The hilltop
Standing atop the hilltop, the reserves of the allied forces of Akelon and Alpen watched as the battle surged beneath them. The distant clang of swords and the cries of war barely reached them, muffled by the heavy sounds of the wind. Behind the soldiers, a ceremony was taking place.
"They brought their fire priestesses," Paulus, a seasoned soldier from Akelon, murmured. He turned, his eyes settling on the group of women gathered near the Alpenian troops. With their white robes billowing gently in the breeze, they gave off an otherworldly feel. "The Fire Sisters, they're called."
"Fire Sisters, eh? They can light my fire any day," quipped Galus, the young man beside him, flashing a wide grin across his face.
Paulus chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Careful, lad. They say those priestesses can light fires with nothing but a thought. You'd burn, alright, but not in the way you're hoping."
Galus stiffened, a nervous laugh escaping him. "Alright, no more dirty thoughts, then. But why are they here?"
"They're here to bless the soldiers' swords before battle. It's said the flames of Martan, god of war, then burn brighter in their hands," said Paulus, his eyes watching the strange ceremony unfold.
Before them, one of the priestesses, a woman in white, raised her hands to the sky as if summoning a force only she could see. "Sister Kasee," she called, her voice carrying a quiet authority, "it is time."
The one called Kasee stepped forward. Her face, though young, had an ancient grace about it. "Thank you, Sister Ophelia," she replied, her voice low, reverent. "It is to be done."
With that, she began to chant.
"Martan, lord of war, grant our soldiers strength, let their arms be swift and their resolve unyielding," she recited. "Funak, god of healing, protect their bodies, preserve their breath. Saxona, goddess of words, keep their spirits alive, their hearts steady in the storm of battle. And you, sacred fire, burn in their souls, that they may carry us to victory."
As her prayer rose to the heavens, three Alpen soldiers stepped forward, solemn. A flame was kindled in front of them. The priestesses dipped their torches in the fire, then touched the swords the men held, tracing burning lines along the blades.
"It is done," Sister Kasee whispered. "Go forth."
To the side, unnoticed until now, another group of women moved quietly in pale blue robes, their faces serene as they carried vessels of water. "The Water Sisters," Paulus breathed, his voice barely audible.
They performed their own blessing, pouring water over the hands of the next group of soldiers, their movements fluid, almost ritualistic. The murmured blessings were too soft to hear, but their impact was unmistakable. As soon as the rite was complete, they retreated, their expressions untouched by the chaos that loomed ahead.
"The carriages are ready," shouted someone in the back. With a sudden urgency, the Fire and Water Sisters gathered their robes and hurried toward a line of waiting carriages. In moments, the priestesses were gone, vanishing from the battlefield as quickly as they had come.
Galus frowned, watching the retreating figures. "Why did they leave so quickly?"
"They cannot be captured," Paulus replied, his voice low. "To lose them would bring bad omens to their kingdom."
A shift rippled through the Alpen soldiers as the priestesses disappeared from view. There was a new look of determination about the troops after they received their blessings. Where moments ago uncertainty had lingered, now there was a new fire in their eyes.
They eagerly scanned the battlefield, awaiting the command. It wasn't time yet.
--
King faces king
On the plain below, complex maneuvering had turned into an all out chaos. The renowned Golden Riders of Astal threw themselves at the Dasmoydan king's guard. Their swords slashing, the horsemen managed to cut away at their enemy's defenses.
Yet, even this assault did not deter the enemy king from pursuing his goal. As the Golden Riders engaged one part of his formation, the other parts were already starting to cut through. With the Akelonian mercenaries in tatters, the defensive line designed to hold the Dasmoydanian forces back was failing.
Faikel was fighting hard. Taking careful steps around the dead bodies scattered all around him, there wasn't much room to maneuver. Most of his mercenary comrades had fallen, the Dasmoydanians taking over their positions.
Not that far from him, he could see the allied knights from Alpen trying to hold their part of the line, even advance. Their king in particular had thrown himself into the battle with an added frenzy.
The king of Dasmoydan and the king of Alpen, leading their own respective sides, faced each other eye to eye, if just for a brief moment. Only a small chasm filled by battling knights divided the two. Then the chaos of battle once again separated them from sight.
Towards the back of the column, protected by his bodyguards, rode general Sanmal.
"As the king of Akelon's representative on the battlefield, you bear the honor of the country on your chest," general Aktal had told him before the battle.
Faikel shot a brief glance towards the back, spotting the general. He could see his worn down face, sweat pouring down in buckets. The enormous weight that had been placed on the aging man's shoulders was evident in his eyes.
The impending collapse of Akelon's mercenary troops had given the enemy an advantage.
"Men, keep steady. Keep steady. Don't let them pierce the line," yelled the general, while staring at the incoming enemy knights.
Despite the bravery of the Alpenian knights and the Golden Riders of Astal to his right, the Dasmoydanians were close to a breakthrough. Yet, nothing was over. As long as the banners still flew high, the battle wasn't lost.
For Faikel, on the top of the line, everything seemed to be a blur. Dispatching one charging enemy soldier after another, his entire body was aching. Yet, somehow he found himself in the zone. His senses heightened, it seemed as if nothing could faze him.
Yet, despite this, deep inside he knew no human can keep this up forever. There is always a point where a man gets broken. He was close to it.
All around him, men were falling. Death was claiming them all. It would be a miracle if he survived to see another day.
--
Chaos unleashed
On the Akelonian left flank, a different battle was unfolding. It all began with a charge. The knights and infantry commanded by the duke of Atelbar, and the mixed warriors from Tikanmul on the right, closed in their ranks, and ran forward towards the opposition.
"Kill those Dasmoydanian sons of bitches," someone yelled.
The warriors of Tikanmul jumped at the enemy, their leaps into the air making them appear as if they were flying. It took years of training for them to master their bodies, their heels like springs, their arms and legs almost as hard as steel.
Scimitars, their curved swords were cutting men to pieces. Some of them wielded jade-incrusted battle axes, which hacked away at anyone standing against them. Sounding as if they came from another world, their loud yells could be heard throughout the entire battlefield.
While some of them wore the armor of continental Akelonian warriors, many were dressed in traditional islander war gear. Differing widely from man to man, its common feature was the intricate craftmanship of its decorations.
The helmet, a vital piece of this ensemble, was a finely detailed masterpiece. Crafted from metal, either iron or bronze, it featured an elongated conical shape, extending to protect the back of the neck.
The front of the helmet bore a unique Tikanmul touch, often embellished with ornate carvings depicting mythological creatures or symbolic motifs. A faceplate, crafted with meticulous care, guarded the warrior's visage without compromising visibility. The eye slits were strategically positioned, allowing a wide field of vision while maintaining a formidable defense.
The armor was light, or sometimes even non-existent. This was to allow the warriors the maximum of flexibility. Their high leaps and acrobatic moves could surprise an opponent, often appearing as if coming from nowhere.
"Forward," shouted Chayo Chakanthat, his face menacing. Scanning around for his fellow warriors, with one nod of the head, he made his intentions clear.
"Not one step back," screamed the men next to him as they swung their scimitars while charging the opposition. Their fierceness knew no limits. Their minds hardened, some of them had trained in the jungles of their home island. As predators, they knew full well the law of nature was kill or be killed.
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Chayo, his body looking like it were made out of steel, ran across the battlefield. He wielded his axe, and with a single powerful sloop landed it into the head of the enemy. This was repeated time and time again, his axe swung with precision, killing men left and right.
His movements, fluid yet deadly, spoke of honed skills and battle-hardened experience. The man's eyes, intense and focused, scanned the scene, seeking out the next adversary. Then, he swung. His foe's skull shattered, the body fell backwards, joining the numerous other corpses scattered across the battlefield.
Yet, the initial advantage gained by the ferocity of the Tikanmul assault turned to naught, as the forces under the duke of Atelbar could not keep up.
The troops of the duke were being decimated by the soldiers led by Kalus Kenteln, formerly an important nobleman from southern Akelon. Only a few months ago, they had fought on the same side.
Then, Kenteln switched his support. He pledged his lands to the kingdom of Dasmoydan. Now, his men fought for the other king. They knew they were regarded as traitors. They knew they would face death if captured. This gave them a powerful motivation, and a resolve to fight to the death.
The duke of Atelbar and his personal guards had been set towards the left facing Kenteln and his loyalists. Yet, their initial charge was repulsed quickly, and turned into a rout. Atelbar had to retreat back, his side shattered to bits.
In the confusion of the battle, as the duke stopped to get his bearings, someone managed to hook him with their pike. With a hard pull, the soldier yanked the nobleman off his horse.
Tumbling from his saddle, he suffered a shock as his ironclad body hit the floor below. Dizzy, he stumbled from side to side, but finally managed to bring himself up.
Despite being horseless, and on the ground, his heavy armor made him hard to kill. Several enemy soldiers struck at him with their swords, yet did little to pierce his protection.
One clever soldier, dressed in leather armor, and light on his feet, sneaked up on him from the side. Rather than using his sword, he pulled out a dagger, with which he stabbed the lord through the slit in his helmet.
This penetrated deep. As the soldier retracted his knife, pieces of the duke's brain were left sticking to the weapon. Another casualty hit the dust.
As the duke of Atelbar lay dead, several of his knights lost motivation. It looked like some of them wanted to pull back. Watching this from a distance, general Akus Aktal knew this could collapse his entire front. It was time to make a bold move.
--
The enemy is approaching
As he observed the left wing being shattered, general Aktal's mind flashed back to the start of the day. He had forced his forces to march quickly, to be able to take over strategic ground.
As they reached Laswan's Creek, the army camped out. A small detachment crossed the stony bridge built over the Creek and took over the hill overlooking the plain on the other side.
Aktal had decided that very plain, muddy after a series of torrential rains the past few weeks, would be the site of the confrontation. The army of Dasmoydan was marching north, and this would be the best place to stop it.
The war between the kingdom of Akelon and its southern neighbor had been long, and exhausting. A series of campaigns on both sides of the border had devastated the countryside.
"I want that traitor Kenteln," thundered the king of Akelon, pumping his fist on the makeshift table set up in the field. "To think that not long ago, I was sitting with him, drinking wine."
"Your Majesty," said general Akus Aktal, "he will not get away."
"How can you be so sure?"
"We will be putting our best troops to face him. I have assigned teams that will concentrate on the treacherous nobleman. He will be captured and punished," said general Aktal. "If not, he will die in the field."
"Excellent, general," said the king. "I like the way you always think ahead."
"It's my duty, sire."
"I trust you have an excellent plan for the battle ahead?"
"Of course, sire," the general cleared his throat. "The enemy is marching north on this very road. Luckily, we have beat them to this spot, which in my opinion is the very best place for a confrontation. It's still on our side of the border, but taking over that hill gives us a strategic vantage point and control over the terrain."
"I hope so. Let's see whether the omens are favorable," said the king as he started walking towards a small clearing nearby. There, stood a group of men. General Aktal followed, limping after a prolonged campaign.
"General, do you believe our side is righteous?" The king suddenly asked a question out of nowhere.
"Of course, sire. The gods are on our side. It is not us who started the war. Dasmoydan invaded our lands. It is them who are the aggressors," the general paused, clearing his throat. "We are only defending what is ours."
The king was silent, reflecting on what was just said.
"Yes, it is true. Purpose and motivation. They are there. This is what will also enable our men to fight hard. We are just defending what's ours," repeated the king. Yet, from the way he said it, it was apparent something was bothering him.
For an instant, the king had a worried look on his face. Whatever it was, it passed quickly, for the king once again flashed a smile.
"General, let's go."
Before joining the other men, the king passed by his tent. He wanted to wear only his finest military gear right before the battle.
As they reached the tent, the general could hear giggles. His nose smelled a strong scent of perfume. The king lifted the curtain. Peeking inside, the general saw a group of naked women frolicking around.
"Sire, you know you should not have women in a war camp. It's bad luck," said the general, looking sternly at the king.
"No worries, general. I will send them away. They will be well on their way when the enemy reaches the plain," answered the king.
A retainer approached.
"Good news, sire," he said. "The king of Alpen is approaching with his troops. They will be here shortly."
The face of the king glowed. The general's heart jumped.
"That is excellent news, Your Majesty," said the general. "They will bolster our forces. This is excellent. I was expecting them to come too late, but this is unexpected, and very welcome."
It didn't take long for the king to enter his tent and change. The general could hear more giggling, and some other noises, but it all passed rather fast.
With the king in his fancy military gear, decked out with white and gold colors, they walked towards the clearing.
Rakat Munikus, the chief diviner of the kingdom, together with his assistant, already stood there, ready for the divination ceremony to begin.
After an initial prayer, the diviners got to work. Chief diviner Munikus took out an eagle, and let him fly. The bird spread its wings and rose up high into the sky. It flapped around a bit, and then flew towards the south. It made a short circle over plain, and then continued in its flight.
"This is a favorable sign," stated Munikus. His hands gestured towards the plain on the other side of the Creek. "The eagle flew south, making an overpass of the plain. This is good."
The king smiled.
With the divination done, the king and general Aktal headed out back to camp.
"General, you have your answer from the gods. The signs are favorable," said the king while walking towards his tent. "Now, I shall retire back to my quarters. I trust you will hasten the preparations for the upcoming battle."
"It shall be done," answered the general.
As they were about to part, a commotion picked up among the men in the distance. The king and the general looked in the direction of the noise, wondering what was going on.
Moments later, a group of scouts emerged from the shadows, their armor gleaming in the fading light. One of them, a seasoned rider with a weathered face, spurred his horse forward and saluted.
"The enemy is approaching," he shouted.
--
The reserves charge
As general Aktal flashed the signal, the sound of a horn could be heard. Things began to stir in the distance. The men who had until now been held in reserve raised their swords and gave out a shout.
They poured from atop the hilltop. With their pace quickening, they looked like an avalanche coming down a mountain. The mass of soldiers crashed into the right wing of the enemy. Their assault reinforced the faltering Akelonian lines on the left.
The fresh legs and arms gave a short advantage to what was left of the troops of the duke of Atelbar. With their commander dead, they had been faltering. Now, once again they were given the will to fight.
The onslaught pushed back the Dasmoydanian line. However, this advantage did not last for long.
Seeing the hilltop soldiers stream towards their lines, the enemy reserves also sprung into action. Joining the fight, they surged forward, giving the troops under Kalus Kenteln a renewed determination.
"Damn, this is not looking good," sighed Paulus, his shield and sword up.
"Not at all," concurred Galus.
They had stormed down the mountain together with the rest of the Akelonian and Alpenian units. After the initial euphoria of the onslaught, the reversal put them in a tough spot.
Placed towards the back of the column, they had not seen action at first. Now with the allied troops in front of them getting slaughtered, they were awaiting their turn in the fight.
"Those are Kenteln's troops," said Paulus, his eyes scanning the incoming soldiers.
"Yup. Formerly of Akelon, now fighting for Dasmoydan," said Galus.
"My brother and two cousins went over with him," said Paulus.
"They are probably in there right now, fighting for the other side," said Galus, drops of sweat coming down his forehead.
"Yeah," said Paulus, dreading the thought of fighting his own family.
The men holding the line in front of them kept falling one by one. Kenteln's troops were fighting with vigor, their swords seemingly mightier than those of their former comrades.
Just a few months ago, they might have shared a meal or a cup of wine. Now, they were killing each other.
"Get ready! They are coming," shouted Galus as the first enemy troops started swinging their swords at him.
One man lunged at him, his weapon missing only by an inch. Galus took a step back in order to get some distance from the attacker. Looking at his eyes, he suddenly realized he knew who he was.
Paulus's brother was staring back at him.
Neither man hesitated. Each thrust and parried with their sword, their shields ever ready to deflect blows. They danced around each other. Their actions didn't betray the fact they had been friends just a few short months ago.
It was war. And they were on opposite sides.
Galus thrust his sword, but the other man blocked it. His weapon in turn was blocked by Galus's shield. This created a small opening, which Galus used to his advantage.
With a powerful strike, he pierced his sword through the other man's body. His leather armor no match for the sharp weapon, Paulus's brother collapsed to the ground. After a few jerks, the body stopped moving.
Galus paused for a bit, looking intently at the dead body in front of him. How was he going to tell Paulus he had killed his brother?
--
King's burden
Further down, in the middle of the battlefield, sitting in the thick of the fight, chaos all around him, the king of Alpen, Karal V., kept swinging and thrusting his sword at any Dasmoydanian head in his path. He seemed like a lion, staking out his territory, mangling on his prey.
In the heat of the battle, he got a bit ahead of himself. Looking around, he noticed only a few of his personal bodyguards were near him. The rest, were further back, engaging with enemy knights.
A speck of dust got into his eyes. Squinting, he briefly lost his concentration. Taking advantage of the moment, two Dasmoydanian infantrymen sneaked up on him, gripping on the inside of his armor with their hooked pikes.
With one powerful swoop, they pulled him off the horse.
"The king is down," yelled one of his bodyguards, as he jumped off his horse, sprinting to the king's aid. The Alpenian knights began a mad rush, as they all converged on the spot where the king lay.
An enemy soldier tried sticking his lance into the king, however it was deflected by his strong armor. Another one swung his sword at him, trying to find a weak spot.
Their advantage did not last long. A mass of knights swamped them, the bodyguards forming a protective ring around the king's body.
One of the royal bodyguards kneeled down to check on the king. He saw blood dripping out from under his armor. With a flick of his hand, and a loud yell, he called for help.
Roderik, a bear of a man, rushed forward. Putting the king on his back, he carried him off the battlefield. There, four men put his body on stretchers, and then ran across the bridge to the makeshift field hospital on the other side of the Creek.
The men at the command post behind the lines were watching the scene with horror. General Aktal dropped his mouth wide, a look of panic coming across his face. He feared the battle was lost.