Year 212. Amphe, Capital of Dioúksis Polydius Audax - Khirn
“Let the scales of your life be determined by your ability to adjust them in your favor. Letting the hands of others take control of your fate is the mechanism of a failure and a coward.” Acominatus, The Aureate Code Pg. 67, Par. 1.
JIRA ne’JIRAL
By order of Dioúksis Polydius Audax, Second of His Name, the Wisest, the Fairest, and the Bravest of all the Audax Bloodline, you—Jira ne’Jiral—are summoned to join the Dioúksis’s Honorable Convocation at his chambers in the Manor Amphe to discuss the inclusion of the Belanorians in this justest war against the corrupted Vasileús Hippon Aslofidor the Eighth. Jira made a noise and stuffed the missive into the pouch at her side as the courier hurried away, a hundred more messages equally stuffed into his pack.
Belanorians. A race of humankind that always set Jira ne’Jiral on edge. Was it because they were freakishly tall for humans? Was it their disquieting quietness? The unsettling way they slithered on their feet in such perfect silence that unless they announced themselves, you would never know they were there until their steel blades were stuck in your neck. Was it because they were unnervingly similar in appearance to the Caldishla in Aqella? Was it because they had traced their lineage back to Acominatus of the Golden Lords, said to be the founder of the Belanorian kingdom in his waning years?
She was never sure of the answer to this broad question of why they put her so on edge. She could only say that they made her back stiffen and goose pimples spread across her body.
“Lady ne’Jiral, are you alright?” asked a voice equal parts endearingly innocent and egregiously naive.
The woman turned her gaze to the young squire assigned to her service, her silver eyes meeting his green. He was a boy nary two years out of his tweens, his tawny round face peppered with freckles as much as his ashen hair was flecked with black spots. A birthmark ran from neck to jaw, shaped like a javelin. The mark of a “mixed blood,” Aslofidorians would say—some in disgust, some in indifference. The son of a Tahririan-Aslofidorian low-noble family in Amphe. Only by her direct interference and the kindness of her mentor in Zetus Gogos, an Augur turned councilor in the Dioúksis’s Convocation, was she allowed to take him on as a page and eventually as a squire.
“Yes, Nara,” she said with a small smile. “I’m fine.”
Nara-ward turned his attention to the swath of Belanorian knights, outfitted in full bodies of glistening dark-grey plate armor, rain-grey tabards, and featureless close helms, which were short at the neck to display the grey mail of the coif underneath. They were marching throughout the streets of Amphe in uniform lines, longswords sheathed and shields upon their backs. The leaders of these lines were outfitted in similar armor painted black like the knight, their tabards red with the white-gold sigil of Belanore's holy moon on the chest. These tabards continued across the back as capes that ended at the knees. Rather than wielding longswords and shields, they bore barbed claymores equally black in color with red-leather handle-wraps.
“The Belanorians sure turned up in force, didn’t they?” Nara-ward clutched his master’s sheathed sword tighter, holding it close to his chest - as unnerved by their presence as Jira was.
“Yes, they did. Not sure I like it,” Jira agreed, rolling her shoulders to remove a stress-made cramp. “But the Dioúksis needs people for his war. And if anyone can give us an advantage against the Druyans—if they are to join the Vasileús—it’s these people.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Nara-ward, quick-stepping after his master as she bid him to follow her through the rain-puddled cobbled streets of Amphe’s upper district. He would be too easily thrown into disarray without her guidance. A thousand buildings of white stone and reddish-gray brick surrounded them, each larger than last until the largest rooftops were buried in the rain-swollen skies above. The pathways they formed around the streets made the city a near-labyrinth, even for the most skilled of cartographers.
“They are fast, stealthier than their armor would make you believe, and follow more age-old battle tactics from The Codices of the Most Noble than any other Khirnian culture we have today,” Jira explained, stopping at an intersection to allow a group of Dioúksis-loyal soldiers to pass by followed by a small cadre of Belanorian infantrymen. She continued, waving for her squire to stand beside her to ensure he was not lost in the crowds they would pass through. “Most armies today follow more recently developed tactics based on honor, personal glory, or standard survival. But the Belanorians fight as a whole. They fight to win, kill, and slaughter as a single organism, bound by the individual heads of the Greats and the Prime.”
“Don’t the Druyans do that too?” Nara-ward asked, momentarily stopping at a street vendor selling baked goods frosted with icing and cream. Jira joined him and allowed the scent of the goods to calm her worries. Amphe was home to many types of people, the best being those versed in the culinary arts.
“Do you want one?” she asked her squire. “You’ve done well today.”
His eyes widened at the offer. “Oh! I...I mean-”
“We don’t sell to mixed-bloods,” the vendor said harshly. “Especially Druyans.”
“He’s Tahririan,” Jira corrected. “And you’ll sell to me.”
The vendor grunted and waved his hand. Jira paid him a silver piece for the largest pastry, trading her squire the sweet for her sword. “They do, but in the vein of honor and glory,” she continued their previous conversation, strapping the blade to her side and ushering Nara-ward along the road. “Belanorians fight for Belanore with the vision to ascend next to the Most Noble, not just ascend to Heaven. They worship Him almost as much as the Tahririans.”
“If they fight for Belanore and the Highest, why does the Dioúksis...how did the Dioúksis get them here?” Nara-ward asked with a mouthful of pastry.
“That’s what we’re on our way to find out.”
Nara-ward nodded and greedily ate the rest of his treat, much to the near-parental amusement of Jira, who led the pair to the Dioúksis’s manor in the center of Amphe. Manor. The word was funny to Jira, for it was perhaps one of the more blatant differences between the Audaxs and the Aslofidors.
Unlike the Aslofidors, the Audaxs—a long-standing dynasty of Dioúksiss—were not men and women who felt the need to have a castle; they spent most of their funding and power to develop the city around their simple mansion. Their primary goal was to turn it into a veritable fortress rather than a shanty town around a properly defended keep. The same could not exactly be said of Heracla, considering the capital’s age and dedicated development over the millennia, though to say that it was better than Amphe would be a falsehood.
Markets, granaries, storehouses, arbors, inns, taverns, stalls, stables, and all other manners of the like dotted the city of Amphe as chambers in an anthill. Manors, manses, estates, and farmland stretched within the city as far as a beach along the coast. The spires that reached into rain-filled Heaven were houses for families in the hundreds—insulated abodes, the architects called them. Amphe’s walls were nearly a quarter-mile thick of metal-reinforced blackened-red stone, blessed by the wisest priests of the Highest Himself and—in legend—enhanced by a wandering family of Drayheller and a visiting band of mystharinic scholars before their powers became so hated. So demonized. No one was certain of that rumor, and while it once brought a sense of safety to everyone’s mind, it now became an afterthought and a sense of shame for the Church of the Augurs. All specks of praise for the defenses of this grand settlement went toward the architects.
Regardless of legend, the truth that Amphe was, without doubt, impregnable was enough to tip the scales on how far the Audaxs would allow their monarchs to go with their crimes. Long had the tales of the Vasileús’s ailing mind hit the recent days of Khirn, along with rumors of his Vasile’s dark deeds in the shadows of his growing instability. The Vasiles of Crows. A master of deception and evil. Conjecture and vilification, but enough to change public opinion in Southern Aslofidor. Evidence, or what counted as it, only fueled the growing flames. It wasn’t a war against the Vasileús, she had to admit to herself. It was a war against the Vasiles and whatever evils spawned from her hidden manipulations of Hippon.
Despite the fluctuations of worry the Belanorians gave her, Jira hoped they could tip the scales in that war.
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The Dioúksis’s manor was large but not too large, being three stories tall with a sub-level for storage, the chefs, and a personal dungeon. It was walled but not as extensively as a castle, only eight feet tall and featuring an iron-wrought gate. It was guarded but not as heavily as a keep, the guards being the Dioúksis’s elite personal knights adorned in sapphire-black scale armor and wielding the hereditary swords and shields of their families who had always held the role of the Audaxs’ guards. It was made from the same blackened-red stone as the walls surrounding the city, bearing the sigil of the Audaxs: a silvered eagle with splayed wings on a field of chequered sapphire and black.
Inside, the floors were made of a dark wood, with the rugs being a rustic brown color to match the dark tempers of the material. Suits of old armor, display cases of relics, and books out in the open for light reading were available at most turns. Banners of the Audaxs, along with the current Dioúksis’s coat-of-arms, the silvered eagle now bearing sword and shield in its claws, were hung on the walls. Besides these things, nothing stood out of note as Jira led her squire through the first floor, up the winding staircase of the foyer to the second, up the second, and into the third-floor emergency council chambers where the Dioúksis awaited with the Prime of the Belanorian armies.
“Ah! Lady ne’Jiral!” the fat Dioúksis erupted, rising from his chair to greet the woman he had long treated as a daughter. He was dressed in red and gold regal clothing that clashed spectacularly with the traditional sapphire and black of the Audaxs, though it clashed more with the graying brown shaggy hair that rested underneath his bejeweled crown. “It is good to see you answering my summons.”
“What kind of knight would I be if I denied such a command from a man worthy of it?” she asked rhetorically, eyeing Nara-ward to ensure the tiny lesson was understood. His blinking did not give her the fullest confidence, but the nervous smile was enough.
The Dioúksis sighed as he retook his seat, his joints creaking from bearing his weight. “Of course, please take a seat. We have much to discuss.”
Jira examined the room as she took her seat close to the Dioúksis—Nara-ward staying by the door, once more holding his master’s sword close to his chest. Eighteen people inhabited this room besides the Dioúksis and the Prime. These people ranged from the Dioúksis’s most astute councilors, who would typically deal with this business in the building designated for council meetings, to Belanorians dressed in bleached white robes, with their hands covered by ivory-white ruffled gloves, their heads covered by veils of white that allowed no glimpses of the persons beneath, and their shoulders adorned with a cape that ended at the small of their back. The highest of these individuals before the Prime bore a feature on their veil, that being a perfect circle of black where their face would be beneath it. She recognized these people as the ones most versed in diplomacy, though their appearance did little to instill an aura of charisma.
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“As I was saying, Lord Prime, I am most thankful that our initial talks were enough to lead you and your men to our city,” the Dioúksis spoke, adopting a posture of respect. “I apologize that I struggled so greatly with understanding your culture during that time, but again, I thank you for being understanding.”
“It is not in His decrees to judge those lost in ignorance, particularly if they attempt to climb their way out of it,” the Prime said in a death-croaking voice that filled the room with an icy shiver. He was a gaunt figure encased in pale splint armor with infection-black boiled leather underneath, flaxen white hair flowing free from his scalp and framing his thin face. Worst of all were his eyes, sunken and pink.
“Yes, and that is why I came to you-” the Dioúksis began.
“No,” interrupted the Prime. “You came to us with concern for the safety of your people when the tale of the alliance with Druya reached your ears—and called Bela’nore’s service to its people into comparison. While the comparison is minimal at best, I can respect the attempt. You gave us gifts of knowledge in tomes and lore that we did not possess. In turn, I thank you for allowing me to arrive and stay with my Selk’onal unaccosted.” Selk’onal. The Legions of Belanore.
“I have heard that Aslofidor allowed the Druyans to do the same with a token force,” the Dioúksis explained. “What kind of leader would I be if I did not allow such a thing?”
“Comparisons to a man said to be as rotten as Hippon Aslofi’dor is not good for the soul,” said one of the veiled Belanorians. Their voice was a rattling whisper, and gave no indication to their sex. “The man damns himself and his family for embracing the authority of that woman he calls Vasile, who cajoles with the Devil.”
The Dioúksis’s face twitched. “Of course, I did not mean to offend.”
“No offense is taken, Dioúksis Audax,” corrected the Prime. “Jod’.”
Another Belanorian croaked. “We of Bela’nore are...concerned for the salvation of Aslof’idor’s souls. You have long been mired in acts and culture that defy the precepts in The Codices. We fear you will lack the rapture of His embrace upon your end. How will this alliance with such people affect our own souls? What if you fail the rebellion? How shall the Highest and Most Noble view us then had we provided you aid?”
“Which is why we need your help in this coming war in more ways than just reinforcements,” one of the councilmen, Jira’s greatest friend, Zetus Gogos, pressed. “Training, mergers of tactics and diplomacy, scouting and research. Everything that we do and everything that you do combined as one, not just the unification of swords. With such a union against the Druyans and the Vasileús, we can rid this land of all its threats and instill a new godly reign.”
“One of purity and goodness, just as the Dioúksis said in his first meetings with you,” another said.
The Prime made a noise, but one of his diplomats spoke: “All its threats. B’uf yï tsor. The Druyan’ians are just as corrupted in the mire as your people, lustful for the slaughter of man. Would you have us invade them as well to ensure your blood feud is truly over?”
“We would have you aid us to defend our home, our people, and our souls,” the Dioúksis answered. “In return for whatever it is that you wish: tomes of knowledge, swords to wage a crusade against the inhuman devils in Aqella, a desire I know your people have long wanted to satiate. Amphe has always been a home to Belanorians, whether as immigrants or pilgrims on the Holy Path. Just as Jira ne'Jiral here." All eyes turned to the woman of silver who refused to let herself shrink in her seat. “A Belanorian, orphaned as a child by the Druyans during a skirmish they launched. Taken in by my family to be raised as one of our own, but never allowed to forget her people. Let Amphe become a co-capital of Belanore. Let your people help bring salvation to our souls.”
The Prime stared hard at the woman of silver. She cursed the Dioúksis but could only curse him for so long before she had to curse herself. Her efforts had molded his mind around those memories to infiltrate the land—the trick of her people. A Belanorian orphan raised Aslofidorian. As good a cover as she could manage with what time she had. “You are Bela’norian?” the Prime asked, a smirk crossing his thin, death-pale lips. “A mutant with your silver eyes?”
“Bela’norian.”
“You were raised Aslofi’dorian, but you are not allowed to forget your people,” the Prime repeated the Dioúksis’s words. “Speak the law of our blood. Only a Bela’norian would know the law from the heart, not a book.”
“Ko yěs s yoz tsǐs ǐk widzor tǎ kek tǎ ban,” Jira replied with fluency matched only by a natural-born Belanorian. "Ko yěs s yoz tsǐs ǐk ki tǎ rotdǎ tǎ d’ap."
After a tense silence, the Prime responded, “You speak in the kǎpït. Kǎpït. Kǎpït. Good. Perhaps you are Bela’norian. Only in combat and prayer will we know for sure.”
“She was raised Aslofidordian; she does not know Belanorian combat-” one of the councilors began saying.
The Prime raised his hand. “A true Bela’norian fights as a Bela’norian regardless of upbringing. It is in our divine blood. Our divine mandate, as listed in The Codices and preached by our Sěktě.” Sěktě. The leading priesthood of Belanore and utilizing the Proto-form of the Belanorian language, dated as having once been the unified language of all of Khirn in the first generations after the fall of the Golden Lords. Subservient only to the Udsěktě, or the Archpatriarch who held comparable religious power in Belanore as the Eldest Augur of Aslofidor.
“So it is,” said the Dioúksis. “Will you join us? Help us against this unholy alliance between Hippon Aslofidor and the Druyans?”
The Prime considered for a moment. “Uyěs bu du. You make many offers to sway us to your side, Dioúksis Audax. Knowledge. Pilgrimage. Co-capital. Âh dok dǎtfě. Assistance in our crusade against the inhuman devils. In your eyes, I would be a fool to deny such an offer, would I not?”
“It is not in His decrees to judge those lost in ignorance,” Councilman Zetus challenged.
The Prime smiled sickly. “You quote me in mockery, Aslofi’dorian? Nushěk?”
Zetus, well within his element, shook his head. “I quote you in hopes that you see this is the best option for both of us. Consider what will happen if we are defeated. What if the Druyans choose to attack Belanore? What if, by some trickery of the Devil, Hippon allies himself with the Tahririans or the Veorisians.”
“No man would ally with the mongrels to the north,” said a Belanorian diplomat, hot anger in their croaking voice. “To do so would be the ultimate taint upon their soul.”
“Yet, he could do it. He has allied with our greatest enemy,” a councilman named Monocus countered. “What will stop him from joining the rest?”
“And what will stop Bela’nore from defending itself against him?” asked a diplomat.
“Numbers,” Zetus said bluntly. “With our forces and yours, we can eradicate him and the Druyans and accomplish our goals. Join me; help us defeat them. Save our souls from the damning actions of the monarchy, and we will do everything in our power to return to His light.”
The Prime snorted and turned his pallid gaze to Jira. “What say the Bela’norian? Would you have your people join you in this war, lost child? B’ǐk tsě bod’ tsu bod’ bïn?"
Jira kept her composure and stared hard into the Prime’s pinkish eyes, letting the lie carry her words. “I would my people cut the head off the serpent before it constricts the world. Îb’ ǐn ut vij. Sacrament.”
The Prime nodded, but a diplomat spoke. “Îb’ ǐn ut ozǎ. The lost child has voiced her mind and laid claim to Sacrament. We must choose, Tsěnsudz Pri. Izyǎ.”
The Prime breathed shallowly and stared at Jira for a long while before returning to the Dioúksis. “Wuv. By my command, I will have my warriors join you by the end of the next blood moon. Your city is large enough to house all of Bela’nore’s forces twice over.”
“And we will have the stockpiles to feed and supply,” the Dioúksis said. “I will place my best councilman here, Zetus Gogos, in charge of ensuring that this is all taken care of, given that he had the most rapport with you today.” The Dioúksis offered a chuckle at the end of this, visibly pleased that the Prime at least offered a smirk back.
“Wuv. My men and I will take our leave then on the morrow, Dioúksis Audax, but I will leave a token cadre of diplomats and guards here to keep things in order. Is this acceptable?”
“More than acceptable,” the Dioúksis answered. “I thank you again-”
“Gratitude should be saved until the war is over and compensation for our efforts can be dealt with.” The Prime rose to his feet, said his departing words, and left without a second glance to Jira ne’Jiral.
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“That was tense, but you did well,” Zetus grinned as he approached Jira and Nara-ward. The man was at least thirty years older than everyone else in the room. He stood hunched over, with long white hair running along the wizened cheeks of an aged man nearing his inevitable end. Kindly gray eyes stared at her with warmth and boundless adoration. Why did this man, of everyone else in this city, need to believe her lies? Why him?
“Thank you. I did my best,” she grinned back, the creases of her smile telling the hidden tale of tension. “It was terrifying, to say the least.”
“But you did it regardless of your fear. That is the mark of a true knight,” Zetus said, ignoring the signs. “Remember that, boy. Always face your fears and never balk. Never back down. Understand?”
Nara-ward stammered and nodded. “Y-yes, sir.”
“I taught him that well enough as a page,” Jira said with a chuckle. “And he certainly remembers that well enough in training.”
“Good,” Zetus smiled again. “Are you teaching him Tahririan or Aslofidorian fighting styles?”
“Both,” Jira answered. “The ability to switch in combat will benefit him when he becomes a full knight.”
“Yes, it will,” Zetus agreed. “Remember, boy, be light on your feet. And don’t trust armor to protect you through everything.”
“Armor doesn’t even protect me from wooden sticks,” Nara-ward bemoaned.
“Not with that attitude, it won’t,” Jira laughed, giving the boy a playful shove to bring out a nervous snicker.
Zetus joined in the joy before his face soured. “Can you believe it, Jira? All these years, we now stand on the brink of the greatest war of our age. The Most Noble willing that the Dioúksis can lead us to victory against the addled Vasileús and his, allegedly, I must admit, deviant Vasile.”
Behind him, the Dioúksis conversed with the other councilors, very loudly discussing plans for the encroaching armies of Druya and Vasileús Aslofidor. In three months, the word was said. Three months before they arrived at the chosen neutral grounds of Lydoros to the north of Amphe. Only a few weeks after the next blood moon, Jira thought. Would that be enough time to ensure the Belanorians were situated and set for war? Would they have enough time to mount up, meet the enemy, and hash out the impossible to satisfy final demands before blood was shed?
“It's hard to believe it,” Jira answered. “I was hopeful the only battle Nara would have to see in his life would be skirmishes against the Druyans or Veorisian barbarians—not a full-scale assault upon our homes, not sieges.”
“Keep teaching him, and he will see it through,” Zetus said, patting the boy on the head and ruffling his ashen hair. “Are you prepared for it, boy? To see the war that is to come?”
“I believe so!” Nara-ward answered as truthfully as he could manage.
Jira felt a ping of regret in her heart at his enthusiasm. She had seen too many wars in the Black Glass against the Giants, the Elves, and the Ibiras. She had not wanted that for the young boy, and she hoped that by the war’s end, she could be done with her mission and return home to forget that regret.