Year 212. Royal Alliance Caravan - Lydoros Highway - Khirn
“Our world today is one of words and talking, the art of the blade lost to the oceans. We will see wars fought entirely with dialogue and the shedding of blood limited to one man: the scapegoat.” - Acominatus, The Aureate Code Pg. 118, Par. 3.
ERIK APA
The caravan was moving as a unified force, hundreds of thousands strong. Sabatons, sandals, boots, hooves, and wheels trampled the grassy edges and cracked the cobbled stone of the broad highway leading into the vast diplomatic center of Lydoros, supposedly once used as the seat of power to the Golden Lords—where the Church of the Augurs was founded in the words of Acominatus’ brother, Lonius. Sunlight broke through a cloudy sky in rays, settling on various patches of luminescent flowers and clusters of vibrant colossal trees nearly as tall as the buildings in Heracla. Their bark was a burnt brown with streaks of midnight black forming geometric shapes in chaotic patterns, topped with bushels of green and red so thick as to appear fluffy and soft. Compared to Druyan, a vast swath of savanna and the rare rainforest fit for warriors and hunters, Aslofidor was a disgustingly lush place suitable only for the philosopher and the meek.
He rode a splendid steed through this landscape, a massive red courser in a full bard enameled a rainbow of colors after his armor. The Spear of E’grn was held in his right hand, held upright in a stiff manner like a banner, while his left hand held the reins of his horse. He was in the middle of the host’s vanguard, leading his cohort with a purpose beyond simple violence slowly brewing in his heart as the words of his new woman replayed themselves in his subconscious.
Akma Yal rode beside him atop his steed, a black destrier draped in silks with a golden chamfron protecting its face. He wore his full crimson lamellar, helmet covering his head entirely, with only the visage of an attacking serpent providing any semblance of emotion to his countenance. But Erik Apa knew what his second’s expression was. Concern and regret for his decision to bring the woman to camp. “Tohyi, are you sure this is wise? Having her for a night or two or even a week is one thing, but taking her to Lydoros is profoundly different.”
Erik Apa sighed, casting a wayward glance to his second and allowing the subtle whirring of his lenses to indicate disapproval at the comment. “You brought her to camp for my use, and I shall do so as I see fit,” he stated, confirming that disapproval. “If I wish to bring her to Lydoros, I will.”
Akma Yal bowed his head. “Of course, Tohyi. I know that I brought her here for such things, but will your mother and the other men-”
“My mother is too busy with the politics of this country to care about what I do in my tent,” he grunted with an air of dismissal. “And the men, yourself included, must remember that I am Maprapeyni.”
“Of course, Tohyi,” Akma Yal said. “I did not mean to offend.”
Erik Apa shot a short burst of laughter from his lungs. “You have not offended me, Akma Yal. I am just remembering my position in this army and my potential within it.”
He felt Akma Yal’s expression turn neutral behind his helmet’s face. “Yes, Tohyi. I will ensure no man or woman in our ranks derides your decision.”
Erik Apa straightened his back. “I care not if they do, but see that they do not attempt to bring their own companions to camp. The law is still in place for them. We do not need the camp descending into debauchery.”
Akma Yal nodded and returned his attention to the forward march. The woman in question was far behind them, locked away in hiding within a two-story wagon house intended for the more esteemed non-combatants, all deemed necessary for the upcoming diplomacies at Lydoros. Members of Aslofidorian Houses like Kroiso, Philon, Erehthus, and Akamus inhabited that mobile construct alongside Machkima and Tupria like Akse Bas, Ogut Akg, and Aziz Ter. Erik Apa had stated that her presence or her purpose in that place and the caravan was not to be oppugned by anyone. That she would inform him if any of them did just that. Silence, he hoped, filled that wagon house. He hoped his position within the hierarchy of Druya and the alliance was respected.
“Iren Ney is inert on his horse, Tohyi,” said the suddenly appearing Goka Tur, outfitted in lamellar with his face still painted. He rode a beast similar to Akma Yal. “The effects of withdrawal from the howler are hitting him hard. I ordered Ulek Aks and Yola Tal to ensure he does not fall from his mount.”
“Good,” Erik Apa replied in a curt voice. “I take it you also ordered them that if he falls regardless, we are to leave him behind, correct?”
“Tohyi?” His eyes narrowed. “That does not seem wise. If left behind in his current state, he will die or cause panic throughout the countryside.”
“The Aslofidorian countryside is vaster than our plains, Goka Tur,” he snorted. “He will die, and that will be that. His mother will give us one of her better sons, and we will move on.”
Goka Tur hummed. “If you are so against him being in the cohort, why not transfer or kill him now?”
“I have thought of it,” Erik Apa admitted. “I even told Akma Yal to execute him if he became addled again. But it would cause more headaches than anything else, even with my mother’s laws. His death in the country due to his weakness will ease her other sons’ integration. She won’t be fearful for their lives.”
“They are quite the upstarts in her family, I hear,” Goka Tur commented with a far-away voice, his face scrunched as he visibly recalled the tales of these sons. “Erki and Demi proved quite capable against the Aqellan raiders when they were sent to the coast for excursions.”
“I hear they killed the pirate Narbet Uydark during that time,” Akma Yal added. “An Elven mercenary, I believe, in service to the pirate lord Silnor Arnala.”
“Silnor,” Erik Apa growled, the memory of that leper beast burned into his sight.
“A longstanding foe to Druyan,” Akma Yal commented. “More beast than man, they say. Unkillable.”
Erik Apa scoffed. “Everything is killable, and I will kill that man upon a day.”
“Having her sons in our cohort would better help us understand his force’s fighting styles,” Goka Tur said.
“Perhaps I will bring them into the cohort regardless of their brother’s status.”
Goka Tur nodded. “It would go a long way in securing their mother’s continued service to you.”
Akma Yal agreed after a moment’s silence. “And keeping your family in charge of the Mitsi come the Hupye Yetmata. A better alternative to Iren Ney’s death.”
“Hence my sentiment that transfer would be preferable to outright death,” Goka Tur concluded.
Erik Apa brooded on this as the clouds broke for some time and allowed the sun to beat down on them without hindrance. A distant roll of thunder sounded in the sky like the beat of a million war drums. Far to the southeast, approaching the slowly forming town of Lydoros, great darkness had gathered. Spears of lightning split the sky in phalanx formations, while shields of residual light kept portions of the darkness of those clouds to a dried, inky gray. The contrast helped him compose his thoughts.
The Hupye Yetmata was a period within Druya during which all those in power within the realm would gather in a grand ceremony in the capital of Vaauta Ujad to test the purity of the associated family’s connection to Druyan’s latent mystharinic power. The Houses of the Machkim, Tupri, and Mitsi had always been able to use it far more extensively than the rest of their population, possessive of a relatively unaltered bloodline strongly connected to humanity’s Aqellan origins. Across his wars, the Runemaster had learned of several people of Khirn who were of such bloodlines, but they were seen as anomalies and blessed. More often than not, their abilities were used in a subconscious manner such as physical improvements rather than anything active. This power was passed down from member to member of the bloodlines, and the ranks in the Druyan hierarchy never changed unless a family was killed in a war or a particular family was ousted by their enemies. For centuries, the Apas had proven the greatest and thus remained in charge of the runes—the Mitsi, the most potent form of mystharin still residing with Khirn. By association, they ruled Druyan, much to the concern and fury of Aslofidor and Belanore. Politics, as much as he loathed to admit it, still infested his homeland.
“You may be right,” he finally admitted, almost under his breath. Akma Yal and Goka Tur shared glances across him. “Goka, once we make camp again, send a bird to Ney and present my offer to place her sons within my cohort at the price of transferring Iren back home. Explain every necessary detail. Understood?”
“Yes, tohyi,” Goka Tur said with a grin. “Iren will have to stay with us during our time at Lydoros, however, and likely through the campaign for a few months more.”
“Fine enough, as long as he keeps his head clear,” Erik Apa grumbled. “Keep him away from the drink. Water only.”
“Of course, tohyi.”
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Year 212. Lydoros - Khirn
JIRA ne’JIRAL
Lydoros. In any other place, it should have been considered a city. A metropolis even. Capital of an entire nation. Not a town. Yet, it was considered a town—all six-hundred-fifty squared miles. The size was ludicrous to Jira, for it gave her the ability to truly appreciate the absolute audaciousness of Amphe and the further incomprehensibility of Khirn and Aqella. Here, a population of nearly ten million people awaited the meeting that would decide their future safety and their future allegiance. It was set half-and-half over the second-largest river in Aslofidor, Meion Tesul, which connected to the largest river known as the Meion Nyxos, which served ports and farming villages. The northern and southern halves were connected by a movable bridge that raised either of its sides into the sky like shields, and the space between the two halves was wide enough for entire fleets of galleys to sail through unimpeded.
Only a contingent of a few thousand of Dioúksis Audax’s forces with the Belanorians entered that town for this diplomatic meeting, Jira included. The rest remained stationed outside the city’s walls, adopting defensive positions and waiting for what could have been the inevitable.
For the time being, she could enjoy the solitude of being just another face in a train of armored flesh and stylish clothing mixed with Aslofidorian and Belanorian faces. She looked to her right, meeting the wide, stressed eyes of Nara-ward. “Are you okay, boy?” she asked him in a near motherly tone.
“Yes, Lady ne’Jiral,” he lied. He could see that she noticed his lie and sighed. “I’m just worried, is all. This is an important meeting, and if it goes wrong, then...well, Devil, take our souls.”
“Yes, it will be quite a travesty if it goes wrong,” Jira admitted, much to his unveiled dread, prompting her to quickly add: “But you and I will be fine. You won’t partake in the fighting, and I am quite adept at surviving tragedies.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I know you’ll be fine, but the hatred between everyone has been rising the past few months. And hate is terrible for the spirit, Crius says, and the good of the land.”
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“More with the Crius wisdom,” Jira laments with a smile. “I thought he would be out of reach this far from Amphe, but even here, his words still pierce the ear.”
Nara-ward sighed. “Crius is a wise man, Lady ne’Jiral. You could...do well yourself to learn some spirituality from him too. He is almost Belanorian in his piety.”
“That is quite the claim, Nara,” Jira laughed. “Has he quoted the Codices as frequently as they do?”
“In almost every lecture, he finds a way to bring several sections to context, often in more ways than one,” Nara-ward answered. “He has even drawn comparisons to Tahririan beliefs. It is comforting, to say the least.”
“Maybe you should have warded for him to become a priest instead of me to become a knight,” Jira suggested.
“You chose me, Lady ne’Jiral,” Nara-ward smirked. “Besides, can I not be both? A crusader like the Belanorians?”
Jira shrugged. “You can; it will just extend your lessons.” She thought for a moment as the train came to a momentary stop. “Hell below, if you want, you can consider spending some of your squireship in Belanore once this ordeal is done, assuming everything goes well.”
Nara-ward’s eyes widened at this. “Are you sure that’s allowed? Aren’t I required to stay in the same city as you?”
“Unless otherwise specified,” Jira said. “Considering how much Crius’ lessons have affected you, I would be willing to let you go.”
Before Nara-ward could answer, a great shout of commotion erupted from the front of the train. Jira turned her gaze toward it, her mouth drying at the horrible thought that everything had just fallen apart before the meeting began. She pushed her way toward it, bustling past row after row of plate mail until she broke the front lines of the train, bearing witness to the cause of the commotion. Dioúksis Audax, the Prime, and a host of Audax’s most excellent diplomats and royal guards stood before a cluster of Druyan and loyalist soldiers. Each of them bore steel and shield, their stances apprehensive. Pure crimson scale armor for the children of Druyan, their helms sharp and elaborate, bearing the visors of sea beasts. Green and black plate for those of the Vasileús, frog-mouth helms smooth and simple. Uncountable sets of eyes stared at the situation in the streets from the lines of half-mile-tall crisscrossed buildings around them. Some from alleys, some from windows, some from the side of the street, and some from doorways.
“What is the meaning of this?” the commander of the Dioúksis’ royal guard growled. “We were to remain unaccosted until we arrived at the Iris. How dare you impede us?”
“Calm yourself,” one of the loyalists hissed. “We aren’t here to fight, as much as we’d love to. Vasileú Hippon and his councilors requested that we lead you to them for easier travel and to ensure our honorable alliance with Druya is upheld.”
“Already doubting your agreement with the Druyans, kinsman?” the commander grimly chortled.
“Careful, Petos. Do not put undue stress on already tight bindings,” Zetus Gogos warned. “I would not see the day ruined before it even began.”
“A wise man you are, despite all this,” the loyalist said. “Follow us and see this ordeal end.”
Through winding streets filled with landmarks of beauty and honor, they marched. They marched as the clouds above them swelled with rain and darkened with thunder. As lightning split the sky, they marched until they reached the Iris—an open-air theater constructed in the center of the town, halved by a creek-thin arm of the river with an unmoving stone bridge connecting both sides. The stage was simple white marble topped with polished timber and decorated with the twin statues of Lydoros’ foremost philosophers of old: Illyius and Satros. Brave men with more honor than a Nujant Chhank archaeologist. Jira wished they could be present in flesh and blood today rather than cold stone and history.
“Be calm, and do nothing that could jeopardize this if you get called on for any reason by the Prime,” Zetus warned her. “Understood?”
The theater seats were filled within the hour of the Dioúksis’ arrival. The south side was filled with the Dioúksis’s procession, while the north was filled with the alliance of Aslofidor and Druyan. A man fatter than any fat man Jira had ever seen presided over the meeting, robed in silks far too delicate for his girthy frame. Two chins hung over the collar of his shirt, wobbling with every minor movement he made. He motioned to those of the north. Hippon the Ninth, dressed in full battle garb, and a woman who could only be Runearch Ezel Apa, along with a cadre of two dozen councilors dressed in green open-faced robes with black gloves, sat on cushioned seats overlooked by the statue of Illyius. On the south side, Dioúksis Audax, his councilors, and the Prime took their seats. Jira and Nara-ward sat in the theater, breath bated. The sky cracked with the roar of thunder, lightning flashing white and blue, yet no rain fell. A dry storm. Ominous in Aqella. Dangerous in Khirn.
“What will happen if it starts raining?” Nara-ward asked above the quieting hum of chatter.
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “Postponing. Continuing. I’m not sure.”
“Ladies and gentlemen of Aslofidor, Druyan, and...Belanore,” the fat man began, momentarily pausing as his eyes fully absorbed the sight of the Belanorians. I welcome you to this most auspicious of gatherings. We are here to discuss the terms of peace between Vasileús Hippon Aslofidor, eighth of his name, and Dioúksis Polydius Audax, second of his name.”
“Where is your king?” the Prime of Belanore immediately spoke up, staring hard at the Vasileú as he interrupted the fat man.
“He is grave with illness,” the Vasileú answered as the tension of the interruption filled the storm-dense air. “I am here in his stead per my mother’s request.”
“Ah, the Vasiles of Crows,” the Prime grunted, his voice a seething death rattle. “Her absence is also notable. I take it she is caring for your father?”
“Yes, she is, for she is a dutiful queen,” the Vasileú answered. “Surely your wife would do the same for you?”
“Bela’norians do not fall ill, Vasileú Hippon,” the Prime said. “We are a robust people.”
“Right,” the Vasileú said. “As it is, I am taking over my father’s role and will see this meeting go smoothly lest war kills us all unless that is what you are here to declare.”
“War is not what we are here to declare at all,” Zetus Gogos stated, cutting off the Dioúksis before any damning words could be said. “We are here to negotiate peace before blood is spilled.”
“And what terms must be met for this peace to last?” Runearch Ezel asked. Jira regarded her with a mix of awe and fear. She was similar to her son in aura and only slightly smaller in stature, with dark hair shorn to the scalp and a batch of scars visible across her stone-carved face. Her armor had been painted black for the occasion, with streams of red and gold forming glyphic markings across the plate.
The Dioúksis answered, “That my Duchy is given to me as its own nation, its own kingdom. Amphe and all of my territories will be considered separate from the Vasileúsdom of Aslofidor for as long as I, my family, and all of my family’s cadet branches survive.”
“You ask the world from us,” the Vasileú guffawed as a boom of lightning flashed blue across the theater. “You declare open rebellion to the crown and seek to separate your lands from its control and your own crown given to you as a reward?”
“He seeks to have the peace of life for his people without the threat of the crown taking more than he can give and strangling them when he cannot,” Zetus Gogos retorted.
Murmurs spread like fire across the theater.
“More than he can give?” the Vasileú asked, incredulous, rising from his seat to an outcry from those in the theater. “He rules the largest city in all of Khirn, perhaps the world, capable of sustaining the densest population in all of its histories, and claims that he cannot give to the crown?”
“He cannot give more than he does already, Vasileú Hippon,” said another councilor—a woman of respected age and wizened countenance. “You ask much already. Amphe provides constant for its people, yes. The city never starves, but Khirn is vast, and Aslofidor establishes new settlements every year across its expansive landscape. For one city alone to be responsible for not only the baronies and the other duchies but its own territory and all others it might seek to establish proves increasingly difficult each year, and soon, the ability to be the City that Never Starves will be taken from us.”
“The City that Never Starves now faces the risk of starvation when called to provide its usable excess. We ask for what the Dioúksis can provide his liege, nothing more, and that alone is enough to feed five duchies,” the Vasileú countered. “This is a farce. I have wasted my time-”
“Quiet yourself, Vasileú,” Runearch Ezel calmed, practically pulling the young man back into his seat. “Still your temper, or be silenced.”
The Vasileú collected his breath after the shock of being so rudely handled wore off.
“Your city is, arguably, the greatest in all of Khirn. The fact that it remains the home of a Dioúksis rather than the Vasileús should be a testament to the trust that the Vasileús has in you, Dioúksis Audax,” the Runearch explained. “It sustains a way of life that should be impossible for its size. You have entire stretches of farmland within it, I’m told. Surely, you can give more than enough to the crown and then some, as the Vasileú has stated. Yet you have declared open rebellion and given that as a reason?”
“It is reason enough,” Zetus said. “As we have stated, the demands have grown over the years. Yes, Amphe is blessed, but even it has limits. Crops take time. Animals must grow. In a few decades’ time, we will be strained with how much we must give to the Vasileús’s holdings, especially as the winter months grow harsher each year.”
Runearch Ezel shook her head. “No. Such reasoning joins all previous ones that have fallen flat of the truth that lies so greedily against your tongues. Say that Amphe loses its reputation as the City that Never Starves. What about your other settlements? Your other farms? Are your other holdings capable of providing? I would think they are, Dioúksis. So, as Vasileús Hippon and many others have asked...why have you done this? Why have you declared rebellion? The truth, this time, Dioúksis Audax, and we may be able to discuss proper terms of peace.”
Silence. Silence passed through every soul in that theater as they awaited the Dioúksis’s response. Only the wind and the thunder provided sound to their ears.
“We are seeking to live free of the Vasileús’s sins,” the Dioúksis answered bluntly, much to his councilors’ sudden, shocked stares.
“My Lord,” Zetus Gogos tried to say.
But Dioúksis Audax would not let him. “The truth was said when I declared myself and my holdings free from the Vasileús, yet the audacity of it must have remained lost in the minds of those I swore my sword against. Sin. Sin, evil, betrayal, and the machinations of a dark witch and a vile, rotted man.”
“My Lord! Please!” Zetus Gogos pleaded.
“You insult my father so brazenly?” the Vasileú burned, rising to his feet again and reaching for his hammer. “You dare?”
The Dioúksis rose to meet him, marching across the stage as his royal guard and councilors rushed after him. Jira’s heart raced with worry at the scene, doubled by the growing roar of the crowd around her. The Prime remained seated the entire time. “Your father is an addled, old man incapable of seeing your mother for what she is. A witch. A traitor! Consorting with those who will doom us all!”
“My Lord!” the councilors shouted in tandem, though their voices were drowned in the din of rage within the theater.
“Blasphemy!” the Vasileú boomed, slapping away Runearch Ezel’s hand as she attempted to pull him back. “What truth do you have to lay such a claim upon my family?”
“The truth of what I have seen!” the Dioúksis retorted. “I have seen her crimes for myself. The results of her arrogance, her vanity, her insolence!”
“My Lord, this is not the time or place!” Zetus Gogos wailed, trying with all his aged might to pull the Dioúksis back into the safety of his royal guard.
The Dioúksis bellowed with unrestrained rage, the meeting falling apart as instantly as Jira feared. “I have seen her betray us all! I have seen her walk the glooms denying the guidance of our savior, and He demands that I-”
Zetus Gogos finally managed to begin pulling his liege back into the guard. “My Lor-”
Jira finished the scream for him. Everyone around her finished the scream for him.
Zetus Gogos was a fine man. One of the finest Jira ne’Jiral had ever seen in her time. He was a man who had taught her many things in the art of diplomacy, subtle changes in tone and inflection, and the ability to read faces. Under his tutelage, she had learned the languages of the Belanorians, the Veorisians, the Tahririans, and the Druyans. She had learned histories and fictions of Khirn to rival that of the finest Nujant Chhank and Orcin scholars. He had been a second father when her first had failed her.
The man screamed only the first syllable of a scream when his head became inverted. Where had once been flesh, muscle, and cartilage now rested open bone and dangling fibers. Blood spilled like cake batter down his body as he twitched with the last vestiges of life, the gurgles of a voice that should have been screaming bubbling at the hole of his opened neck. His thrashing broke his spine, his brain stem tearing like old parchment, and his head lulled so much that part of his skull broke open to reveal the inside of the face within. He fell to the ground, defecating and urinating in the throes of humiliation. His final lesson to the woman he had thought of as a closest friend.
A lesson she had to carry for the rest of her days.