most days.” Tyr nodded. “At least every other day. I've mastered most of the chords, its just the composition I'm having a problem with. I am not very good at reading music.”
“Play them a song.” Daito inclined his head toward the front lines. “Yeah, don't give me that face. That's exactly what I want you to do. A song of reflection diffuses. With so many people around, they'll be fine. I think.”
–
“...Play a song?” Tiber wiped the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief, offering it to Tyr who declined. This place was humid, hot and moist, but he felt none of that. Despite the burning temperatures, all he felt was cold. “Most knights would think of giving a speech. Maybe singing a national anthem or something along. But a song? On that instrument?”
“Yes.” Tyr replied. He expected Tiber to laugh at him, maybe refuse to entertain the idea outright. It did, after all, sound ridiculous. He wasn't the commander, or possessive of anything beyond assumed authority, but Tyr respected him a great deal and always had. Instead, he shrugged.
“Couldn't hurt.” Tiber spoke softly. “As it stands, these men are ready to break formation any moment. Not an ounce of steel in this lot. If I had ten thousand Harani men... Hell, I'd do better and ask for a thousand Milanese arbalests and twice that number of Amatean Grayshields. That'd do it.”
–
Farron walked to and fro among the battle lines. He'd been given a ring to transit the barrels of water, both to cool and slake thirst. A bonafide dimensional ring, worth more than his entire village, probably. He was too young to join the military proper, but they needed camp servants, and he needed to eat. After his village was wiped out and his grandfather killed, he had nowhere else to go. Instead of living like a penniless urchin, he'd figured this was the next best option.
Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
As he walked through the crowd of terrified men, he froze. Someone screamed, dropping their pike and letting it fall forward to clunk heavily against the helm of the man ahead who turned about and slapped him about the mantle. But, eventually, they all saw why the man had let loose such an exclamation. A monster had appeared. A hulking golem of glassy blue metal, jagged and crystalline, near ten feet tall at the crown.
“What in the name of Aphrosia's fat juicy tits is that!?”
Bizarrely, atop the golem climbed a man. He was tall, wide in the shoulders and athletic in the waist. Not bulky, but it was easy to tell that he'd worked for the body he possessed. Clad in vicious armor of a silver so light it was near white. A wicked and violent appearance with a single horn jutting from the forehead of the helmet, like that of the woolly rhinos in the northern lowlands that could feed an entire village for weeks or months off one kill. An adventurer, and that was easy to tell, calming them almost immediately. The men turning to mock those among them who had cried out in fright, chuckling – unwilling to admit their own fault or fear.
The man standing over them removed his helmet, revealing long, snow white hair. Twinkling in the daylight, an unnatural sort of white that went beyond old men, and on such a young mans face. Farron was not so far from the front lines and could see him perfectly. He looked tired, though he'd cleaned himself up as much as possible at Tiber's behest. To the common folk, he appeared a prince, angelic and righteous, everything about him just seemed so... Right.. The right blend of feminine civility with a masculine set to his eyes, the most handsome man most of them had ever seen, even more so than Primus Alexandros. Violent, stormy blue, it was odd that given the distance they could see those eyes as if they were standing in front of him. The white sun above caught his face at the perfect angle to reveal inhumanly perfect skin. A thin layer of stubble patterning a strong jaw, wicked yet regal, sharp yet soft, a face full of contradictions.
“Tyr...?” Farron stared. He'd known that Tyr, the man who'd saved his now deceased grandfather, was an adventurer, but he'd fancied him a rascal. A rogue and a scoundrel. Now, he looked like an angel. Unrealistically beautiful and just... Too perfect. Too symmetrical in the face to be attractive necessarily, like they were all staring at something painted by an artist rather than a living thing. Illuminated by the bright sun, dry and uniform of complexion unlike all those men gasping and sweating through the furs they'd worn to defend against the winter chill just on the other side of the gate.
“You are afraid.” The man spoke evenly, his voice booming, effortlessly carried over the field. Those directly facing him did not feel pain in the ears because of it, as if it was heard at the same volume for every individual in their ragged army. “I am afraid too.” He smiled at them. Such a soft an endearing smile, full of love and care and equity. Looking at them, ensuring that each and every man felt like they'd been friends for countless years. “Not of them, though.” He pointed toward the fog and they followed his finger as if it were an explicit command.
The writhing shadows concealing what stood beyond the reach of their sight. That which they all feared the most. What all men feared. The unknown. That great abyss that lie beyond life, gobbling you up in your final moments.
“I am afraid for our friends.” The angel said. “For our families. Our farms and our children. I'm afraid to know that I might fail. To fall before those wretches who yearn to run amok and beyond this place and ruin everything that I love. That I'm not enough to stop them. I am afraid that I might not have the strength to shield them from the foe we are about to face. But the enemy?” He laughed then, not in mockery but genuine joy – a warm and infectious exclamation of mirth, arms spread wide as if to embrace all observers. “No monster can defeat the combined might of men. I see many of you of other races, but we are one today and every day beyond – for there will be many. Together, we are mighty. We've carved out the greatest kingdoms in history and are the most beloved by the gods. I see telurian among us. What beast could dare to claim a kingdom as radiant and so close to reason as yours? What monster can equal the passion and craftsmanship of the dwarves? What sorcery born creature could equal the might and ferocity of the beastkin or the orcs among you?”
They were just a peasant army, but they began to settle. Clutching their pikes tighter, unable to look away from the majestic sight of that man atop the golem. The words might not be perfect, but it wasn't about what he was saying. Something about the way that he stood, bathed in the bright light coming from above. And they could not help but feel what he was feeling. Fear, definitely. Anxiety? Most certainly. But confidence, absolute certainty that they needed to be here, in this moment.
“You are all heroes, today. Farmer, banker, shepherd, whatever your vocation may be. All that matters in your life is that you are here, and know the gods are watching you. Watching all of us. And they love us for our valor to stand and fight when any man of reason would turn away. To stop this, here and now. No greater charge has ever been thrust upon us, my brothers and sisters! I feel it. But I know what would happen should we not stand bulwark against this tide. Do you feel the doom on you?”
They gulped. He had them in the palm of his hand. Tiber frowned, even he felt swept away, and Tyr wasn't exactly eloquent with his words. Yet, for some reason, Tiber doubted he'd ever seen anyone more charismatic than this, in all his years, this kind of magic was forbidden. But he didn't feel any magic, either...
Many nodded. Some stamped their boots in the dirt while others tried to contain choking sobs.
“Do you have children?” The angel asked. So far away and yet they'd swear he'd stood and rested his hand on their shoulder if they'd ever been told to provide recollection of the event. They knew not his name, only that he was. “Parents? Friends? Even for the gods your families call patron, these people, things and places that define your life and gives it meaning. Shout if you love them.”
“HAAAAA!”
"SHOUT IF YOU'D DIE FOR THEM!"
"HAAAAAAA!"
"SHOUT IT YOU'D DIE FOR ME!"
"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
“Today.” The angel said softly, his voice dripping with a head that filled their hearts and gave energy to their limbs. “We are all brothers. Look to the man on your left, and now your right. That man, or otherwise, is now kin. I want you to link arms and exchange names. Softly, so that others might hear their pairing.” And they did so. So rushed was their march west that few had done much more than congregate into cliques. Villagers who knew one another, but the units assembled had been formed so hastily that few knew the man at their right. But now they did. At least in passing. “As for me, I am Tyr. Tyr of House Faeron. Rightful heir primus to the throne of Haran. Exiled, though I was, and fairly too – I have come to your land to fight beside you when others refused. I do this... Because I love you. When your chalice is drained to its last drop, you might drink of mine. When your hands reach up for succor and relief, you might find it come from mine. Beneath the light of all that is sacred, I have come to stand at your side and call you my brother.”
“White wolf!” Someone cried. Another, too, and a dozen after. Then hundreds, and thousands of people were sharing in their excitement. Tyr was shocked, he'd assumed that they'd spit on him as soon as he revealed his identity as Tiber had insisted. Call him a bastard. Mutt. That's what Harani men might've done. He'd spoken as he thought he should, not how he felt. Forcing himself to project the rest. Instead, they were crying out in happy voices like he was some kind of hero.
Farron knew. Villages in the outer reaches were far spread, but they were a tight knit community. A man from Farstead could meet another from Lockesbridge and call him kin, a hundred miles away. They all struggled to eke out a living, but they loved their wild land away from the bustle of the city. Neighbors were kind to one another and quarrels were settled fairly and internally most times. A house might collapse or burn, and a community would come together to build another. Because it was expected. They needed one another.
Without this community, they'd be nothing.
Every village possessed a single tablet stone in the central hall or longhouse. Gifted to them generations ago by the government of the past. Gathering around them biweekly to share news from the far flung lands of the republic. But most of all, it was the adventurers. Few came to visit and aid them, and when they did – they rarely stayed long. The villagers would sit down and browse the various listings of the guilds, a pasttime of sorts to follow the happenings all around and share news. In this region of the country, one adventurer in particular was the crowds obvious favorite. Only appearing recently.
Tyr had looked at their coppers and silvers and waved them away, healing hundreds of men and women and children, technically for free. Thinking that he could not profit from the excursion as per guild rules. So out of touch with the peasantry was he that he likely wouldn't have accepted scraps like that at all. He was absurdly wealthy before, and was even more so now whether he knew it or not. But they did not see things the way that he did, they saw it as a blessing beyond that of the priest and scripture. A healer, protector, and light in the darkness that had come far from his homeland to soothe ills and throw back the monsters at their door.
He hadn't intended to give charity, but he had. And it was action that counted the most to the hard men and women of the frontier. If anything, his blunt coolness and refusal to accept anything more than a pittance of food was endearing, a kind of stubbornness they could relate to. They couldn't ask for more from him, he'd already given them everything.
The White Wolf. Asmon's Butcher. The One Eyed Bastard, himself. The man who had faced the army of horrors beneath the banner of a foreign nation and continued to fight. And there, before them, they didn't see the psychotic monster rumor would paint him.
All they saw was the silver angel, and he... Felt. That sort of faith that fuels things beyond men, making them strong.
Electric.
The pall that had fallen over these people was lifted. Their heavy moods dashed in the face of this revelation. Not all knew him, but the man to their right was now their brother. A massive webbed chain of newly forged kinship, because the son of a primus had said it was so. Those few who had not heard of him knew now. Girshan was at the right flank and began to hear stories of Tyr, who had allegedly sired a child with a 'dolphin'. Rafael, on the left, stared a man dead in the face as he waxed on about how this young man had trained a tribe of kobolds to speak and use mana cannons. He and his 'wife' leading them to victory in a great campaign against an undead army in Haran. While he was willing to accept their flight of fancy for the good of morale, this was preposterous.
Tyr played his song. The army silenced themselves, watching on as he perched cross-legged on Xavier's shoulder. The golem swaying back and forth to the tune of it, looking a bit comical all told. It was a violent song, a hard clashing of strings that brought them out of their manic high and steadied them. No more hands were shaking, no more pikes fell from loose grips. Caught under the presence of that steely melody.
All there was left to do, now...
Was to kill. Until there was nothing left that could threaten their peace.