Year 212. Heracla, Capital of Vasileús Hippon Aslofidor - Khirn
“Friends and foes come and go, dying and born by the hour by the day. It is what you do with your time with them that decides your worth in the forging of such bonds.” - Acominatus, The Aureate Code Pg. 56, Par. 2.
ERIK APA
In his right hand was the Spear of E’grn, the Sky Spear—crafted by E’grn the First of Druyan, born of a she-hawk belonging to the Golden Lords of Khirn. Onlookers who knew of the man and his reputation knew it to be a supposedly mystical weapon incapable of ever missing its target when in the hands of a Runemaster. It was impossibly sharp, impossibly impactful, and indestructible on all fronts.
But it was not the Sky Spear that stole their attention. It was the appearance of the man who wielded it. Runemaster Erik Apa. He was a man of immense size, comparable to the old Golden Lords of Khirn’s past and perhaps that E’grn himself. Greater than six-foot-five and no less than three-hundred-fifty pounds of conditioned muscle and the fat of a well-fed man. More creature than human, with the build of a carriage house housed in thick scaled-plate armor, enameled pearlescent with tracing rainbow flourishes. His helmet was engraved to resemble an avian creature, with a full faceplate and the visor being two circular lenses capable of magnification. Covering the breadth of the armor from helmet to toe were various sequences of runic symbols, inscriptions from historical books, and other carvings he deemed to provide him impeccable protection against harm, both physical and otherwise. He called it a relic of his family’s ancient past, back when the magic of mystharin was far more prevalent and far less demonized in Khirn’s culture.
Through the streets of Heracla, the capital of Aslofidor, ruled by the Vasileús Hippon Aslofidor, the Runemaster led a contingent of several thousand men and women armored in pure red plate wielding spears and broad shields painted with the sigil of Druyan. Behind them came another three thousand archers clad in gambesons and jerkins oiled and dyed like the setting sun. Behind these persons were sworders, trappers, and other roles, including the serfs, priests, and other figures of sizes and appearances alien to those who had never seen the swaths of the Druyan savanna.
They were heralded by a group of six hundred mounted knights clad in armor dyed like the rising sun set over black coats of mail with personal house surcoats over the breastplate. His mother—the Runearch Ezel Apa—led this honor guard, intent on meeting the Vasileús in person. Ezel Apa was the true leader of the Druyan force, unlike what many believed in her son, and it was her right to speak to the Vasileús. But it did sting that the son of the Runearch, the Runemaster himself, was relegated to simply leading on foot rather than joining his blood in the conversation.
“You are too quick to temper,” she had told him. “Your father’s blood runs too hot in your veins.”
He wanted to consider that a compliment, considering the glory his father had earned with such a reputation before he fell in combat to the only honorable warriors on Khirn, those of cold-hearted Belanore. Perhaps she had intended it as such, but the distasteful sourness of the relegation could not be ignored.
Something else stung him, though no one could change it. The Aslofidorian sun was tepid compared to the Druyan savanna, and the Runemaster considered it aggravatingly insulting to their endurance. For a Druyan, it was a constant source of pride to wear the armor they wore, fight the way they fought, and kill the way they killed, all while sweltering under the unerring sunlight. For a Druyan, to be able to do all of that, sweat weeks’ worth of water out of their body, and suffer cramped muscles and sprained bones yet still fight the next day without faults was the greatest of accomplishments. Feeling the coolness of the wind bat against his armor plates and work up only the mildest of sweat on his brow from the sun above on top of the marching made Erik Apa wonder how Aslofidor had managed to repel Druya for so long in their “now-dead” blood feud.
Brass trumpets heralded the arrival of the thousands of Druyans at the meeting place. It was a massive square courtyard designed for gatherings like this, encircled by the green-black stone and metal spires several kilometers high that acted as a dozen or so buildings designated for habitation and merchants. At the far end to the north loomed the castle itself. It was monstrous and absurdly Aslofidorian. A crown of spear-shaped towers circled a trident-shaped keep, each window bright with candlelight.
The Runemaster made a noise and analyzed the grounds where this gathering occurred. Several placating accouterments and paraphernalia resembling something Druyan caught his eyes. His lenses magnified on a few of them, and a hard-boiled disgust filled his stomach and heart. The square was filled with Druyan tents, stables for Druyan horses, outhouses marked by Druyan symbols, and small food shops of Druyan food for those incapable of going hours without eating. The only thing, it seemed, that was not remade to look Druyan—or what passed as Druyan to these people—were the podiums and stages pre-built for diplomatic business. It was all so egregiously fake, the Runemaster considered. No Aslofidorian worth his salt in the blood feud would have gone through the effort unless they were nervous that there would be an irrevocable skirmish. The presence of almost an equal number, if not greater, of Aslofidorian knights on the opposite side of the square essentially confirmed this for him.
Erik Apa flanked his mother's honor guard, with his guards selected from the thousands he led. Each was almost comparable to his stature, if slightly less impressive, because of their equipment. He trusted them, though. They did their job well, and he knew they could slaughter hundreds on their own. He nodded to each as the rest of his contingent took their places in the square.
“All Hail Vasileú Hippon Aslofidor, Ninth of His Name! The Bear of Aslofidor! The Blade Breaker!” a crier announced to the thunderous applause of the Aslofidorians lining the streets, hanging out of their windows, and the present army opposite the Druyan forces.
“Hippon! Hippon! Hippon!” they cheered, bellowing with weeping cries as the Vasileú appeared at the top of the stairs leading into the castle grounds. The young man was broad and robust, long-haired and short-bearded, carrying himself with a confidence that shook the castle’s foundations with each step. The Runemaster magnified his lenses on him and regarded him with the most profound hatred he would afford an Aslofidorian. He wore unpainted but heavily polished steel armor of pointed metal sheets, the shoulder guards shaped to resemble bear heads mid-roar. In his left hand, he carried the bear-shaped helm that had long plagued the battlefields of Aslofidor and Druyan, its jaws closed and its brows ever furrowing. In the other, hoisted over his shoulder, he held the Mace of Aslofidor the First, its head ceremonially shaped to resemble a dragon’s head breathing flame. Many Druyans’ blood had stained it upon a time. Now, it was clean and shining.
“Hear how they cheer for their fucking Vasileú?” muttered Goka Tur in their native tongue, a man who many considered to be Erik Apa’s greatest friend. His accent was thick as ever, prominently of the Southern Steppes. “If only they knew how savage the boy was on the battlefield.”
“They will in time,” the Runemaster replied in a hoarse whisper. “This peace between us and these vile people won’t last. It never does.”
“And then you can get the bastard?” Goka Tur asked with a laugh.
“Yes,” the Runemaster nodded. “I will.”
“All Hail Vasile Hipponia Aslofidor, Second of Her Name! The Jewel of Aslofidor! The Songtress of Peace!” the crier announced to more thunderous applause from the Aslofidorians lining the streets, hanging out of their windows, and the present army opposite the Druyan forces.
“Hipponia! Hipponia! Hipponia!” they bellowed as the young lady appeared and descended the steps to join her brother and other Aslofidorian representatives on the stage, where Ezel Apa and her chosen few already sat. She was a beautiful girl, no older than twenty—four years Hippon the Ninth’s junior— with the long raven hair and pale, shield-maiden features of her mother. Most prominent were her eyes, so ice-blue they were almost white and soul-piercing. Her attire was elegant—a black-green dress with furled edges and fur along the collar.
“She’s the one we’d spare,” continued Goka Tur. “She’s innocent enough, and your mother would likely find a place of comfort for her in Kus’j.”
The Runemaster grunted in agreement.
“All Hail Vasiles Iondai Aslofidor, First of Her Name! The Shield-Maiden of Aslofidor!” the crier announced to the loudest applause from the gathering yet. Vasiles Iondai appeared with the stoic power of a woman who held the actual throne in the kingdom. She wore black robes adorned with glistening green armor plates; the collar ruffled with feathers traced by the colors of red and lavender. A black-hilted curved sword was at her hip, sheathed in black leather, the pommel a golden snarling dragon’s head—an elegant blade for a woman as blunt as a maul.
“All Hail Vasileús Hippon Aslofidor, Eighth of His Name! The War Ender! The War Breaker! The Molten Might!” The crowd exploded as Vasileús Hippon Aslofidor appeared at the top of the stairs, flanked by his royal guard. Erik Apa had never been so disappointed. The Vasileús was old and frail, so thin that his bones could be seen pressing against his skin. He supported himself on a silver cane, liver spots running the course of his body—most heavily on his balding head. He moved slowly, ploddingly, down those stairs, yet the crowd never ceased cheering.
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“They cheer for this old king?” Goka Tur asked. “The man can barely move.”
“He was the one that started the New Wars and cost them their lives,” Erik Apa added. “And still, they cheer. Fucking Aslofidorians.”
When the Vasileús took his seat on the stage, the crowd’s voices had become strained from their constant cheering. It was not often that they could see their Vasileús, Erik Apa recalled, and to do so in such circumstances as this must have been a real treat to their simple minds. His wife and children sat on either side of him, each facing opposite Ezel Apa’s party.
“Common folk, serfs, warriors, knights, lords, and ladies of Aslofidor and Druyan,” the presider of the event, an older man of enormous girth and blubbering voice, began. “I welcome you to this most glorious of gatherings. Today, we of both nations put aside our long-standing differences, solidify the finality of our unending feud, and combine our mighty blood in the most magnificent of causes.”
From his fat-stretched robes, the presider produced a scroll he unrolled and read from with a chin-shaking voice. “It is by the joint powers of Vasileús Hippon Aslofidor, Eighth of His Name, and Runearch Ezel Apa of Druya that this meeting must now officially commence in service to the defeat of the rebel Dioúksis Polydius Audax. So shall the two leading parties agree with this commencement?”
“I shall,” Vasileús Hippon Aslofidor wheezed weakly.
“I shall,” Runearch Ezel Apa said firmly.
The presider rolled up the scroll and placed it back into his robes. “So it is commenced!”
The Druyans and Aslofidorians went back and forth, demanding and paying in equal parts, sometimes breaking into fits of rage and even nearly coming to blows. Restitutions were agreed upon, marriages made, trade agreements set, and borderlands shared- until the final four: Baron Halius Gerboud of Terrebridge, Yali Dagkis of Altlan, Vasileús Hippon Aslofidor, and Runearch Ezel Apa.
“We of Aslofidor and Druya shall now hear from Baron Halius Gerboud of Terrebridge.”
A man took to the podium from the seated Aslofidorians opposite the Druyans. He was shorter than most, with a receding hairline and an unhealthy complexion. “Common folk, serfs, warriors, knights, lords, and ladies of Aslofidor and Druyan,” he began in a small, high-pitched voice. “Terrebridge has been the primary bond between Aslofidor and Druya over the Amsoll Canyon for hundreds of years. My family, the Gerbouds, have served as the Lords of Terrebridge for those hundreds of years. As such, it was the most ransacked during the blood feud whenever the Druyan forces took to invading Aslofidor.
Baron Halius continued. “My family lost much in that time. Wealth was pillaged, heirs tortured and executed before our eyes, relics destroyed, and territory as parts of Terrebridge now lay in ruin at the bottom of the Amsoll Canyon. It is my demand that the family of Druya most responsible for this, the Dagkis, as part of their restitution payments for this union against the traitorous Dioúksis Polydius Audax, pay the Gerouds and Terrebridge a sum of wealth equal to the total losses of seven million golden crescents to repair the physical damages. A small sum in the grand scheme. In return, Terrebridge will grant the Dagkis and all of Druya a lifetime ‘no toll payment’ law in future trade over the Amsoll Canyon and free room-and-board for any merchant seeking lengthy stay at the border.”
Baron Halius Gerboud bowed his head meekly and awaited his opposition from the Druyans. The Runemaster considered him with contempt as Machkimal Yali Dagkis took to the podium, his black hair braided and his body built like an archer who had only ever known the greatbow and ballista arrows.
“Baron Halius Gerboud…you make much demand of my family and offer much in return,” he said in a voice as sibilant and tranquil as a serpent coiled to strike, his accent thick yet fluency in the tongue of Aslofidor as fluid as melted butter. “Yet, you act as if yours is the worst to have suffered at the Amsoll Canyon. Have you so easily forgotten the vile actions of your family? When your grandfather, Baron Halius the Eldest, took my granduncles and grandaunts to the torch, burned them alive after taking them from Druyan? From their homes in the dead of night while they prayed to the Most Noble and our family’s spirits. When your ancestor Menares slaughtered hundreds of innocent families in Altlan for sport, provoking our nations to war during a rare time of peace. When your brother, Zagreus the Butcher…violated the wife and daughter of Altlan’s Machkima? Do you easily forget how your family is just as to blame if you are to blame mine?”
Erik Apa was glad he was wearing a helmet, for the snake-fanged grin on his face would have ruined all chances of diplomacy, of that he was sure. Baron Halius Gerboud, much smaller than the man twice his age and senior, was sheepish behind his podium.
“You…have a poor memory, Machkimal Dagkis, if you forget your vile actions,” Baron Halius stammered. “Was-was it not your family who hanged entire households from the Terrebridge and laughed as their friends wept? Who destroyed parts of Terrebridge with people on it? Sending them pl-plummeting to the bottom of the Amsoll Canyon. Was it not your family, your soldiers, who set our church on fire as the priest gave his sermon just days before this pointless peace was made? You…dare to call my family’s actions vile? Well, good sir, I call yours sinful. Devilish. Evil. You…fucking Druyans are nothing more than…barbarians!”
The uproar in the gathering was immense, and the clattering of weapons being drawn as tempers finally began to boil over—as Erik Apa had correctly predicted—was resounding. He turned to his men and prepared to order them to charge, fight, kill, and die with honor. Only when the Vasileús and the Runearch rose from their seats and jointly screeched, “ENOUGH!” was the turmoil quieted instantly. Despite his age, the Vasileús rushed Baron Halius as the Runearch did the Machkimal, tugging them back to their seats with the power of royalty.
“I will not have this day ruined by bloodlust and hate!” the Vasileús roared like a lion with a thorn in its paw. “All of you have roared, raged, and seethed, and I will no longer have it! Baron Halius! You will pay the necessary restitutions to Machkimal Dagkis, arrange a marriage between his heir and yours, and be done with it! Silence this feud with the blossoming of love so we may join together and kill that upstart, Polydius Audax!”
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“Though my words of wanting peace between us to put down this Polydius Audax are true, you stand before me in my city armed for war with an army of thousands, Runearch Ezel,” the Vasileús gasped slowly, his voice no longer strong from anger. There was a purposeful angling towards the crowd, rioting their expectations and toying with their emotions. “How am I to infer this?”
“I cannot control how you perceive things, Vasileús Hippon, but I can tell you what I mean by arriving in this fashion,” the Runearch said slowly and carefully, considering each word she spoke. She was always like that, Erik thought. Even at dinners. “It is to show you that I, along with Druyan, will take no half-measures against our enemies.”
“Do you threaten the Vasileús?” asked the Bear of Aslofidor, slightly tensing up his chair. Erik’s grip on the haft of his spear tightened.
The Runearch shook her head. “No, Good Vasileú. I promise. I promise we can either finish the blood feud or continue it. Either option in full force.”
“That hardly sounds better than a threat,” added the Vasile.
The Runearch paid the Vasiles no mind and kept her attention on the Vasileús. “Vasileús Hippon, you came to me in Druya with peace in your mind and wisdom on your tongue. You respected my people and acknowledged our history, both good and ill. You came to end our blood feud and put down this pretender of yours in Polydius Audax. You opened up your city for this delegation of my homeland, thousands strong, each as capable as your own soldiers.”
She paused momentarily, looked around the stage and the gathering, and momentarily locked eyes with her son. Erik’s spine straightened as his mother’s cold glare bore into his heart. She turned back to the Vasileús. “And you give no sign of fear that this can all turn sour despite the presence of some in our parties who would wish it to be so. You show a true desire to see the war end.”
“It is all I wish, Runearch Ezel,” the Vasileús said, replying in Druyan wracked by the croaking of age but was otherwise perfect. Erik Apa was stunned. “Our people have fought since the lines of our nations were drawn. Even before that, we fought. When the Most Noble put us on this earth, we crossed the ocean from Aqella to escape the inhumans.”
The Runearch nodded. “Yes. We have fought long and hard and seen countless people fall to our blades. What for?”
“For nothing,” the Vasileús said, drawing the words out.
“For nothing,” she repeated. “That is the truth of it. Nothing has been gained except pain and suffering between our two nations. I do not want to see that continued either.”
Surprised, almost giddy murmuring passed through the gathering. The Runearch faced her entire body to the Vasileús. She crossed her arms over her sternum, fists closed. “We of Druya come to you now with weapons in hand and blood boiling in our veins, respecting your people and acknowledging your history, both good and ill. We come to you to end our blood feud and put down this pretender threatening your homes, people, culture, and families. We of Druya pledge our strength to yours, under the Most Noble Himself, so that this brighter future may be borne!”
The cheering and subsequent celebrations would continue into the night, through the night, and the following day before repeating for the entire week.