Year 215. Gortinda - Khirn
“When the Nujant Chhank actually fought, putting down their books and their stories, that is when I felt the greatest fear of my life. You cannot beat them. You can only hope to survive.” - Acominatus, On the Nujant Chhank Pg. 8, Par. 3.
GÍLA SENGHU
They were outnumbered. The army of Dioúksis Audax, these Akaios Opos, had arrived in force, ready to fight on behalf of their lord and protect their home. Five thousand strong set to purpose and gripping their emotions into temperance until the fight was to begin truly. The garrison of Gortinda was equally strong in number, though less equipped in gear. Ten thousand total, ready to defend the village—the flank into the Dioúksis's territory—with their lives. The Vasileús' army, heralded by a man dressed in glaringly bright armor, was fifteen thousand strong. Druyans and Aslofidorians both.
It had begun at six in the morning when the sun peaked over the crest of the rolling hills to the west and bathed the grasslands surrounding Gortinda in a golden aura. Around the camp, the night's fires and the restless died down to tiny flickers of embers and thin plumes of translucent smoke. Blue and black chequered tents opened up to birth hundreds of plate-armored knights and thousands more rank-and-file. Pristine banners with the eagle sigil of the Dioúksis stood proud in the light morning wind. Knights and horses trotted through the growing crowds, equally armored or dressed in thick caparisons emblazoned like the banners. It was a painting that was quickly given a fresh coat of paint, a new layer of detail.
Gíla smiled at it and blinked the images to memory before turning to the sound of powerful voices. Close to her, the ranks of the Akaios Opos armed and armored themselves while listening to the virtuous rhetoric of the wandering priests. These priests intrigued her only if for their distinct palette compared to the rest of the world. They wore sun-gold robes with veils that covered the entirety of their face and which continued into a cape that rest comfortable over their shoulders and ran to the small of their back. They operated in teams of four, which were further surrounded by utterly silent guardians who were even more curious in appearance. They bore sun-gold robed armor, with the metal that was visible beyond the robes being so black it appeared as if they were shadow itself. Their morion helmets were without a visor or face guard, but their features could never be seen. According to a friendly enough suggestion from one of the dissidents, it was a wise Khirnian practice to not attempt to see what the guardians looked like beneath their helmets, though refused to explain beyond that. She took the advice to heart, and focused, instead on what they bore as weapons. Two of these guardians, which numbered five per group, were equipped with white-birch longbows. Two more were armed with longswords and round oak shields, both of them also white. The last of these guardians was always equipped with a sizeable maul with a spiked head.
The Church of Augurs, one of the leading practices of worship in Khirn, second only to the Belanorian Sěktě.
From one of these groups, she heard the prayer: "Highest and Most Noble of Virtues, send these warriors of Your Holy Land to battle with the blessings of kinship and strength. Allow them to prosper over the wicked ways of their foes and bring about a new golden age for these lands. Lend them Your Sword to burn away the sins of the corrupt. Lend them Your Ear so their cries are not drowned in the mire of blood to come. Lend them Your Hand so the fallen souls can reach You in Heaven Above and rest in Your loving Grace. In His name, sarem."
She once again cemented the images into remembrance. Like the camp itself, her comrades' acceptance of the priests' blessed gifts was almost like a painting with the glowing rays of sunlight above them, as if their god was actually with them at that moment.
Soon, the air was filled with the sweet stench of holy oils the Harbingers slathered onto their weapons. This inevitably and unfortunately mingled with the stink of mortals' and animals' body waste and the aroma of last meals. It seemed that bacon and eggs were the dishes of choice for such people on their way to violence.
Gíla flickered away from the observations upon the sequential cries of ten horns and began a last-minute inspection of the integrity of her armor. She had quickly learned that Dioúksis Audax was a lord who prided themself on the ability of their army to match the Vasileús' own and thus procured a collection of "as-new" sets of stylized surcoats, mail hauberks, gambesons, sabatons, greaves and forward-facing leg armor, arm guards, and barbute helmets. Each of the aedo was expected, of course, to provide their own garments to wear underneath the armor. Gíla's own set was modified yet limited for her unique stature, primarily comprised of resized vambraces, greaves, a surcoat bearing the coat of arms of the Dioúksis, and a padded gambeson with her pale undergarments. The toughness of her hide had made the need for mail or even leather jerkin an unnecessary expense, which she was more than happy to oblige with as it meant someone else could likely use what she could not.
"You think you're ready, bear?" asked a voice as deep as ocean trenches and volcanic vents within them.
Gíla clenched her jaw and looked up from the fastenings of her left bracer. It was a voice that instilled the type of terrified reaction that could lead to the creation of tyrants. None in the aedo could stand it for long, she had learned. Yet, she forced a smile as she took in the familiar sight of Loukas Tamasos, one of her hoplitus and perhaps the most faithful, albeit dour, man in the camp. Armored in worn, unembellished steel plate, Tamasos was a grizzled bulldog with a rough battle-damaged face and a build to match. They likely would have been a bishop or cardinal in another life, though their voice certainly would have attributed them more to fire-and-brimstone than anything inspirational. As it was, their calling was the sword, and they had sworn it to the rebel Dioúksis for the same reasons the rebellion was called into action.
"The Highest is great that he did," some would say in the quietest hours. "The Dioúksis would'a lost had Tamasos been opposing him, no doubt."
"As ready as I can be," Gíla finally said as straight as she could manage, filing the remembered words away. She looked at a group of nearby vikion and rank-and-file finishing the application of their oils and chattering about the deluge of righteous blood they were set to wash in. "But if you ask the others the same question, you'd say I was more ready to pack up and leave," she muttered.
Loukas narrowed their steel-gray eyes and shared her gaze. "Do you have a problem with their enthusiasm?"
"No, hoplitus," Gíla quickly covered, returning to confirm that her left bracer was secure. I was comparing my readiness to theirs and how they probably view it."
Loukas clicked their tongue before they stared to the far left, eyeing something through the tents and crowds the Bear Maiden could not see. Their permanent frown somehow grew when they returned their gaze to Gíla. "You're going to want to get yourself situated with your new equipment soon."
Gíla glanced up at the hoplitus. "Is my weapon ready?"
Loukas nodded. "Yes. War hammer and all."
Gíla's eyes flashed with a mixture of relief and despair filled her as the words fully settled in her mind. "So this is it?" she asked with a raised eyebrow. "I am to fight on the front lines?"
Loukas shrugged and clicked their tongue again, "And hopefully scare the bastards off. Don't expect them to. Druyans deal with inhumans all the time on their coast. Be prepared to fight for your life. We have minimal siege emplacements; we have no calvary beyond the horses meant for our limited elite; they outnumber us, and any chance of reinforcement is lost unless we can hold them here for half a month for the Brazen Bulls to arrive as reported."
Gíla rose to her feet, casting a great shadow over the one who made her feel so small. "So..."
"So we make our stand. We catch them in the field north of Gortinda and—if necessary—drag them back into the village for urban warfare. But we keep them back, no matter what."
"Would it not be wiser to defend inside Gortinda to start? Depleat their forces with what siege weapons we have and our archers?"
Loukas snorted and gave a look of grim sympathy. "Yes. That is what we should be doing. That is what any sensible army would do. Lead them into attrition, let them burn themselves. But glory and ascension to those who fight in wars where death is the only outcome. Or so our illustrious tumathios would like to think and have us follow."
"Meaning?"
"Martyrdom. In His name. Damned be the rest of us."
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The thunder of footsteps and resounding psalms from the accompanying priests served as an orchestra for the march, matched only by the whispers of discontent, worry, and awe at her presence in the front lines of the Harbingers' horde. Beat after beat of metallic grinding and stomping and conversing. Ten thousand moving as one to meet in the middle against fifteen thousand. Gíla's wandering eyes took in the details of such a force and those of the distant but growing mass of King's Men to the north. Where the Vasileús's army was comprised of distinct groups—Druyan and Aslofidorian—the Dioúksis's army was formed out of a single force divided into twenty-five companies, accompanied by a contingent of three thousand from Gortinda's garrison and a host of defensive siege emplacements on Gortinda's walls.
More organized and functional, moving to fight a less mechanical but far more significant force. Only the shield walls were truly what they shared, though the Harbingers measured it as an entire company. Uncounted among the Harbingers' numbers were knight squires, serfs, priests, horses such as coursers and larger destriers for the limited elite, and the tumathios. Gíla broke her analytical examination of the army she fought for to look at that person with momentary awe and frustration. Tumathios Menoitios, a stout human leading the march in pale-gray plate with a helm fashioned after a hissing serpent. A bastard sword of a unique one-edged design was sheathed across their back.
Gíla returned to her examination, the routine nature of it quelling the rising fear in her belly. The Akaios Opos were one of the more passionate and faithful units of the Dioúksis's entire military. For them, the Most Noble was their sword seeking to undo the crimes of who they had dubbed: "the False Vasileús" or "the Corrupted Monarch." As she moved in line with such people, she took note of their banner of arms high above the crowd. It was appropriate, given everything else. In the ocean of steel, her companions were identified by a square flag merging the Dioúksis's eagle sigil on the blue-black chequered field with their own: a golden eye surrounded by a radiant circle of sunbeams, ever staring outward in endless vigilance.
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After some time, the young Nujant Chhank further took note of the field that would soon be a battleground. The verdant, green landscape was smile-wide, with no visible forests or civilization beyond Gortinda behind them. Its earth was firm and baked warm by the rising sun, and the sky was clear of any clouds, providing good traction and clear visibility. She had recognized this as a theme in some of the books she had read a few years prior. Of course, those books were of battles in ages past when mortals fought with bronze rather than iron and steel, when infantry formations were a momentary thing rather than an established facet of war.
She briefly recalled the tale of Acominatus, a Golden Lord who had engaged his mortal nemesis Stauricius, a Ger, in the deserts of Proto-Tahrir. Two armies of grotesque size engaged in brutal combat with no structure or plan beyond winning at all costs. The sands were soaked with blood, and barbarians hollered as they slipped and tumbled over one another. Ultimately, it was a phyric victory for Acominatus, who had personally slain Stauricius but lost almost the entirety of his military to the chaos and struggle of the battle.
"Gíla!"
Gíla turned her snapped aware gaze to the left of her toward the source of the question. Gold-green eyes met her vibrant gold, and she sighed with a slight frown of confusion. Of all the warriors in the aedo, Alden Rasidaios had to be the youngest and certainly the most energetic. No more than sixteen years of age, Alden was merely a farmer's child who just learned how to pick up a blade and had been training under the men-at-arms for the past two years until they were allowed to fight. They were as bright-eyed as they were brightly-haired as a result, driven by the legends of the knights fighting in the Dioúksis's rebellion, and somehow held more optimism than anyone else Gíla had encountered thus far in her long journey across Khirn. More importantly, they were one of the few to attempt to talk with and learn about her people.
"Alden? What are you doing here?" she asked the young one, drawing more murmurs from those around her as her voice carried unnaturally far.
"I got moved up by Liohagos Alexias," they answered with a thin veil over their overexcitement at the promotion. "Wants me to reinforce the aedo's vanguard. Said I was proven strong like my father and thought I'd be good in the wall."
Gila's face scrunched. "I picked you for one of the heavy hitters, but not in the shield wall."
Alden shrugged with as bright a grin as they could manage. "That is what I assumed, too, but Alexias put me in. I am somewhat disappointed because I got separated from my friends, but I mean...the shield wall! That's the start of legends!"
Gíla shook her head. "Just be sure not to get yourself hurt, Alden," she warned. "You are young. Keep yourself safe and traditional with this role. Do not do anything outside the line."
The young one nodded. "I promise!" they squeaked. "Why'd you say you were here, by the way? In Khirn, I mean. Obviously not to serve in the shield wall."
"I am a historian," Gíla answered after considering the best and most straightforward way to describe herself.
Alden snapped their fingers. "That! Historian. Big job. Is that a common role of your people?"
"Yes, it is. What I am doing specifically isn't that common, however. My people aren't exactly fighters for foreign people."
"What makes you so different?" they asked.
"I-" she stopped and hummed gutturally, and then said: "Me fighting here is for the greater good of a situation that quickly neared ruin. This will save it."
Gíla missed whatever Young Alden said in response, briefly shifting her gaze to a passing horse and another following it, both mounted by sterling knights. One stout and thick, the other thin and lissom. Their badges marked them as officers, fully dressed in the shining steel plate armor of the Harbingers' elite veterans. In line with the sigil of the Dioúksis, their helms had been designed to resemble eagles with beaks and wings on either side of the helm's face and various other embellishments that made them more serviceable as ceremonial than practical armor. The stout bore a mighty hammer across their back, wrapped in dark blue bindings, while the other held an elaborate bow with a dual-chamber quiver on their left hip.
"Them knights appear powerful, don't they?" stated Alden, voice spiced with awe at the sight of the armored spectacles. "Can't see their faces, but I bet that big-set fellow is Eos the Colossus. I heard he slew one hundred men in his heyday in a single battle. Back when he served the Vasileús. He was said to be one of his most loyal. An executioner, almost. The Vasileús must've done something terrible, after all, if Eos had fought with us. And that other one must be Astera the Sharpgaze. She's a wisp on the battlefield, I hear. You see death before you see her arrows."
"Let's hope they can keep that reputation for us should the need arise," Gíla murmured.
Alden reached over with their hand and patted the woman on her back. "Ha, well, I guess we don't have to worry whether they can. Not when we have the...the...the Bear Maiden watchin' out for us! You'll slay two hundred! I am sure of it."
Gíla smiled widely. "The Bear Maiden? I like that."
"You'll do right by us," squawked the young one, their fist tightening to white knuckles. "Ain't going to let no stinkin' Druyan break through our lines. We got the Bear Maiden with us!"
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"What in His Holy Name is that?"
This was the general screech of protest from the Vasileús's army after they became aware of Gíla's presence. At first, this question was asked in fearful protest, then furious, then righteous.
"Are you ready for this, bear?" the Tumathios asked as they rode by on their horse, sword drawn in preparation for announcing the charge.
Gíla could only nod as the fear of what would come choked the words in her throat. She noted that the commander of the Vasileús's army, a human in shining armor, had done the same with their sword.
The battle began shortly after in standard fashion. Perhaps it was done out of mutual respect or habit, but the initial moments of the fight were done in the traditional fare of shield-wall combat without any interference from the rest save the lines of archers. With a wave of their weapons and a cry of commands, the walls of the Vasileús and the Dioúksis formed and began to march upon each other, shouting their battle cries and insults. Archers on either side naturally attempted to stymy the approaches but only succeeded in wounding some and killing none.
The siege weapons on either side did nothing.
Once the walls were nearly three spears' length away from each other, they charged. Iron and steel clashed as a symphony in the moment of collision. Gíla and her lines of the aedo rushed to position as the breakers shortly thereafter, each one armed with a greatsword, pike, war hammer, or halberd to pull, smash, or crack.
"By the Most Noble! They have an inhuman. They align themselves with the inhumans!" the King's Men roared in disgust, to which others in the Dioúksis's army roared back in denial, proclaiming their innocence and the refusal to believe that the Dioúksis would so willingly align with a freak from Aqella. A mistake, they said, but one they had to respect until battle's end. This only served to begin the shattering of the tradition the armies had opted to follow for the battle's opening.
Gíla watched with wide eyes as the violence erupted from such a collection of stories and fates. The front lines were frequently rotated to allow rest and recovery, a method of preserving army structure put into motion by the veterans who rode by on their horses. Minutes that felt like days passed without much change, aside from the deaths here and there that doused the combatants in viscera. Gíla struck out with her hammer with every opening, careening her poor victims into oblivion with the crowd behind them. Alden—braced with a halberd—held their position through it all, praying and devoting their farmer's strength to keep the line held.
"Hold the fucking line! Keep these bastards held back!" Tumathios Menoitios roared from behind Gíla. "Don't give these bastards any leverage! Hold the damned line!"
But the path to hell was set like the sudden, unexpected checkmate in a game of chess. Nothing could stop it.
Gíla had no idea where it had come from. Neither did Alden or anyone else she would ask in the coming years. In an instant, there was a resounding crack of thunder, a bright flash of brilliant white that enveloped everything. In that instant, she saw herself crashing into a terrible machine of worlds, giants of metal standing in front of her in furious anger. She saw an old man in regal robes shifting in her place, waving his hands in some arcane practice. And when the brilliant white began to fade, she saw an orb of onyx. Perfectly spherical, covered in red, glowing runes.
When it had cleared, both walls had shattered completely. Gíla was thrown back from the shockwave of it, landing flat on her back as dozens were flung into the air like screaming puppets. Her eyes were blinded in those moments. Her sense of smell and hearing numbed to only the faintest traces. Her ability to touch was lost. She felt as if she was floating on a cloud of nails. A sensation filled her belly, driving her muscles to tense in their numbness in a need to rip and tear the enemy—her enemy, old and new.
Those quickest to their bearings slowly rose to their feet, stunned and dizzy. The two armies were confused, screaming, swearing, and praying. Regards were shared, hands tightened on weapons, sweat forming on the brows of every man and woman in the aedo.
She looked at Alden as her sight returned and saw their energized fear. She rose as all other senses reformed, gasping in horror as those flung into the air suddenly cascaded into the field, descending from a sky that had instantly darkened with rain clouds that belched forth thunder and lightning.
"Alden-" she managed before the chaos erupted.
In moments, thousands engaged each other as the payloads of the siege weapons rained down in barrages of stone and fiery oil. Gíla was pushed ahead by the rushing force behind her, quickly losing track of the young one as they were dragged into the horde of armored meat. She cried out, trying vainly to wade through the masses only to be pushed deeper into the carnage. She thrashed and flailed, knocking several down and away with ferocious power. Only a few seconds passed before she was finally driven into something of a clearing if it could be called such a thing. Gíla fell to her knees as she struggled to regain her breath, her heart pounding with an overwhelming influx of confusion and panic.
She ushered an annoyed growl and pressed the head of her hammer into the soft grassy earth to rise to her feet but nearly tumbled back down just as quickly. The weapon snapped in half from the jolting displacement of her weight, now useless and ruined in the dirt.
"Oh, you are...th...damnit!" she moaned and tried again to rise. Halfway through the attempt, she shook at the knees and collapsed, her face smashing into a patch of pebbles.
Another annoyed growl. Why did she suddenly feel so weak? Why now? Planting her hands on the grass and digging her claws into the dirt, the Bear Maiden finally pushed herself up and remained standing on nearly buckling legs. Slowing her breathing, Gíla stared at what surrounded her like red ocean waves. Violence. Gore. Savagery. Brutality. She would not run from it, for she had sworn herself to this path, to see it through and take part as a member of the catalyst of change for better or worse. Yet, that feeling was in her belly. It was venomous, and a roar of stomach-knotted emotion erupted from her chest, echoing in the air.
She lunged forward as a King's Men broke into the clearing, drenched in guts and charging her with an equally venous roar. They thrust the blade at her chest. She took the strike unflinchingly, growling with bared fangs as the blade bent against her hide. The King's Men stared at the ruined weapon in confusion before screaming in terror as Gíla's instincts overtook her sensibilities. She grabbed the warrior by the neck with a single paw and ripped their head from their shoulders. Lightning crashed into the earth as she did this, red-tinted rain descending soon after it. She turned around and leaped into the horde, barreling through friend and foe with relentless power.
"Make us proud, Gíla. I know you will do great things, war or not. Educate them on their history. The one they are not taught."
"You will be the last one standing."