Year 218. The Star Bastion - Khirn
“The world is built on secrets. The history you are told is nothing more than the blanket we use to cover them.” — Unknown Scholar of the Golden Lords
ORLANTHA XATHIA
Orlantha stood in a darkened corner by the end table of the Great Hall, masked by her helmet, imposing in her armor. Her subordinates were dispersed throughout the expanse. Vlakis Anthiti and the other Lords slowly arranged thin dark wood blocks on the war map of his council chamber, ensuring each one was positioned perfectly along the borders of the Dioúksis’ territory.
It became clear to her that her charge arranged his pieces in a much slower manner solely to aggravate the stout woman in night-gray mail standing across from him with crossed arms and a look of contempt. Orlantha was grateful she wore a helmet so no one could see the tension on her face. The suspense in the room was palpable, visible as the Drayheller would describe it. Only twice had a meeting of this caliber been called into attendance by the Lords of the Star Bastion. Once when they had all arrived and were set to rule alongside the Drayheller. Once, when the army of the Wolf came to supply her manpower and battle mind.
“Must you do this?” she asked the man. Orlantha noticed that he wore his typical lavish red clothing, though he now had a complimentary gold-hilted saber hanging from his hip.
“We have to be sure that this map exactly shows where our defensive numbers need to be deployed while our offensive campaign is underway,” the Rómitas explained. “If we don’t, we could have a strategic nightmare like those skirmishes after Gortinda.”
“I am sure we can figure it out without perfect placement, Rómitas Anthiti,” Megare grunted, her arms crossed with a finger tapping her bicep impatiently.
Vlakis finished the tenth placement before sharing a tense glare with the commander. A smirk crossed his face as Megare flared her nostrils. “Very well, Lady ne’Actë.”
After Vlakis backed away from the war map, Megare turned to the gathered host of Lords, generals, and strategists—eighty-nine men and women, Aslofidorian and Belanorian. Through encounters and pragmatic information gathering, Orlantha knew every name and face in that room. Most she tolerated, and some she even liked, but only one she distrusted—Jira ne’Jiral, with her too-perfect face, her too-perfect stance, and too-unsettling eyes. Though she could not say why, Orlantha knew in her heart that Jira ne’Jiral was anything but human. She was a snake in a human suit, masking whatever horror she actually was.
“The Runemaster no longer listens to his mother or the monarchy. He has counsel of a witch. A seeress. By her words, he has set his sights on the northern borders of the Dioúksis’ land, which happens to be a crossroads into Bela’nore. He will reach it within two years,” Megare began to explain. “The distance is vast. To make it there in time, my army will begin moving to the capital of those crossroads to defend it until the rest of our forces are prepared for the fight—a port city on the River Nyxos. Acocaea. The Runemaster’s certain target. He would have an undeniably strategic hold in the war if he were to capture. River access, food for his men, and the ability to traverse the Dioúksis’ lands and Bela’nore.”
Apostos Conto continued for Megare, his white armor shining in the golden light of the sconces lining the walls. “What of the villages near it? Tegon, Corcosia, Abais, Geiros?"
“That is where you will come in,” Ěspe le’Matto said. “You will take your Bulls, while le’Atesso takes his forces to cover those four villages respectively. That should provide enough distraction to draw any nearby armies from Kalidis,” he pointed at a woman with neatly shorn brown hair, “who will take her Onyx Sabers to move past the borders and flank the Runemaster’s army at Acocaea.”
“Manoloulis and his Monastic Spears would join Lady Kalidis for this venture,” a broad, stocky man announced. “We can ensure no reinforcements arrive from the north while the Sabers conduct their mission.”
“That could draw back too much attention,” Rómitas Miro cautioned. “We need Kalidis to be as hidden as possible, and the Monastic Spears are near as zealous in their violence as the Akaios Opos.”
A hush fell over the room at the mention and comparison of the once-condemned sros.
“Be that as it may, they could prove useful in providing a much-needed shield to the Sabers,” Rómitas Anthiti said. “I say let them provide that shield.”
“It would give us much better odds than Gortinda,” Apostos Conto said, clearly lamenting the memory of his aedo’s delay in providing aid at the tumultuous slaughter.
Yiani Samaril of The Crucible Talons nodded in agreement. “Or Taesu. We lost too many men that day in the fires.”
“Then let us not have Acocaea be a repeat of those tragedies,” Ěspe le’Micha said. “I would have us turn the tide and wipe out the Runemaster in one strike. Eliminating him will enable us to move into the Vasileús’s lands and march upon the capital with less resistance.”
“What of the river itself?” Jira ne’Jiral asked. “What stops a Druyan relief force from sailing up the waters and storming the coast? Should we not at least worry about a splinter force from their fleet master?”
Rómitas Miro waved his hand. “Erya Hale is busy dealing with an incursion of Elven Pirates seeking revenge for the death of Narbet Uydark. She cannot afford to send a splinter of her fleet up the Nyxos. It would be impossible for them to do so regardless unless they are willing to tire themselves with oars. The wind-”
“But what if she does? And what if they do? What if the Druyans hear that their Runemaster, second-in-line to become ruler of their realm, will surely die without assistance?” Jira pressed. “Erya Hale is a patriot, and the prospect of letting the Runemaster die would be inconceivable in her mind. At a minimum, she will send orders to anyone traversing the river near Acocaea. They will find a way to sail up the river regardless of conditions if it means saving the Runemaster.”
“What would you propose then, ne’Jiral?” Rómitas Anthiti asked.
“Let me take my new aedo and form a blockade on the River Nyxos. We will hold back anyone who sails up the waters.”
The Wolf answered before anyone else had a chance to digest the options. “Very well, see to it.”
Ěspe le’Matto continued. “The rest of you will be given assignments of varying concern. The most important that does not involve Acocaea is dealing with the newest developments in Tah’rir to the west. Strange reports have been coming out of that land, and our good church deems it important that we send people to investigate.”
“We are dealing with a war,” one of the strategists said. “I hardly believe that investigating Tahrir is a sound option, even if the church wants us to.”
“We would be inclined to agree if the Vasileús had not received similar reports,” Rómitas Anthiti said. “The Dioúksis’ Curators have managed to ascertain that the Vasileús knows what is occurring in Tahrir and seeks to send investigators of his own.”
“Led by that brute Svend, I take it?” one at the table said with a hint of chagrin.
“Not this time. His second leads.”
“Good. The man is-”
“The man is useful, and that is the end of it. We will be sending the Unyielding Tributors and a Selk’onal of Bela’norians into Tahrir to cut them off and follow the tracks we have been given.”
“Is everyone in agreement with this?” the Wolf asked.
Everyone nodded, and soon, when the rest of the assignments were handed out, the meeting was adjourned.
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Year 218. The Star Bastion - Khirn
JIRA ne’JIRAL
When she met them for the first time, they were in the lowest chamber, the most recent one discovered by the Nujant Chhank that rested some untold miles below the Bastion’s fortress. Her voice had adopted a stern leader’s bravado. “Before I introduce myself, I must ask you the most important questions of your life. Do you know who you are fighting for?”
“Yes, Tumathios,” they said, low and monotonous.
Jira ne’Jiral stood before the lines, arms tucked behind her back. She stared at the sea of fresh faces standing at attention in front of her, illuminated by the light of campfires, torches, and chandeliers lit by the brave on ladders. Recruits to her aedo. Five thousand to start with. Some were tall and broad, while others were short and thin. Nerves pressed against their expressions, and sweat formed on their temples. Many were merely rural or city folk who had never held a blade until they were drafted or joined voluntarily. Anxiety was rampant with this bunch. She could see it in their faces. They were unsure if they had made the right choice. They would learn to love those nerves in time, just like she did when she committed to the pilgrimage from Ayenthyr to Han Entheas-by-the-Fire. If they wanted to survive this war, they would have to. For now, however, all they were were young men and old dressed in the colors of the rebel Dioúksis, arms tucked behind their backs, and chins held up as they, in turn, stared back.
“Do you all know what you are fighting for?” she asked, shifting her gaze from face to face.
“Yes, Tumathios,” they said again, still low and monotonous.
She shook her head. “No, I will not accept such lacking enthusiasm. Who and what are you fighting for?”
“For Kin and Country. For the salvation of our homes,” they answered louder. She repeatedly asked to hear them yell it in unison, a cacophony of pitches, all uttering the exact phrase. “For Kin and Country! For the salvation of our homes!” they cried. The sound echoed in the chamber, spreading to the others from their modest encampment barricaded by horses, carts, and supply crates. Uncountable people filled this place, belonging to aedos, Belanorian legions she could not name, or were simply serfs doing as commanded.
Jira grinned under her helmet. She paced the length of the lines, roughly ten paces left and right. “Correct. I am Jira ne’Jiral, and I am your new commander. By your initial training and luck, you are the first recruits of this aedo. The Aros Sos, for which you will be expected to uphold the tenets to the letter. You will be expected to showcase strength, ingenuity, practicality, and knowledge.”
Jira sabatons scraped against the stone floor as she turned on her heels, taking in every detail possible. She saw their potential and how she could mold them into something more. Something more than untrained, frantic barbarians. “Unlike the others you will encounter in this war, you will not be solely expected to train your sword arm or practice your scripture,” she boomed. Her voice carried louder than theirs. “Be expected to study from more than whatever pamphlets the priests have tossed at your feet. You will learn Khirn’s history, and you will learn Aqella’s history, and you will learn from every book this Bastion has to offer. If you cannot read, you will be expected to speak to my second, Prokos Sidras, on such matters. Because he is such a diplomatic lore hound, he is one of the few in this place who was granted an audience to the bearfolk’s teachings of lore and is a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge. He would love to teach you.”
The fair-skinned man snorted at the offer. No such arrangement had been discussed with Prokos beforehand, though Jira was confident he would not mind.
“Above all else,” Jira continued. “You will be expected to know the difference between bravery and stupidity. I will not have this aedo become shades of Gortinda like the Akaios Opos. We hold the lowest number of warriors in the entire army, and I know not when we will increase it. By the Most Noble, we will use that status to become the best this Bastion can produce. Am I understood, Sos?”
“Yes, Tumathios!” they cried out.
She shook her head. “Not good enough. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Tumathios!” they hollered, their voices so loud that a slight rumble reverberated somewhere in the chamber.
Jira laughed and stopped beside a freckle-faced boy with a snub nose and almond eyes. His back stiffened as she looked him over. Sweat formed in more significant quantities on his face, and his eyes darted back and forth from her to the man in front of him. “Who are you, boy?” she asked him.
“M-Markos Perulis,” he stammered.
“What were you before you joined?”
“I was-I was just an urchin, Tumathios.”
“Why’d you join?”
“To...get off the street, miss-I mean, Tumathios. I figure armor and a hot meal is mighty more protective than a box in an alley.” He laughed sadly, bringing a slightly amused huff from the knight.
She turned her eyes to the man in front of him. A brutish ogre of a human being, no older than thirty, with fists as giant as hams and a bronze beard hiding his lips. His hair was long and tied into a tail, flecked with dirt and the occasional sheen of sweat. “And you?” she asked.
“Beles Lasakis,” he thundered. “Farmer’s boy.”
“Why’d you join?”
“My father served at Gortinda, Tumathios. Was in the garrison. He didn’t make it. Told me to watch over our land before he sent me off to safety to Amphe, but after hearing that he died, I couldn’t let his memory go to waste like that.”
She patted his shoulder, the coldness of her eyes warming with genuine admiration of the son willing to honor his father. “You’re a good lad, Beles. Let’s see if you can put your farmer’s hands to good use.”
“Served me well enough so far, Tumathios,” he gleefully chortled.
Jira continued down the line, next making eye contact with a woman of darker skin than the rest, with eyes as hazel as a setting summer sun and hair as black as night. “You’re not of Aslofi’dorian blood,” Jira observed. “Or Bela’norian.”
The woman gulped as several eyes turned to her as if noticing her for the first time. “No, ma’am,” she answered with a shaky voice. “I am...I am of Druyan heritage."
“A Druyan?” the others in the lines began murmuring.
“The fuck’s a Druyan fighting here for?” asked Beles, louder than all others.
The woman almost shrank. Jira nodded to her. “It’s alright. Tell us.”
“My family emigrated before the first wars when our nations were at true peace. It was to escape the infighting of our government. I was raised here under the Aslofidorian customs. I believe in the Highest just as much as any of you. The true way we are meant to. If our Vasileús has...if our Vasileús has sinned against Him, I believe it is everyone’s duty to take up arms against him and ensure that he is removed from power so that he can face justice.”
“I know what that is like. I am Bela’norian but was raised Alsofi’dorian. What’s your name?” Jira asked.
“Thania Komone.”
“An Aslofi’dorian name as well. Did your family keep anything of your culture?”
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“Very little. We have no regrets about it.”
“Good. I don’t want soldiers who regret. I want soldiers who are willing to push forward no matter what!” She stopped further down the lines at two individuals. Indistinguishable from each other, with shorn hair to their scalps and thin blonde beards. “And you two?”
“Reses and Rodas,” they answered in tandem. “Sons of Alexis Peral.”
“I know the man. He is on the council and is getting an assignment from the Lords. But he leads The Basilisk. Why are you not in his aedo?”
“Our father wanted us to grow our legacy outside his shadow,” they answered. “We cannot do so serving his aedo.”
Jira grunted. “I wish you luck.”
For the next hour, she learned the names and faces of each vikion—all five thousand souls charged to her control. Five thousand men and women would look up to her in hopes of being led to victory. “I love the growing zeal,’” she said. “All of you are known to me now. From now on, I will be your tumathios. You shall address me as ‘Tumathios ne’Jiral’ or simply ‘Tumathios.’ Is that understood?”
“Yes, Tumathios!” they answered.
Another smile graced her hidden lips. “That’s very good to hear. One more time!”
“Yes, Tumathios!”
Jira clapped her hands together and returned to the front of the gathering. “Now, I want all of you to acclimate yourself to this encampment, set up your stations and tents, and report to the armory on the surface for your assigned equipment. If you need help navigating, speak to your Otiarcos. His name is Reccinnos. You’ll find him in the second chamber under the fortress surface. After that, report to the outer bailey near Orinus’ smithy. Understood?”
One last affirmation and the Sos broke away from the gathering. The chamber filled with a constant hum of their voices as they conversed with each other, introducing themselves or reminiscing on their lives before the silver knight’s speech. Jira removed her helmet after she was alone in her part of the encampment, save for Prokos Sidras, who had moved to stand by his tumathios. “You are quite good at the whole talking thing,” he complimented. “Not as good as Baidaeus or Danis, but good nonetheless. Hell, I’d say even ne’Samus is up there. You Belanorians love your war speeches.”
Jira placed her helmet down on a nearby slab of stone that had yet to be removed from the camp. An indulgent grin cracked her knife-thin lips with a flash of perfect white teeth. Prokos momentarily cringed at the sight but just as quickly relaxed. “I think I was quite persuasive for a first-time tumathios,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Her voice had returned to the soft huskiness used most commonly in moments of peace. “Maybe not the most verbose, but I got the job done. They yelled when I wanted them to.”
Prokos shrugged. He was tall and lean compared to many of his contemporaries, which suited Jira just fine. She needed a quicker man as her second, not a brute like Eos. “I hope I can do my job well enough for those who can’t read. The bearfolk have been filling my head with too much information to recount all the time.”
Jira motioned for Prokos to follow her as she moved around the encampment of the Aros Sos, evaluating the quickness of her recruits. “What about?”
“An unabridged historical account of the lands of Khirn, for starters,” Prokos answered with a heavy sigh. “Of its ancient heroes and villains when this place was built and uncountable generations before it was built. During the time of the Golden Lords’ divinities like Idaeveln, the God of All. Neth, Pav, Jevimah, Tain, Dur, Kath. Gods of the underworld, of love, of the sun. Telling me of inhumans that would shatter the collective minds of our nations if they knew this place did not always belong to humans.”
Jira and Prokos stopped at Thania Komone's tent, which had taken up the space alongside the twins. They corrected her attempts to set up the camp and then moved on. “Like those that the Tahri’rians have found?” Jira asked.
“Worse. Things with scaly chrome skin, long, swirling tendrils, and eyes the color of non-existence. Whatever that means. No legs, but rather the bodies of a snake. Stuff that makes me wonder just who the hell we worship. A divinity on His own or a survivor of one of those pantheons?”
Jira giggled. “Careful now. Don’t let others hear you say that.”
Prokos shrugged again. “Just saying. If you hear what I’ve heard from the Drayheller’s mouths, from their books, you’d be in my state, too. What they have learned would put Amphe’s libraries to shame. Hell below, this stuff could never be found in any other library.”
Jira snickered at the man’s befuddlement. “Maybe not Aslofi’dorian. What about Bela’norian? Druyan? Tahri’rian? Surely, they would have copies as well.”
“Bah!” Prokos exclaimed as he tilted his head away in mock disdain. “Maybe the abridged versions or stuff that says it’s all in Aqella. But this is an original, unabridged account. How old do you think this world is, Tumathios?”
“Old. If anything, I imagine we’re simply the blind cousins of whatever else it out there.”
“How do you mean?”
Jira and Prokos moved on, stopping at more and more tents as she told her story. “I recall a tale that the bearfolk’s daughter, Gíla, told me some years ago of a Nujant Chhank who went north, as far north as anyone has ever gotten to a land of ice and cold outside the realms of Khirn and Aqella. As you know, Aqella and Khirn are large. Impossibly so, yet still capable of feeding incredible amounts of people in certain areas.”
“We can thank passive residual mystharin for that,” Prokos said. “Probably some other thing, too. Even if the church and powers that be refuse to admit it.”
“Indeed. Gíla said that this land of ice and cold was larger than Khirn and Aqella combined.”
“Highest Above, that would be a sight,” Prokos grunted. “I’d go mad at a mere peek of it.”
“That seems to be what happened to the man in Gíla’s story. Returned with a Spellblade and waged war against his own kind.”
“Gíla is quite fond of telling me the tales that make me question my mortality and place in the world,” Prokos said, cupping his chin with his index finger and thumb. “That one does little to alleviate my current crisis. A Spellblade?”
Jira recalled the exact words of what the weapon was. “The Pact of Perdition, a weapon designed like a double-edged saw that entirely rents the soul from the body and destroys it. The story does not say what happened to it when the madman was killed.”
Prokos sighed and inhaled again with a guttural snort. “That is bothersome. Extremely so. I’d say on par with her most recent tales.”
They stopped at Jira’s tent as the vikions and rank-and-file began to march out of the chamber. “Tell them to me.”
Prokos placed his hands on his hips. “It was this black iron tome. I cannot pronounce the name, though I remember the contents like they were translated into my head directly. Most of the previous chapters discussed people like the Dragon Riders of Khirn’s Hell Pit, whatever the hell that is. No such place exists, and as far as I have seen, Khirn has never known Dragons to live here.”
“But the story said it once did.”
“Once, I suppose. They were led by the only known dragon capable of verbal communication in the human tongue: Algaua the Red Heart. He is why Tahrir is a vast desert pocked by oases. Burnt the jungles away, boiled the rivers to mist, and devoured all who could restore it. Anyhow, the most recent recent chapter details the ancestors of Vasileús Aslofidor. They were an offshoot of an old dynasty that once ruled Khirn. The Vamourin dynasty.”
Jira’s eyes widened. “The Vamourins? They were Golden Lords, were they not? One of the more well-known ones next to Acominatus.”
Prokos pointed his finger in agreement. “Right. Aslofidor’s origin comes from Minloda Aslofidor Kaios, who cast off his shackles to the Vamourins at the end of the Age of the Golden Lords. I suppose he became a prophet king, much like who Tahrir has ruling them now. It’s not said how, but Minloda had something to do with ending the Vamourins and the Golden Lords. He used mystharin openly, much in the manner of the Akaios Opos. Naturally, this history became as lost as everything else regarding that period in the history of this land.”
Jira’s eyes flashed with direct contempt, and her heart pounded against her chest. “And over time, mystharin became outlawed and was seen as the weapon of Aqella, the Devil, and the Druyans. So ancient is the world that our history has forced us to create false records to justify our presence in it.”
“Essentially. We have nothing in the libraries on our history here except our landing as the Golden Lords, which is already limited. We don’t even have a proper timeframe on when they lived. And the apparent reasoning was that we were escaping Aqella and the inhumans. If what the bearfolk have been telling me and the Tahrian excavations have been telling us all, that’s all false. No one wants to admit it. We live in a world carved by our ancestors who lived epochs ago. And that’s what you want me to tell our recruits.”
Jira laughed with Prokos and slapped a hand on his shoulder, pocketing away the newest evidence gathered from Prokos’ speech. “Maybe ease into that part of the lessons. Best not to overwhelm them before they see their first battle.”
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Year 218. The Star Bastion - Khirn
ORLANTHA XATHIA
Her mission was not supposed to take her here. Her mission was to ensure the direct safety of Vlakis Anthiti, who currently rested within his estate in the Lords’ Keep. Convincing her charge that this was indeed an extension of that mission took weeks. He had only relented upon her using the growing presence of less-than-agreeable Belanorians to make him see reason. She had to find the truth in her heart: that Jira ne’Jiral was a liar who should not have been there.
“Make sure she is truly on our side, Orlantha,” Vlakis had told her. “Make sure she truly serves the Dioúksis in this war.”
Now, it was a matter of finding the damnable woman. By no stretch of the phrase, the Star Bastion was the most absurd construct ever built, even more than Amphe, which had the excuse of being a city. During an excursion in her youth, she had seen castles in lands as far as Veoris. Ruins as lost as those in the plains of Druya and a necropolis in Tahrir some three years before her assignment to Vlakis Anthiti, and she had seen paintings from a traveler who claimed to have been to the furthest east of Aqella. None of them compared to this place. Such was its absurdity and immediately identifiable audacious invulnerability that, upon arriving at the Bastion, she first turned to Vlakis Anthiti and said: “If we lose this place to a siege, we are undoubtedly the worst fighters in the history of warfare.”
It was not only the size that was outrageous to her but also that this place had somehow gone unseen for untold eras until the Drayheller had rediscovered it. The mountain range it was set in, known as The Crest, was the single largest landmass in the continent and was visible hundreds of miles away. Ignoring the entire length of the bridges, which themselves took three hours to ascend, the fortress built on a near mile-long sheer cliff and into the face of the range’s tallest mountain—known, logically enough, as the Star—was also incredibly large. It was so large that it was more of a city than a castle, if any such comparison could be made. Of course, in Khirn, such comparisons could be made all the time.
Orlantha’s final opinion of the place was that no one could successfully operate this grand construct in the modern age. The portcullis, for example, was as tall as a giant wearing boots and as iron-strong as an old man’s refusal to vacate his hereditary home. The gatehouse it was settled in appeared as big as the smallest visible mountain near the base of the range. The outer wall had three sides—the northern, the southern, and the eastern, with the west side of the Bastion protected by the towering mountain. Using other buildings as value, they were easily six citadels in height and at least two fortresses thick with interior rooms and floors designed to defend against an assault. Their battlements were outfitted with ballistae, repeater scorpions, catapults, trebuchets, and innumerable crenels, which were also in great numbers on the towers stationed at the corners of the front side. Taller than the walls with winter’s ice-blue coating, these towers were more suited to house mystharin sorcerers than soldiers in leather armor or plate mail. Orlantha could only guess what lay inside them when not manned by the uncountable guards.
Beyond the gate was the outer bailey, filled out with necessary buildings such as six tavern-sized stables, ten three-story storehouses, two smithies, an unknown number of livestock stalls, a bakehouse the size of a flagship, five granaries, an unknown number of barns, an actual tavern the size of a royal home, and six living quarters for servants and guards. The wall separating the outer bailey from the inner bailey was, surprisingly, far more manageable in height, with the Lords’ Keep visible over its top.
The keep was the biggest of all the buildings, with its tower so tall that it possessed balconies reaching out from the estates. Within the inner bailey, things thankfully calmed in the insanity of design. First was the existence of a church to the Highest that had been the most recently constructed part of the Bastion’s territory, identifiable by its darker-colored stone as opposed to the white-colored stone used in the fortress’s construction. Secondly were the two massive barracks for elite knights and three-story kennel extensions for war dogs. Thirdly was the gate that led into the mountain and down into tremendous antechambers that would serve as the army’s living quarters.
Perhaps ten percent of the total volume of the Star Bastion had been utilized in the past years. Livestock, horses, and grains had been delivered in some quantity by caravans from Amphe and other civilized places in the rebellious duchy, adding to the already present stocks of supplies. The smiths had been filled with skilled laborers and apprentices, giving the bailey a shroud of steam and smoke from dawn till dusk. The bakehouse ran almost the entire day and through the night, with loaves of bread and other goods being mixed, tossed, flattened, shaped, and baked in great mass. That was at least a decent smell as opposed to the manure of animals, oils of the smiths, and whatever horrid stench reeked out from the church.
Orlantha sighed as the atrocity of it all rested in her mind like a napping cat, her vision plagued by a transparent image of that wall that loomed before her.
She found Jira standing in the inner ward near the gate to the outer bailey. It was midnight, and everyone else—save for the guards manning the battlements and gatehouse—was asleep or wandering the antechambers.
“Out here alone?” Orlantha asked in a toneless voice.
Jira turned to see Orlantha Xathia's hulking figure striding toward her. The woman was alone. Orlantha had gauged that, like everyone else, Jira had regarded her as an oddity. Orlantha regarded Jira as a threat, a mystery, someone as much of a “should-not-be-here” as herself. To the people of this kingdom, she was likely a star figure of attraction. Her hair was so silver that it looked almost meshed together like an argent helmet, kempt and shorter like Orlantha’s own, and brushed to one side to frame her face with sharp bangs. Her eyes pierced the night toward her like dull stars in the sky. She moved with an elegance about her, though Orlantha saw it as serpent-like. Slithering rather than walking. When she came to a stop just feet from the silver-haired woman, she had already forced herself into a flawless ‘ready to strike’ aura hidden behind an approachable openness.
Only six others could serve as the perfect prodigal knights that this Bastion needed, Orlantha had gleaned. Someone capable of reining in the others until the time for the slaughter hit its mark. Unbeatable, they said, with the sword sheathed on her hip. All aspects of the best soldiers the Dioúksis had in his arsenal. From the information she had quickly gathered through word-of-mouth and written record, Orlantha had also learned that Jira was an expert at strategy involving deception and feints. It was her trade. That and the assassination of high-profile individuals to stir the pot toward the desired flavor. How else could she have made it this far?
“Are you cold?” she asked, momentarily catching her breath as she took in the ethereal nature of Jira’s face after she looked at her.
“No,” Jira finally said, deftly attempting to hide the nearly automatic hints of tension in her voice and looking back at the monstrous wall. It was a simple question. Orlantha wore her armor, helmet clutched under her arm. Jira wore only ash-colored trousers, tanned leather boots, and a gray linen tunic over an equally gray shirt.
The heels of Orlantha’s boots clacked on the stone, and the wind blew the end of her cloak. There was no chill from it. No cold. It was warm, in fact, like the breath of a drunkard. “Why do you stand alone?” Orlantha asked.
An invisible mask slipped on her face, and the gloominess of tension vanished behind the veil of warmth. “I enjoy the solitude of the night. It helps clear my head after a hard day’s work.”
Orlantha stepped closer, now side by side with the ghostly woman, sharing her gaze at the horror that was a wall. “Yes. We could all use a night for it. I especially need one, what with dealing with the Belanorian Lords’ difficult nature every day. Apologies if that offends you. You seem to hold them in high regard.”
“It does not,” she promised. “They are men true to their values above all else. They can be unpleasant in that regard on the best of days.”
Orlantha gave a roguish smile with her bow-shaped lips. “I know we have encountered one another before, yet we have yet to introduce ourselves. Orlantha Xanthia, Honor Guard to Rómitas Vlakis Anthiti.”
She extended a hand, turning to face her directly. Jira pivoted, hinting towards a demure bow, and took her hand. She gripped it delicately and offered a disarming smile. “I am Jira ne’Jiral. Tumathios of the Aros Sos, freshly minted.”
Orlantha’s face beamed with an emotion that sent physical chills throughout Jira’s arms. Something about the giantess set the woman visibly wrong-footed, forcing her into a situation she was unquestionably unprepared to handle. “Ah. That’s right. Your aedo is brand new. How lucky for a knight who served the Dioúksis for...how long again?”
“I have served the Dioúksis since childhood,” she lied. Orlantha quirked a brow for the moment that Jira looked away. The story worked on everyone else save herself. It would not work on her. Jira looked back to Orlantha, who relaxed her face. “He raised me. This war is the best way to serve the man I see as my father.”
Orlantha’s face was writ with doubt. “Not that you had a choice in the matter anyway, right?”
A flash in Jira’s eyes told Orlantha she was fighting an instinctual urge to knock the strange woman away. “My confidence in the war is no different, regardless.”
Orlantha smiled. “Do you think the Lords share such confidence?”
Jira faked a simper. “I hope so. I was at Gortinda, which did much to destroy our morale. It has been a trial to rebuild it.”
“Indeed. But I believe that you, Jira ne’Jiral, will certainly find a way to ensure the spirit of our leaders is never destroyed again. Won’t you?”
Jira’s brows knitted. She began to form a response when something glinted, flashed like a brilliant star, and vanished all at once. Jira shot her gaze to where it had been, widening her eyes with perplexment. “Did you see that?” she asked.
“See what?” Orlantha lied.
Another flash, this one directly in their vision. It floated down before dissipating behind the outer wall. Jira stepped forward, almost entranced by it. Though it was nearly a quarter-mile away, she could see it flash again through the thick bars of the portcullis as if it were right outside. Her steps were mere pads on the stone. Orlantha followed, vowing to use this as an ultimate test of her immediate trustworthiness.
The bakehouse roared with life inside as the night-shift bakers scrambled to prepare the bread for the morning stews. The residual oils of the smithies wafted through the air in thin strands of scent. The horses neighed; the cows, sheep, and pigs made their rumbles; the laborers snored through open windows. More noise than usual, and they paid it no mind. Sapphire brilliance grew closer as the wall loomed increasingly titanic over them. Jira’s breaths came short and sharp as her paddings became striding tramps.
“Jira,” Orlantha called out as the gatehouse neared. “Tumathios ne’Jiral, where are you going?”
She did not answer her and stopped at the iron curtain of the portcullis. The light had vanished again in a blink. Jira pressed against the metal, peering into the world outside for it.
“Tumathios ne’Jiral,” Orlantha asked once again, her tone so apathetic that it held a particular contempt. “Whatever is the matter?”
Jira took a moment before answering. She backed away from the portcullis, spun around on her heels, and pushed past the giantess with hard breaths escaping her lungs. “Nothing,” she said. “A flash of wonder is all.”