Year 219. The Star Bastion - Khirn
JIRA ne’JIRAL
The blade came for her with blistering speed. A beautiful iron arc through the air made for hacking off whatever limb it could hit. It was a perfect swing in its speed. More perfect in its ferocity. Yet, it still failed. Jira danced around it, striking out with a downward chop aimed at her opponent’s wrist. Wood struck flesh with the sharp pain any blade would cause. The young boy dropped his sword with a yelp, blood immediately bruising the smarting skin. He rushed to pick it up, stopping dead in his motion as the same wood cracked his gut and doubled him over onto his knees. A third across his back dropped him to his stomach. The others groaned and chortled at the display, which had been going quite well until he put the wrong foot forward for his slash. He had matched her strike for strike, even scoring a few hits to her arms, but that one misstep left him open to his tumathios’ disarming strike, just like it had the previous five times.
“A dozen small wounds are good, but a single lethal one is better,” she had told them on their first day of training a month and a half ago. “A dozen small wounds can buy you time, distract an opponent, make them lose focus. But if you don’t capitalize on that, then you’re just wasting time and energy. And if all you want to do is draw small wounds, then you’re just wasting time and energy. If you don’t cripple or kill your enemy by the end of the fight, then you’re just wasting time and energy.”
“What if they surrender before you can kill them?” the farmer’s boy had asked.
Jira had grinned, something that unnerved her soldiers. A woman so pale, pale like living snow, should not have grinned the way she did. Only Megare the Wolf, so rarely seen, could have smiled a more unnerving smile. “A defeated enemy will only truly surrender if they have no other weapons or viable options to take you out. An enemy with either will strike out the first chance he gets. No one wants to be a hostage. If you face an enemy that surrenders, stay a distance, force them to lay on their stomachs, and then kick them in the head. Can’t attack you if they’re unconscious.”
“Damn it all!” the young boy cried out as he rose to his feet. He bent to pick up his training sword from the white stone of the inner bailey’s courtyard, sun-chapped lips motioning the silent words: “Every time.”
“You almost had her, Markos,” Beles Lasakis comforted, smiling under the bronze beard that shone in the sunlight. More and more, the farmer’s boy resembled a tall Dwarf than an ogre, though he possessed the stout brawn of both.
Jira spun the wooden stick in her grasp with a flourish, laughing devilishly. “Every time, Markos. Every time you misstep with your lunge, you will die. Every time you misstep with your slash, you will die. Every time you misstep in general, you will die. Do you want to die?” Her voice was stern. Leaderlike. It was far more agreeable to her soldiers than the other voices.
“No, Tumathios!” the attending Aros Sos responded.
The knight smacked her wooden stick on the ground and set her cold eyes on the despondent boy. “Markos,” she said, grabbing the attention of the wincing trainee. She stepped over to him and placed a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. “You have good form, better than when you started a year ago. Keep at it; watch your footwork. We near the time of Acocaea, and you are not permitted to die to that mistake. Okay?”
Markos smiled, small and sad. “Understood, Tumathios.”
Jira retook position, taking up a defensive double-handed ox stance. Markos did the same, his eyes narrowing under the rim of his nasal helmet. He pounced, swiping at his tumathios with a quick strike for her head. She swung to her left, meeting the dull metal with the hardened hickory in a resounding snap-crack. Markos moved with the deflect, bounding back and to the side. He advanced just as quickly with an under-cut and then a middle-cut, moving with the momentum of yet another deflect. Jira peppered the stone with her steps. She never stopped her movement, never even tiring from constant effort. To his credit, neither did young Markos.
He struck out again, grunting with each failed hit and grinning with each ping of metal on metal or thunk of metal on leather. Jira voided, ducked, spun, and every other way to avoid being hit by a lethal blow. But a dozen small wounds she did suffer. She wore boiled leathers reinforced with metal plating—the new standard for the recruits—to make the training fair. Had Markos been a legitimate enemy, he very well could have had her on the back foot.
“Get her, Markos!” shouted Thania Komone. Despite her Druyan heritage, the young woman had been taken to quite well by her contemporaries. Markos, Beles, and the Twins, in particular, had found a kinship with the woman.
“Finish her, Markos!” the rest shouted in unison. “Get her!”
Spurred on by the vocal encouragement of his comrades, Markos pressed harder in his assault, granting his tumathios no recourse to fight back beyond her deflections. A second wind had hit him, pushing him beyond his limits. Roars escaped his throat as he unleashed his barrage, battering the knight’s wooden stick aside with quick force. Jubilant laughter rushed from Jira’s dagger-thin lips as her own speed increased to match the young warrior’s. More voices joined the cacophony of noise, some belonging to her guild and others.
Her eyes shifted for a millisecond, for no other reason than to wet them without blinking. The light, bright and sapphire, reappeared in a flash of wonder. It was only a millisecond that she had seen it and registered it. Bright, brilliant, and alive. She could hear it. From the core of that light, somewhere within its blinding rays, she heard it breathe. Air caught solid in her throat, vine-like along the sensitive flesh. A misstep was taken, her balance stumbling in a moment faster than the rest could process.
It was all Markos needed to disarm her. A middle-cut resounded with the force of thunder, and Jira’s wooden stick was sent flying to the ground. The crowd hushed, staring with wide eyes as the silver knight was removed from a weapon for the first time. Markos breathed sharply and stepped forward, lunging his blade for Jira’s belly. She watched as the dull metal blade neared her, threatening to connect and push her to the ground for victory.
Every breath in the area froze when Markos was thrown over her shoulders and onto his back. Silence infected the courtyard—hundreds of mouths agape in soundless surprise. A sharp crack of flesh and teeth broke that speechlessness. Jira held her fist snugly against the warrior’s jaw. Her knee was pressed on his throat. Blood trickled from his split lips, and a single tooth lay on the white stone. Markos choked and groaned, tears welling in his eyes as blood ran from his mouth.
Jira smiled warmly at the boy as if unaware of the pain he was in. “You did better, young man. Still need to work on closing the fight, but better.”
“Tumathios?” asked Thania Komone. She took an apprehensive step forward. “Tumathios, he can’t breathe.”
Jira looked up at the woman, confused at first, then widened her eyes as she realized the young warrior’s predicament. She rose, letting his gasp as his lungs inflated with air again. He rolled over, spitting blood and another tooth from his mouth, and scrambled to his feet. Beles caught him as he nearly fell, righting him up to face his tumathios. Tension surrounded them, no soul able to predict how the shamed boy would respond.
He laughed, wobbling on his feet. “I almost had you, Tumathios,” he rasped. “I almost had you.”
Beles guffawed. Thania giggled. The rest hooted, and some clapped in respect for the boy’s efforts. Jira snickered and walked up to pat the man’s head. “You almost did. Had I not been trained to disarm a foe like that, you would have killed me in a real battle. We’ll teach you to do the same.”
“I look forward to the lessons,” he beamed. Beles chortled as the young man almost fell over again. More laughter erupted from his nearly-crushed throat. The others joined in, nervous at first and then raucous.
“Let’s get this boy some ale!” Beles shouted to the agreement of everyone else.
“Alright, everyone, break off and find your instructors. Training doesn’t end until the day does. We leave for Acocaea in two weeks!” Jira walked away as the others tended to Markos or broke off to their training. Prokos Sidras had appeared, fully armored in his unpolished austere plate save for the guild’s tabard hung over his torso. In the distance, Orlantha Quills patrolled with her master, letting the blood-freezing gaze behind her helmet linger on the silver knight for moments far longer than Jira enjoyed.
“You lost your cool there, Tumathios,” Prokos stated with a smirk gracing his lips.
Jira crossed her arms as he stood next to her. “Wasn’t expecting him to disarm me. Hit harder than I expected.”
Prokos’ face turned serious. “You got distracted, is what you mean. I’ve seen you spar with every fighter worth their salt in the army. Only ones you haven’t matched or bested are the ones from the Claws.”
Jira raised a brow, a corner of her mouth quirking up with it. “What do you mean?”
Prokos smacked his lips. “You’ve never let a single one get you like Markos just got you. What distracted you?”
The knight remained silent for a long moment, long enough for the gathered masses around them to disperse for the most part. Markos had been taken away to the nearest tavern for healing by his companions. A pang of regret for the missing teeth filled her heart.
“Tumathios?” Prokos asked. Jira blinked and shared a momentary look with her second. Concern was pressing against the expression on the man’s face. Jira felt her mask failing to form, only half of it moving to cover her face. One thing she had learned of the Nujant Chhank was that people were their forte as much as history. Lying to the bear folk was like fighting a fully armored Halfling. Attempting to do the same to their best student here would only run the risk of similar failure.
“Just…got distracted,” she attempted regardless. She cursed under her breath at the foolishness. “...I saw something,” she corrected.
Prokos nodded, his face a shroud of emotions. He only spoke more once enough people had further dispersed. “What did you see?”
“A…light. Sapphire and brilliant over the wall.”
“Mystharin ?” Prokos asked immediately, a peak of that giddiness in her tone. “Like the ʻUnde?”
Jira shook her head. “No, more like…a star. Like an itinerant star. It blinked from place to place. I saw it once before during a nighttime break. Orlantha Xathia talked to me about…whatever, and I tried to chase it down. It vanished outside the gate.”
“And what was it doing today?”
“Hovering…breathing.” Jira’s eyes had darkened as the sound replayed in her mind. “Anything like that in your lore?”
Prokos thought for a moment. “We’d have to check the books I’ve checked out from the Drayheller.”
“You mean stolen?” Jira laughed.
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“Anything?” Jira asked hopefully.
Prokos flipped a page. “Not yet.”
The pair had been delving into the seemingly infinite texts of the Drayheller’s menagerie, stowed away in the back of Prokos’ tent in stacks of varying sizes. Books such as Troll, Goblin, and Orc Myths of Northern Astaer; Yuthitin Spirits; The Decaying Souls of New Kegon; Gods and Demons of Old Azan; Life in the Vasileúsdom of the Creators by Archequerry Arctus Crow.
None of them had provided any answers to the light Jira ne’Jiral had seen twice. There were descriptions of ghosts, ghouls, the walking dead, and liches. None of which were documented anywhere in modern-day Khirn. This was, expectedly, aggravating for the knight. She had seen a host of wild beasts and apparitions during her journey. Giants, ents, dune crawlers, basilisks, ghouls, revenants, and wyverns. She had seen the living mystharin in forms far beyond the ‘Unde. Towering golems from cultures only a Drayheller could chronicle. None of them was anything like the sapphire light, such a simple thing.
Jira slammed shut her book, a huff of irritation escaping her pale lips. “You can discover a book with enough history to detail the origins of Aslofidor, the ancestral culture that inhabited these lands, and produce enough mortal quagmires to sustain a nihilist for centuries. You have books on the Old Gods. On the systems of mystharinic manipulation. On forgotten fighting styles with the sword and shield. And yet none of your books details a simple glowing ball of light.”
Prokos flipped a page. “Books are curious like that. To detail so much yet so little.”
“Thank you for your astute wisdom, my dear friend,” Jira grumbled, rising to her feet and tossing the book onto the failed pile.
“You can call this off at any time, Tumathios,” Prokos retorted, his eyes fixed on dusty parchment and faded ink. “We have soldiers that need training.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Jira rolled her eyes. “I tell them that I am going to turn them into the best soldiers in this damned place. I nearly broke that boy’s face because of a light.”
“A light that you said breathed when you saw it. Which is far more interesting to me than just a light.”
Jira slumped onto her backside, reaching for one of the last remaining books. “I am glad that this apparition is so enjoyable for your fancies and awes.”
Prokos giggled. “Anything supernatural is fascinating to me, almost as much as our reasons to fight this war. I must say, these Aros Sos of ours are a lot more agreeable to my conversations than the folks back home.”
“Well, I’m glad you have found a more willing audi-” the flaps of the tent opening cut off Prokos’ voice.
Jira looked up to see the face of one of the Lords’ many messengers. She rose to her feet and stood at attention. “Greetings, good sir,” Jira saluted. “What can we do for you?”
The man cast a sharp glare at Prokos, who remained seated and fixed on his book. A kick from Jira got the man to shake free of his text and rise to attention. “The Lords are ordering a meeting of all officers. You and yours are the only ones not yet present. Had you been with the other guilds, time would not have been wasted.”
Jira swallowed hard. “I apologize. I did not mean to waste the Lords’ time. Prokos and I will follow you at once.”
Prokos slumped his shoulders and groaned low once the man had gone from sight. “Maybe I should defect to Aqella and live like a nomad. Just study the world.”
Jira chuckled softly. “I, unfortunately, agree with you.”
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Twenty filled the room, accompanied by twenty more. Each stared at the detailed war map splayed on the Lords’ table in the Great Hall. Of the twenty, Loukas Tamasos of the newly forgiven Akaios Opos was the first to ask: “How bad?”
Vlakis Anthiti breathed through his nose and pointed to many spots on the war map. “Bad. Not only have our reports on the Runemaster’s movements turned out to have been wrong, but we are once more outnumbered.”
“Can it be worse than Gortinda?” Misandros cocked his head with a sharp stare.
Rómitas Miro nodded grimly. “Yes. With our original plan to defend Acocaea with the Belanorian legions and ours, our forces have numbered nearly four hundred thousand. The Runemaster leads...twice that and is only half a year from Acocaea.”
Ěspe le’Micha shook his head. “It appears that the Runemaster has consolidated his cohort with those of other commanders in the Druyan army to assist him in capturing Acocaea. Due to weather conditions, the Bulls and le’Atesso have yet to reach their designated spots to engage in distraction. Kalidis is to leave with Jira and Manoloulis within the week.”
“The Runemaster was not to reach Acocaea for another year. What happened?” Manoloulis asked, his voice rumbling with fear and fury.
“Either he purposely held his army back to fool our reports, or our Curators have betrayed us,” Vlakis grumbled. “Either way, we are doomed.”
“We are not doomed, Vlakis,” Ěspe le’Matto said. “We can-”
“With respect, this is unwinnable. We have won many battles, slain many of their commanders, and possess heroes who made legends in our forces, yet this is unwinnable. To reach Acocaea with the necessary forces to match his would only cause attrition amongst ourselves. Exhaust our resources. It cannot be done.”
Rómitas Miro agreed. “We’ve also had reports of the Vasileú mustering smaller forces to strike our garrisons along the most defended portions of our borders. In this draught of offensive strategies, they have made the first move. We were too complacent to build our number for a single strike.”
“Our own damned tactic,” added Stavros Kappato, tumathios of the Crimson Wards. “A distraction. Send our forces to fight theirs to defend the garrisons and thus leave our forces at Acocaea and the surrounding villages undermanned. And if we do send our forces here to answer in any way to the Druyans or the Vasileú, it would leave the Bastion open to any other forces they have in waiting should they know about this place. Or leave our forces open to flanking.”
“A vexing conundrum,” said Pavlos Archilis, tumathios of the Green Dragons. “It is a simple strategy, but to do so with such numbers...we cannot send anyone but those we have already agreed upon. To lose the Bastion would be to lose the war.”
“As would our borders. We can’t let them run rampant through our lands,” explained Misandros. “What image would that send to those seeking to join the fight with us? We sit here in the mountains, hiding behind the walls of an impregnable fortress, while they fight with pitchforks and scrap iron and die. No, we need to fight in some capacity.”
Stavros’ second, an unexpectedly short but overall unremarkable man named Elias Alaniadis, ran a calloused hand over his mouth. “A series of task forces then in similar sizes to the Vasileú’s own. We could split a few of our larger aedos to do such a thing. It would balance the odds and leave the more moderate to smaller of our forces to assist Acocaea.”
“It would have to be brave warriors,” said Alexis Peral, tumathios of the Claws of the Basilisk. “Maybe a foolish few. They may be sinners alike…but the Vasileús’ army is every bit as skilled as we are. We all know this. Some of them were our friends. Even if we win against the Vasileú’s strikes, I fear we may not hear from these chosen warriors again.”
“Is it worth sending them with that risk, then?” rumbled Pavlos. His lips were crooked into a scarecrow’s frown.
“Only if we had the fullest confidence with the ones leading them.” Alexis rested his palms on the table to examine the map. “Where did the ravens we trust say they were heading roughly?”
Ěspe le’Micha pointed to seven dots on the map. "Troezorion, Pellame, Pelerae, Nicopara, Pylystus, Euberikon, and Epoli. With our merged forces, these garrisons number ten thousand each. The Vasileú has split his own into seven groups of twenty.”
“Where in all of Hell’s reaches did the Vasileús find these men?” Stavros growled. “Why have they not assaulted us with these numbers before.”
“They have,” said Yvon ne’Banuus, the Great Blade of Belanore. Jira knew much of the woman, more than she did the Great Huntress. She was among the few Belanorians to come to the Bastion in the past year with whom she grew a genuine camaraderie. Of what she had learned from ne’Bannus, many in Belanore preferred the Wolf and cared little to know the history of the Great Blade beyond her piety and pilgrimages across the known world. “We have simply met in matched circumstances, in proper battlegrounds. Our hatred for each other has been so visceral that we have given little pause to consider the numbers of our forces and the destruction we are wreaking. Perhaps the Vasileús was luring us into a false sense of confidence to be expectant of a standard, only to pull the veil on us at this particular moment. Or, more likely, the Runemaster and the Vasileú are no longer caring to follow the standard, even if their betters are.”
“The Runemaster’s mother seems to no longer care either,” Rómitas Miro muttered. “We’ve no word of them even attempting to control the bastard.”
“Why should she? Her advice is ignored in favor of his apparent witch, and her son still advances faster than anyone could have expected. He could end the war within the year if he keeps the pace,” the Great Blade. “We need something new to win this fight.”
Vlakis tapped the table, reinvigorated with belief. “Split one or two of our largest guilds to fight the Vasileú on seven fronts. Risky, and it will strain those warriors, but it can be done.”
“The Ashen Shields and Radiant Hammers offer ourselves to this cause,” the tumathiosi of both said jointly. “Our combined numbers would see the Vasileú darken in our shadows.”
Those in the Great Hall murmured in the small moment of joy. “That leaves the problem of the Druyan’ians,” Jira ne’Jiral said as the voices died down and the pressing issue of solving the Vasileú’s attacks pushed to the side. She had picked her moment. Now, it was time to find victory in the unwinnable battle. She caught the single red eye of the Great Blade looking at her. “We are surely heading to the idea of sending more to Acocaea than just myself, Kalidis, and Manoloulis. We can match the Runemaster’s army without question following the strategy you have all developed. But what does that do to stop the Druyans from wiping us out with mystharin? I have been saying this for a year. You all have not forgotten that they care little for the sin of it, and the Akaios Opos’ actions at Gortinda only rallied them to use it more.”
Loukas Tamasos snorted. Misandros Tateas scoffed.
The Great Blade nodded, but it was her closest war-bonded that spoke. "Jira ne'Jiral is correct. We can send a million men to fight them at the River Nyxos, but that will amount to nothing if they can rain fire upon us or open chasms in the ground to sink our number.”
“Doing so would destroy the purpose of capturing Acocaea,” Ěspe le’Matto said.
“Are we certain that the man even wants to capture Acocaea?” Ěspe le’Micha asked. “It is just as likely at this point that he wants to kill every Aslofi’dorian he can find. Taking down the inner crossroads at Acocaea presents would open up a litany of opportunities for that goal.”
Ěspe le’Matto sighed. “The Druyans cannot afford-”
Jira held up a hand. “Ěspe le’Micha is correct in that hypothesis. They have been driven into a frenzy, kinsman. A bloodlust and the Runemaster is the worst of them all. He will use the forbidden powers and drive his men to use them. This, of course, does not include the possibility of the Tupria sending reinforcements to the man. Thus, we must devise a strategy to combat the Druyan’ians’ powers, as I have been asking of you for a year. One that does not involve beating the man to death with steel and wood.”
“Might I suggest the unsuggestable?” Misandros said without warning. All eyes turned to him, and the air became chilled with worry. “ne’Jiral is correct in the assumption that the Runemaster and his people will use mystharin. If they do, we cannot hope to beat them.”
“The words of a defeated man,” said the Belanorian standing next to ne’Bannus’ war-bonded.
“No, the words of a man who has seen the results of it. That is why the Runemaster has remained undefeated on the field of battle and why we lose entire regiments in minutes. Unless we get close to the bastards, which they will be loathed to allow, we will not be able to beat them.”
“What is this unsuggestable, Misandros?” Vlakis asked.
The room was quiet. Only the fireplace made noise, and even that was dulled. “That...we use it as well.”
The Belanorians erupted into the protest they had prepared to release when the man first arrived at the Bastion. Accusations were thrown at him, and blades were nearly drawn in righteous anger. Jira bellowed in their tongue to calm them. Loukas Tamasos stood by his tumathios with arms crossed, face stern, and emotions unreadable.
“Tell me that I am wrong, and I will admit it. You cannot beyond your inflexible morality,” Misandros defended.
The Belanorians screamed. “Rich words coming from the man who leads the supposed ‘Godliest’ of all guilds.”
Misandros stood undeterred. “We Akaios Opos are the holiest of all the aedos in Khirn, and we acknowledge the darkness that mystharin possesses in history and use, yet we cannot win this any other way. I have said the same to my contemporaries in the Church, in Amphe, in pilgrimage to your own land. How can we defeat an army that possesses the power to raise mountains with a flick of their wrist, summon storms with a glance of their eyes, and rain down the wrath of God upon us fools who refuse to use this power for Good? Tell me how beyond the use of swords and spears.”
“We can entrap them as planned,” another Belanorian spat.
“Good if you can reach the most powerful of their sorcerers unhindered. In an army of that size, you never will before they can respond. Had it been only the Runemaster and his Cohort, we would have had a better chance, but this is an army that nears a million strong. Unprecedented for anyone not named a Golden Lord.”
“We will not damn our souls using the power of witchcraft!” “Never!” “NO!”
“Enough!” Great Blade ne’Banuus commanded. “The Aslofi’dorian is right,” the Great Blade announced to the deflating shock of all her kinsmen. Jira’s heart thumped in terrified, intense rapture at the sound of those words. Her lips had cracked from drying. Prokos struggled to breathe. All Aslofidorian tumathiosi stared with utter confusion as the Great Blade began to speak again. “It is a truth that none of us have wanted to admit. A truth that we have been able to avoid for as long as our realm has lived. We were given the favor of avoiding fights on this scale. We have never had to endure the mire of blood and gore as the Golden Lords once did. Our nations were divided, and we fought in skirmishes and short wars rather than the total annihilation of the land and our lives. And the truth is that we cannot win this war without using the forbidden powers. We never could.”
Ěspe le’Micha stammered, sweat dripping down his brow. “Great Blade ne’Banuus, are you sure you understand what you are saying?”
The Great Blade set her single red eye on the man. “We live in a fortress of mystharin, hidden with it and protected by it. We face an enemy that uses it as openly as a cow grazes in the field. I hate saying the words as you would expect me to, but it is the truth. We have to use the forbidden powers. Sword and spear will get us far enough, but the last push we need to capture the Runemaster or kill him needs the forbidden powers. Shield and armor will get us far enough, but the last push we need to capture the Vasileús or kill needs the forbidden powers. Horse and spurs will get us far enough, but the last push we need to kill the one that started this war, the Vasiles herself, needs the forbidden powers that she corrupts by joining her heart with the Devil’s. I say that the Aslofi’dorian is right that we use mystharin, not as the Vasiles or the Runemaster do, but as the Most Noble would. As his Angels would. We use it for justice and honor, the salvation of our home, and the death of those who had wronged us and seek to condemn us to oblivion.”
“I cannot abide using the Devil’s magic,” a Belanorian said. Jira internalized her displeasure and noted how none of the Aslofidorians in the room had protested the idea presented by Misandros.
“Why, kinsman?” the Great Blade asked, stepping closer to the man. He shrunk in her presence, and only then did Jira note how formidable the Great Blade appeared. White hair shorn on the sides with the top’s length tied back into bejeweled plaits that ended at the small of her back, a single eye as red as a ruby, with the physique of a Great Elf. The right side of her face was burned, with the missing eye hidden behind a black patch. She was the hero from a story yet to be written. “Every realm in the known world uses it in some fashion. Passively or explicitly, they use it. We call it sin and live off it as if it were a virtue. Tell me why we should not use it as such, then?”
The Belanorian failed to answer her until: “The Codices have taught us that mystharin can only be used for evil, and to use it is to curse your soul. We cannot use it as you say we should. It is impossible.”
“Then we are already cursed, brother,” the Great Blade snickered. “For living here in the Bastion for over a year, we are cursed. All of us. Passive use, as I said. If we are sentenced to Hell upon death, then let us at least ensure that we take the villains with us.”
“You do not speak as a Bela’norian, Great Blade,” Ěspe le’Matto shuddered. “You never have. This conduct is unbecoming of one of our people, especially in the presence of the Aslofi’dorians. What would the Prime say? What would the Great Wolf-”
The Great Blade laughed. “Megare is a grand warrior but understands little of the world outside of Bela’nore, Ěspe le’Matto. She knows only battle and the Codices. I have sailed the oceans to Aqella and seen the fiends that live there whilst on pilgrimage to understand our origins and why God would have us become itinerant to this land as has the Prime. If our people cared more about evolving past the Codices and learning what he and I have learned on such journies, we would control the world, my friend.”
“Such journies cannot possibly condone the explicit use of the Devil’s magic,” Ěspe le’Micha said. “It cannot.”
“You condone the lives of the Drayheller excavating this place for you to live in. In direct violation of le’Tanco Verse 15. Remember that le’Tanco is the most preached portion of the Codices, and all who reside here now are in violation of them. My journies condone everything I am preaching. We use the forbidden powers to bridge the gap.”
None in that room offered sound arguments, even though they continued on for an hour. In the end, Misandros and the Great Blade proved their argument, and orders were given out to test the purity of willing participants. Those who were found to be impure would be given rapid studies from the bear folk, who expressed shock and eventually delight at the change in culture. By the time the Aros Sos, Monastic Spears, Onyx Sabers, Ashen Shields, Radiant Hammers, Akaios Opos, and the two legions led by the Great Blade and the Great Crusher departed the Bastion, those who had been trained were adequate enough to throw the Druyans off guard.