Year 219. Acocaea - Khirn

THE RUNEMASTER

He stood at the precipice of carnage, his weapon buried deep in the chest of an insane man who had attempted to take his life. Behind him stood the phalanxes of his kin, Druyans, through and through. Akma Yal and Goka Tur led them. In front of him frothed the packs of dogs he was forced to call enemies when he had so hoped to call them friends, even if only temporarily. Belanorians. He pulled the Sky Spear from the chest of his dead foe and stepped off the mound of half-bodied corpses that served as his momentary opulent dais. Blood dripped from the spear’s tip, trailing with each step as if it were forming a river next to him.

“Belanorians! Can’t we come to an understanding now, after so many have been lost?” the Runemaster shouted, extending his arms out in mock forgiveness. However, there was a tinge of worry in his voice upon carefully considering the foes ahead of him.

Madness had run rampant in the moments following that horrendous break in the sky, yet now it seemed that rational thinking had returned to them once more. The Belanorians had adopted a hollow wedge formation with their lines. Heavy infantry was in front, light infantry was behind, archers were behind them, and the flanks were defended superbly by elite infantry guards. Erik Apa’s heart pounded in his chest. Belanorians were universally skilled in most known forms of infantry combat and were almost always masters of siege defense and offense when their minds were at ease. Pure luck of insanity had let him lead such a successful initial assault on Acocaea. The sea and mystharin were the only things they were weakest at, and this kept them from truly laying a full-blown invasion of Druya.

Druyans, as Erik Apa had been raised to understand, were nearly equal to the Belanorians but were far more reliant on mystharin to get them far ahead in battle. He understood that this should not have been a weakness. He understood that this should not have kept them from launching successful invasions against other realms in Khirn, yet it always hampered at the most critical junctures. Invasions and wars ruined by the very things that made them strong. Near-endless endurance across Druya was a given trait, but near-endless was still not endless. Armor bogged them down in marshes not seen in their home, shields became heavy as the days became long, and extended mystharin usage drained them, for it had to be subtle and restrained in the name of politics. The Runemaster had always acknowledged this privately and now had to admit it in the most dangerous times. His mystharinic powers, like those of his men when put into proper use, were great. Still, there was very little he could do if he had to maintain the morale of a broken phalanx and defend himself from a charging horde of Belanorian hounds driven on savage faith and desire to see his head on a spike.

Worse still, behind the wedge, more defensive lines of Belanorians took shape, comprised of spearmen, sworders, and more archers. Beyond them, rows of cavalry formed up, ready to charge once the lines ahead of them broke apart to make space for the horses. No, he couldn’t do much against such forces on his own. He had to stall for more of his army to arrive at his position or make enough space with one brutal attack to whittle down the forces. He settled on the latter.

Erik grimaced under his helmet and spun his spear in his hand, preparing to attack. “I again offer you a chance for surrender. Take it and see your remaining number spared!”

“Burn with the Devil!” one of the Belanorians spat from behind their shields.

The wedge took a step forward. The Runemaster scrambled at the minute movement. He spun his spear forward in twirling arcs to forge the Machkim of Petsu, surreptitiously forming the Mitsi of Chonrin with his fingers while shouting the Tupri of Tihtam. Gouts of flame, wind gales, and blistering acid showers assaulted the Belanorian wedge. Many were killed in the attack. The thick Belanorian plate armor defended many more. He used the moment of shock to assault the wedge, slamming strike after strike of his spear against their defenses. Arterial blood sprayed out from the few that he cut down, but Erik found himself driven back by a ferocious counter-assault of the wedge. His eyes widened at its effectiveness, even though no injury had been done to him yet. He fled to his cohort’s phalanx, propelling himself into the lines to take up shield and command.

“Tsugh pem!” the Runemaster ordered, bringing up all shields that may have been slacking. “Send these dogs to the afterlife! Tu chu tsogh!”

“Tu chu tsogh!” his cohort repeated. For the homeland. For Druya.

The wedge broke through the dais of flesh the Runemaster had made, chanting their prayers and curses upon him and his people. A figure of imposing aura commanded them. Erik Apa, bravest of all Druyans and most brutal of its warriors, shuddered to think what this man would do to him if he were but a hair weaker.

“Tsugh pem!” the Runemaster again commanded. “Tsugh pem! Tsugh pem!”

All shields were raised. To block. To brace. To deflect the arrows that sang their deadly songs in the air as they arched with deadly purpose. For every three dozen tips of steel crunched against Druyan metal, their wooden shafts snapping like twigs, another four found their marks with sheer brute force. Goka Tur and Akma Yal issued checks of morale and laughed as the wedge drew nearer.

Collision was imminent. Erik’s breath stuck to his lungs. His eyes, brown as oak, glared through the visors of his helmet. The rainbow luster was lost and drenched in blood. “Tu chu tsogh!” he roared as the wedge broke into the phalanx.

By sheer force of will, the phalanx held for the first minute after impact. They roared with effort. Curses and promises spewed forth from their tongues as if the organs were lashing out with their own minds. Force was pressed against force, metal screaming on metal with wild slashes, blood rushing through veins and out of cuts as flesh was battered and sliced in the short contest. Finally, the Runemaster’s breath broke from its prison in his lungs as the phalanx was broken. Arrows rained freely onto the cohort, dropping dozens in seconds from death or gruesome wounds. Erik issued counter-attack commands, splitting his cohort down the middle to let the wedge charge itself into suitable positions for flanking strikes.

Erik roared when the moment hit, the Belanorians screeching in turn as they realized too late what he had let them do. With the precision of lightning bolts, the Druyan warlord cut down his foes in heaps of gore and violence. However, his attempt to end the skirmish was cut short by the interjection of the one commanding this force of Belanorians. Breath was stuck in his lungs once again. They struck the Runemaster’s chest with a wide sideways slash from their sword, the blade glinting off the protective wards of the Runemaster’s armor. Erik fell back from the impact, rolling to his feet in time to deflect another powerful swing, grunting as he batted away a third that followed just as quickly as the second.

The resulting bout between commanders broke apart the cohort and wedge, each sequence of strikes a masterpiece of attack and defense. Something had improved this Belanorian. The Runemaster had no doubt of it. They were quicker than their contemporaries. Stronger. Wiser in managing their aggression. Quieter in their utterances of faith. Several glancing blows kept Erik on the back foot. Numerous hard strikes against the wards of his armor reminded him of his ultimate mortality. He parried the rest and carefully sliced open the thick Belanorian plate, reminding the commander of the same.

“You Druyans are nothing more than barbarians!” the commander swore, propelling his longsword at the Runemaster’s chest in a forceful lunge.

Erik cracked the blade aside. “You swore yourselves to this madness in favor of peaceful resolution! It is not we who are the barbarians, Belanorian!”

Another swing, barely missing the Runemaster’s exposed neck. “You ally with your mortal foes, swearing allegiance to a Vasileús who has married his soul to a witch. You invade those seeking freedom from such a prison, break into the homes of the innocent, and slaughter indiscriminately. You are as vile as the Elves!”

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Erik felt a surge of rage fill his beating heart. Blood rushed to his ears. He swung rather than stabbed—no, he heaved the spear like a maul for the Belanorian, placing ecstatic trust in its enforced durability to withstand such a blow. "Tsakita man ghatmia!"

The commander chortled darkly and ducked—another lunge. Sparks flew as the wards failed. Erik felt pain ring in his body like a chorus of bells, blood welling from the growing slice across his stomach. Battle flew around them as the phalanx struggled to maintain their counter-formation against the still-driving wedge of Belanorians. “Ah! So easy to get into your mind, barbarian,” the commander said. “Are you sure you are the fabled Runemaster of Druyan?”

“Be silent,” Erik snarled. “I will not have such insults lobbed upon my name. I will not be compared to those inhumans. I will not have my people compared to them!”

The commander and the Runemaster traded blows. Around their men, they fought, occasionally breaking to defend against attacks from others. Erik’s body bled from two more lacerations that broke through his wards, the commander equally damaged but somehow still fighting.

“Half-Elves,” the Belanorian spat. “That is what you must be—the worst of humanity and the worst of the inhumans. You are not men. You are monstrosities, born from the womb of Hell itself.”

“Enough!” Erik roared, sprinting at his foe and leaping into the air. His spear ran through empty air and into the ground. The commander took the chance and cut at the Runemaster. Once more, the rainbow armor broke from the strike, and Erik suffered yet another injury, losing a scrap of flesh between his ribs.

The commander advanced on him. “Runemaster. Devil. Master of mystharinic arts. What a jest. I look at you now and see a mortal man facing his end.”

Erik swirled to avoid a low cut, jutting his spear like a Tahririan piston. “Die!” he roared as the tip of his weapon finally found something of a mark. The Belanorian yelped as his hip was pierced by mystharinic steel and shot his hand down to grip the shaft of the weapon. Erik gritted his teeth, pulling the spear free from the Belanorian’s side and away from the attempted seizure. His face curled into a grin as blood spilled from the wound and widened the expression when the commander stepped forward only to fall to his knees, his hip split from the stab. Erik let his breath leave his lungs again and stepped forward, stabbing the Belanorian through the slit of his visor.

“Tu chu tsogh!” he canted, raising his fist in the air. There was a break in the fighting. The Belanorians were shocked by the abrupt defeat of their commander—frozen. Erik Apa pulled the spear from the dead man’s face, spun it in the air, and screeched to the heavens. Fire erupted around him, boiling the Belanorians within their armor. His wards were mended, his wounds cauterized, his lungs breathing freely now. Against the odds, he would keep his cohort alive.

“Runemaster!” a voice cried out, breaking through his concentration. His turn toward the source was met with a flying punch to his faceplate, knocking him to his backside. Rolling to his feet, Erik brought his spear to bear against the descending hack of the woman who could only be the Great Blade. Yvon ne’Banuus—backed up by what appeared to be the entirety of her legion—charged through the incomprehensibly massive streets of Acocaea to clash with his forces.

“God damn you, ne’Banuus!” the Runemaster said as he pushed the Great Blade’s strike away. “Do you wish to die as well?”

“It is not I who will die this day, Erik Apa,” the Great Blade seethed, adopting the charging stance of an expert warrior. Erik felt sweat run down his brow. On her own, the Great Blade could accomplish what the wedge of Belanorians did as a formation.

He growled all the same and initiated the duel as he would any other, electing the mindset that facing her with doubts would surely result in his death. Something was infusing the Belanorians with enhanced strength and purpose. The commander had pressed him hard in combat. Yvon ne’Banuus was indisputably stronger than that man. Such a belief was proven factual when the Great Blade, rather than deflecting, dodging, or ducking the attack, merely stopped his momentum mid-thrust by grabbing the spear and yanking it down to lead the steel tip into the ground.

Erik gasped as the Great Blade’s axe raced toward him with such incredible speed that only an inhuman could have dodged it. He flew back as the wards again protected him, releasing his hold on the Sky Spear. Yvon ne’Banuus let nothing rest between them as she followed up with a series of hacks and slashes, taking seconds out of her endless assault to chop down his warriors like kindling. Blood and guts spewed like miniature payloads from a catapult.

“The Great Blade! As brutal as they say,” Erik laughed, rolling away from a killing blow.

“As brutal as necessary to defeat you,” the Great Blade declared, following him at a hunter’s pace.

The Runemaster reached for his spear. A hard kick from one of the Great Blade’s elite knights kept him from his prize. His eyes narrowed on the man. The two sparred briefly. The bout ended with the Belanorian on the ground twitching from a broken neck and the Runemaster wielding his sword and shield. “Do you not see the madness that infested this place? Look at the sky, ne’Banuus.”

“I am aware of it, Runemaster,” the Great Blade said. “I am terrified by it and all things that have accompanied it. But I care most for your head on a spike.”

“Of course you do,” Erik lamented. “Fine. Let us-”

His words were cut short by the Great Blade’s pace, breaking into a discomforting sprint. She appeared before him in a flash of lightning across a starless sky and snapped her axe for his neck. The Belanorian shield did little to defend against the attack even as he chanted consecutive Tupri, the metal crunching inward and snapping in the center. Erik threw rapid blows to push the woman away from him, carving the Machkim of Ayuts for ranged telekinetic power. ne’Banuus withstood it all. Erik still attempted to reach his spear. ne’Banuus knew this and instead braced her body against the sword as the Runemaster drew in. Scratches and dents were the rewards for the Runemaster’s attack with an untested weapon. He clenched his jaw and pressed his full weight with the shield against ne’Banuus, again uttering the Tupri to increase his stability.

“Why do you fight for the Aslofidorians, Great Blade?” he asked, tossing aside the broken shield to grip the sword with two hands.

“Why do you?” she asked in turn.

He shook his head. “Ask my mother. Ask the Vasileús. Ask the Vasile. Do not ask me, for I had no desire to fight alongside the curs.”

The two traded blows. Erik’s sword was chipped and bent. He discarded it and inched closer to his spear.

The Great Blade grunted. “As I have no desire to see your alliance overthrow our homeland with chaos and misery.”

For a fraction of an instant in time, the Runemaster lowered his guard. It was an opening he left for her, a test to see if she could muster the logic to understand his words. “You wish to see our alliance ended? To avoid chaos and misery? Then I propose a solution to this disaster of a siege: join me and take this fight to the Vasileús, to the Dioúksis, to the Vasile. We can slay them all, gain new land, and have proper holdings for our people to wage war against the inhumans across the Jade. We can finally rid ourselves of these simple people and develop ourselves into realms of true worth.”

The Great Blade did not grant the Runemaster an ounce of consideration. “I gave an oath to Dioúksis Audax. To the people who follow him. I gave an oath to the Prime of Bela’nore. I will not be branded an Oathbreaker for one such as you!”

Erik Apa’s face flashed with hidden disappointment and rage. He leaped for his spear. The Great Blade stepped forward with a sideways cut that could have felled a tree instantly. With centimeters to spare, he avoided the attack and landed on the ground, wrapping his fingers around the spear and thrusting it toward the Great Blade. She batted it away and chopped at him. He deflected, using his new rush of adrenaline to utter the Tupri of Mopro. His speed enhanced to match hers. He used this swiftness to carve the Machkim of Up. His strength enhanced to match hers. He used this power to make space between them and finally form the Mitsi of Yeyni. His body was wreathed in jolts of electricity, his psyche shielded against doubt, and his conviction as cemented as the Towers of Chitam.

“Mystharin will not help you, Erik,” the Great Blade said softly.

The Runemaster sighed as the power within and without him settled. Gasps and murmurs of awe and fear filled his ears. He glanced momentarily to the sides and noted how a great host of Belanorians and Druyans had ceased their fighting to bear witness to this great and terrible fight that was to come.

“What makes you say that, Great Blade? Are you suddenly a practitioner?” he asked.

“No. But watching you fight taught me one thing I needed to know.”

“What’s that?”

The Great Blade twirled her axe in her hand. “You rely too much on your power, and all power has its limits. When yours runs out... I’m going to cut your fucking head off.”