Year 219. Prienidrus Fields Township - Khirn
JIRA ne’JIRAL
One week. The rebellion’s fate would be decided within one week, and the army still had five days left in the march.
The rush from the Bastion had been frantic. Each unit deployed with immediate orders to reach their destination as quickly as possible lest the vile fiends of the Vasileús and Druya breach the borders of the Dioúksis’s lands. The Aros Sos were not exempt from this change of pace, especially so given their increasingly critical role of defending the River Nyxos from any possible Druyan reinforcements sent by the Tupria to aid the devil that was Erik Apa. The Monastic Spears and Onyx Sabers were in similar straits, given their role in flanking the supposedly inhumanly large force of the Runemaster and severing their ability to retreat. The Ashen Shields and Radiant Hammers had flown to garrisons to be sieged by the Vasileú, while the legions of the Great Blade and Great Crusher moved with singular purpose toward Acocaea to aid the Wolf in defending it. The Akaios Opos had been attached as a supplementary force of great warriors seeking to redeem themselves in the eyes of God. Jira found it humorous that they could continue doing the same thing that had so damned them. The tides of war had certainly shifted in their favor.
Yet, that humor only lasted for so long as the inevitable drew closer. This battle at Acocaea and all surrounding villages could prove to be as critical as the defense of Gortinda. Should the Runemaster win the River Nyxos, the Dioúksis would have effectively lost the war.
It could not happen.
“I find it frustrating that I am being called to war again to defend yet another village and another field,” the Drayheller Gíla Senghu said as Jira and Prokos joined her in the local smithy’s shop, an older calloused man by the name of Ornius. Per Jira’s request, the man took the night off so the three could have privacy for this event.
Jira, however, was not as enthused as she had hoped she would be. Gíla’s wide eyes and ragged breaths told Jira that the Bear Maiden was not looking forward to fighting in this battle, and the stillness of the shop and cold forge only exacerbated that feeling. The woman confirmed this as much. “They tell me this Runemaster possesses the ability to forge landscapes with his hands and wields a spear that can cut metal as if it were flesh. Worrisome.”
Prokos nodded and moved to the display mannequin draped in a white cloth. “Hence why we’ve been having smithies across the Dioúksis’s land prepare a suit of armor for you. We had to finish it here in a somewhat rushed operation, but it should remain as effective as we had hoped. Your flesh is as metal, and another layer could not hurt.”
Prokos removed the cloth after sharing a confirming nod with his tumathios. Gíla’s breath hitched as she stared in awe at the panoply. A suit of armor and a weapon of impeccable craftsmanship was set upon a mannequin of similar stature as the Bear Maiden. She walked up to it when movement was returned to her limbs, gobsmacked and voiceless.
“Well? Do you like it?” Jira asked, subtle impatience striking her voice.
The Drayheller sniffed. Silent, she remained as her eyes visibly devoured each detail of the suit, and finally, when she found her voice, all she could say was: “This is incredible.” She whispered the words, her voice drenched in the tone of uncertainty.
Prokos moved away from the armor, adding to the Bear Maiden’s uncertainty. “Is that all?” he chuckled.
Gíla reached out and ran her fingers over the metal of the breastplate. Even though she had seen it during its construction and before the cloth was placed over it, Jira could not help but share in the Drayheller’s marveling at the suit. How reflective it was for something so dark, so polished that it provided a look back at herself. The entirety of the set had been made out of midnight-black steel, set over a pitch-black arming doublet threaded and studded with silver and padded black trousers. Each segment was smooth and visibly seamless, particularly with the breastplate, plackart, rounded-square pauldrons, and fauld. The latter was decorated with purple studs, while the pauldrons were adorned with small spikes aligned in such a way as to resemble open jaws. Thin purple enamel was also provided, running across the plates in various geometric patterns. The rondels, couters, and poleyns featured a more discernable pattern of dual-colored roses edged with thorns.
“Poor Ornius had to work night and day on this,” Jira said. “Cost me a lot of my coin to have him prioritize it whenever possible.”
Gíla’s eyes fell next to the cuisses, greaves, and soleless sabatons, which featured only the geometric patterns yet gave the greatest inkling of protectiveness. When she trailed her eyes back up, the helmet took her breath away the most as it fully settled in her sight. This one was uniquely bestial, unlike the standard helmets of the Dioúksis’s knights. It resembled the placid expression of a true bear, solid black with a gold-toothed snout extended for Gíla’s own. The visor was designed as two empty sockets for the Bear Maiden to see through, and the crown of the helm featured a long braid of white fur from which animal she could not tell.
“I don’t know what to say,” she finally admitted with a brittle, shaky voice.
Jira snorted and walked up to the Bear Maiden, placing her hand on her massive shoulder. “It took a while to figure out the necessary measurements because of how much you’ve…” she motioned with her free hand. “Grown over the past few years. But I think I got it spot on.”
Gíla laughed nervously. “I never thought I’d have such…armor. I mean, no one ever-”
“I am not ‘no one,’ Gíla,” Jira interrupted, her smile faltering. “I am your friend, at least I’d hope to be. You saved my life in Gortinda. You each Prokos the history of the world - even if it gives him an existential crisis on his place in it. He, in turn, teaches them what he feels is best for their minds to handle. You continue to fight for the Dioúksis despite the risks you suffered in Gortinda. You have earned this, Gíla.”
“Earned it?” the Bear Maiden asked, incredulous yet still hit by unshakeable gratitude. “I feel as though I must disagree. Those things are not worthy enough of this masterpiece.”
“I disagree myself,” Prokos countered. “I’ve heard more people from the Aros Sos talk about history that no other aedo talks about: your damned Acominatus and the rest. Intelligence and wisdom will keep them alive just as much as any sword and shield. We’re not running a band of idiots.”
The Bear Maiden’s expression softened from the praise. “I suppose, but…” her golden eyes narrowed, settling on the empty sockets of the helmet. “Is that worth such extravagance?”
Jira exhaled through her nose and moved in front of the Drayheller, running a hand along the left pauldron as one would do to their lover’s face. “When I was given my first suit of armor, I was elated,” she explained, looking back at Gíla.
“I am elated, Tumathios ne’Jiral,” Gíla hurriedly exclaimed. “I just…was not expecting to have such a suit made for me in my lifetime. Or…ever. No Nujant Chhank has-"
“Ever worn armor beyond leather or hide, I understand that. But times change, and you need armor. This war is going to get worse. More settlements like Gortinda, bloodied and sunk.”
“Do you think Acocaea will be as Gortinda was?”
Jira nodded.
Gíla’s ursine lips crooked in thought as her eyes inevitably fell on the weapon held in the mannequin’s hands. A war hammer, explicitly built for Gíla’s massive hands, capable of being wielded in one hand or two. Jira was uncertain if any human, save for perhaps The Colossus, could lift such a monstrous thing. The black-iron head featured a broad hammer and a curved horn spike etched with triangular gold shapes. The iron shaft was engraved with decorative gold lines and wrapped in black leather bindings. If the Bear Maiden needed to use it as a thrusting weapon, a spiked pommel was affixed to the end of the shaft. Gíla’s face darkened as she stared at the great beast of an armament.”
Jira lowered her hand from the suit and crossed her arms. “You don’t look pleased,” she said. Her face had fallen to a worried, nervous smile.
Gíla breathed in sharply. “I am just remembering Gortinda,” Gíla said truthfully. “The boy I killed. He will not leave me be.”
Jira lowered her head.
The Bear Maiden reached forward, brushing her tumathios aside and gripping the cold haft of the war hammer. Practically ripping it out of the mannequin’s hands, she held it up in front of her face, the weight not even noticeable. Her eyes were furrowed, and their gold was heightened to an almost flaring degree. “I do not want to fight again. Gortinda was enough for me.”
Jira stepped closer. “Gíla-”
The Bear Maiden stopped her with a small twirl of the hammer. “But I know we have to. I know that I signed on for this. It’s appalling, inhumane, and ruthless, and I need to get used to it.”
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Year 219. Prienidrus Fields Township - Khirn
GÍLA SENGHU
Rain fell on the camp in sheets. Crackles of lightning danced across the sky in forked tangos. The wind howled like dying wolves, and thunder roared like rockslides - a perfect storm of untamed nature. Whatever voices carried between the soldiers barely seen were deafened by the downpour. Gíla shivered under the canopy of her tent as she struggled to absorb any noticeable details, gazing out into that staticky darkness dotted by struggling campfires and dim lanterns. Hear muscles tensed as something significant trotted by from the veil. A horse, noted to her by a quickly drowned scent of wet mane, but something still momentarily startling to see walk by as a large shadow. “Emerald Daywalkers are of similar size. Or so I have read,” she said to herself. “Dirt Crawlers too. We are nowhere near a forest, but…still.”
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The rain had troubled her ever since she was a child. Her parents had entrusted her with carrying a parcel to a nearby town for her first solo outing. It was a monumental affair for any Nujant Chhank to be given the opportunity to venture out into the world on their own, developing their skills of adventuring and discovery. The first night went as well as one could hope. Unassailed, unhindered, unbothered. A perfect start to the trek. The second night was not. Darkness had fallen quickly, shrouding the world in a blanket of black. Beasts of the night awoke and stalked from bush and branch. Then the rain came in the torrential storm that drowned her fledgling senses, leaving her in the darkness for hours. She tumbled, twisted her ankle, and slumped through the muck, crying for her mother. Only by the kindness of a traveling merchant did she escape that fate. She shivered in his cart, soaked and frigid, parcel still tucked under her arm. Now she shivered again, dry and warm from the thick fur of her body and folding her hands under her arms.
It was foolish, she had decided. Stupid to be so bothered by a natural weather event. She should be able to endure anything without worry, like her parents and all other Nujant Chhank. Fearless and bold for the acquisition of knowledge and experience. Not tepid and frozen because of rain. Yet, she stood, unwilling to leave her canopy and cross the camp for food. Fish, vegetables, and stew were the meals for the night. She could smell traces of it wafting through the downpour. All she had in her tent was a bundle of red and blue berries and a few loaves of pepper bread. Nothing worthy of being called a meal.
“Come on…just walk,” she said to herself again, more so growled. A crack of thunder and blue lightning bombarded the sky as if to rebuke her. She breathed hard and shook her head. “Just walk out there and…get food. It is a simple task. Just walk.”
She stepped forward; her eyes clenched shut as the droplets touched her foot. Another step brought her halfway out from under the canopy. Rain touched her head in sharp spikes, rattling against the studs of her arming doublet. Thunder boomed with a castrophany of lightning, driving the Bear Maiden back under the canopy and pedaling into her tent. Breaths came dagger-sharp from her lungs. Then, a growl, low and rumbling like the thunder outside.
Her glare fell to the nearby standing mirror, polished to perfection inside a frame of engraved steel. A tall and robust Nujant Chhank looked back at her, clearly capable of instilling fear and bravery among all those around them. She walked to the mirror, the expression in its reflection growing increasingly enraged.
“You look distressed,” a voice said from the darkness.
The Bear Maiden spun around. A man of shadow stood at the entrance of the tent. Broad and tall, dressed in rain-glistened black-mail linked so tightly it appeared as fabric. A yellow cloak was clasped to his shoulders by ravens. Gíla felt her heart cease pumping at the energies this man produced against the backdrop of rain-soaked darkness. “Who are you?” Gíla asked before her delicate mannerisms returned, threatened quivering trailing after her words.
“Svend Ia,” the man said in a voice absent of inflection. “Curator, charged to securing the interests of the Lords of the Star Bastion and Dioúksis Polydius Audax by extension.”
“Oh! My apologies, Lord Ia,” Gíla said hurriedly, bowing her head and saluting. “It has been some time since I last saw you. How do you fare?”
Svend walked inside, the chainmail clashing violently with the vibrancy granted by the lanterns of the tent’s interior. Gíla shared his examination. It was austere compared to many, save for the bundles of tomes and scrolls the Bear Maiden had sequestered away before the rushed marching to Acocaea. Those and the suit of armor laid out on the Bear Maiden’s arming table. Svend approached the bundle nearest the Bear Maiden and picked up the top leather-bound book. “A Military History of the Aqellan Elves,” he read aloud, turning it over to examine the summary on the back. "By Professor Timas Parides. I know the man.”
“Have you read it?” Gíla asked, her voice as neutral as she could manage. Svend turned to her and shook his head. The Bear Maiden smiled all the same, “You should. It’s insightful.”
Svend placed it down and picked up another, following each examination of a book by unloading many questions that kept the Bear Maiden frozen in time. Gíla answered each with a vested but nervous interest and quickly noted how the man had instantly proven almost as unnerving as the storm, but for entirely different reasons. His questioning about her skills, time in Gortinda, time in the Bastion, and the occasional questions about her opinions on Jira ne’Jiral was troubling enough. But, the truth of it was far more terrifying.
People were the Nujant Chhank’s forte. That is how Gíla Senghu had survived this long with her family, reading the people and learning their ways and how to avoid death and persecution—or, at least, the more severe natures of it.
She could not read Svend Ia. She could not see beyond the expressionless face, the assertive stare of his startlingly golden eyes. She could not see what he was capable of—a wall of gray with a blood spatter in the most random places.
The Curator placed the tenth book on top of the ninth and gave Gíla another stare. “You read a lot,” he said, his voice lacking any distinct accent. “How do you have the time to read so much while fighting this war?”
The Bear Maiden gulped and licked her lips, which had suddenly grown dry. “I am also a teacher for the aedos, alongside my family. We teach them the history and culture of Khirn’s past. I-I focus a lot on the central lands of Belanore, Veoris, and Tarihr. They are interested-”
“I get the idea,” Svend interrupted. He picked up an eleventh book and considered it far longer than the previous two. “Why are you so interested in mystharin, Bear Maiden? Are you a practitioner like those in this army?”
The Bear Maiden quickly shook her head, her eyes widening and glowing like tiny suns. “No, of course not. I do not have the skills like my father.”
His face remained neutral. “Unfortunate. The Nujant Chhank are quite powerful in channeling it. Perhaps among the strongest...but still not as strong as the Dwarves. I knew a practitioner for a time. Back during an excursion in my youth. Worldly travel, sponsored by a student who I was quite friendly with. They were of a noble family. Do you know what mystharin looks like when used offensively by the Dwarves? Do these books describe it in depth?” Gíla opened her mouth to answer, but Svend cut her off. “It’s beautiful but disastrous. A remarkable thing to see. Are you aware of the sprites, as Vlakis Anthiti calls them?” He flipped open the book with a finger, holding it by its spine in his right hand.
“Yes. They are exhilarating. My family calls them-”
“Imagine them mingling, forming a single conductive ball of energy that sinks into the ground to summon the earth for your control. And imagine that earth wrapping around your body, mingling with every strand of flesh you possess. You become an extension of the planet and yourself. Limitless things you can do with the rock, roots, vines, and thorns. It’s beautiful.”
“What happened to them? The Dwarf?”
“I killed them,” Svend answered plainly. “They attempted to use it to kill me, claiming I was a heretic soiling his homeland, and tried to rob me of the treasures I had found during my journey. I sliced his head off.”
Gíla lowered her head and clasped her hands by her stomach. “I see. I would very much like to stress that I would be nothing like that Dwarf were I capable of channeling mystharin.”
“Would you not? You fight in this rebellion. You seek to end the lives of the royal family. Take their treasures.”
“I am not seeking to take anything from them. I only fight to ensure the safety of my family. If this war could end peacefully, I would press for it.”
“And what of those in the Vasileús’ army fighting to ensure the safety of their families? What of the men and women in our aedos and legions that will take their treasures? Will you stand by and let them do it?”
“Why are you asking me these things?”
Svend finally took on something of an expression. Curiosity traced by a faint toothy grin. A fanged grin. “I ask you, what difference can be made between the Dwarf killing me for being a heretic and seeking to take my treasures...and a band of rebels and foreign invaders cutting down a family if the intent is ultimately the same? They call them heretics and will certainly take their treasure. What is the difference beyond scale?”
Gíla took a while to respond but finally said: “Are you not in service to the Dioúksis and the Lords? You speak as a dissident who does not believe in the Dioúksis’s goals.”
Svend shifted his expression into a plain smirk, if it could be called that. “Do you believe in the Dioúksis’ goals?”
Gíla took on a voice of some returning confidence. “I believe in the goal of my family.”
“Your family,” Svend repeated. “Good people, but ultimately disloyal to the Dioúksis. Disloyal to the Lords. There will be bloodshed between them at the first sign of trouble.”
“No, there will not be,” Gíla sternly stated. “They will stand by the agreement between them and the Dioúksis.”
“What if the Dioúksis does not stand by the agreement? What if he swayed to betray your family?”
“You ask strange questions, Svend,” Gíla grimaced.
“I ask questions you should consider when alone,” he said. “Just as you should consider the loyalty of Jira ne’Jiral.”
Gíla blinked and stammered. "What?"
Svend snapped the book closed. “Where is Tumathios ne’Jiral?”
Gíla blinked at the sudden change in subject and stammered. “I am-I am not sure. I believe she might be at the tavern or a smithy.”
“She’s not. She is not at either. Where would she be?”
“I am uncertain, Lord Ia. I can only guess.”
Svend bore into the Bear Maiden, stealing whatever nerves remained. “Then guess.”
“Perhaps the road leading toward Acocaea? But I-”
“What are your thoughts on her?” he had begun pacing the length of the tent, his golden eyes locked onto the Bear Maiden the entire time. “Tell them to me once more.”
Gíla blinked again and inhaled sharply. “I trust her. She is skilled. Dutiful. Dedicated. I served as her traveling companion some years before we turned to the Star Bastion. She perhaps puts on a front with others, but I am sure-”
Svend laughed, and it was the worst sound Gíla had ever heard. “She is so hidden despite being so overtly...there. You see it, but you still trust her. You know, but you still trust her.”
“Lord Ia?” Gíla had unclasped her hands and nervously flexed them repeatedly into fists.
Svend stopped pacing near the entrance to the tent. “Worry nothing about it right now, Nujant Chhank. Just focus on staying alive. And you should not fear the rain, just as you should not fear fighting. There’s plenty of it to come. Get used to it.”
With that, Svend departed the tent and vanished into the darkness outside, leaving the Bear Maiden alone to listen to the falling rain and booming thunder.