>
> The Onyx Wyvern turned its massive two-horned head, dragon eyes opening like lighthouses, red illumination painting the darkness and revealing the hellish landscape. Smoldering ground and debris. Vapors and smoke coming off of mangled torn up pieces of boiled flesh, where the Akens’ large pile of restrained ‘human lure’ had been left to entice him.
>
> “Now,” Edlenn hissed and Anfalon vaulted over the broken wall holding ‘Wraith’ his spear, hobnailed sandals scrapping the edge of it and legs kicking at the air. A breath and the elongated blade plunged in the wagon wheel sized right eye and broke through the gelatinous membrane. It made it pop and burst out like a sack filled with foul-smelling acid. Gimoss snapped his snout back violently with a mighty groan and Anfalon could have lost the grip on his spear, as he ripped it out the deflated fleshy orb.
>
> But he didn’t.
>
> He hold on to it, left shoulder ligaments tearing and the bone cracking right at the socket joint. Anfalon grunted feet sliding five meters away in the smoldering grit, grinding his teeth as the Wyvern slowly got up on a winged front leg, blinded from one side.
>
> Now was the time to run, his instinct cautioned, but Anfalon pulled his remaining working arm back instead, holding the shaft behind its center with his fingers like a javelin. A growling Gimoss raised his black scaly head sluggishly, but very much breathing and stilled his sole dark red eye slit on him.
>
> A brave fucking idiot! The poisoned Wyvern blasted equally annoyed and hurting, its hex song bursting the Hoplite’s eardrums.
>
> Anfalon gave him a head nod and then made to hurl the spear just the same, realizing mid throw that Gimoss was standing on a winged front leg on purpose and not because he couldn’t use both. The courageous Hoplite grimaced, seeing out of the corner of his left eye the other trunk-sized leg coming too late for him to dodge, with the leathery dark-red wing extending behind it like the mystic sails of an ancient galleon.
>
> The next moment his body was thrown back over that wall, turning into a large flying object for a brief thirty meters and the unresponsive Anfalon woke up when he crashed through the cracked Dome, taking half the ceiling down with him.
>
> His helm that had restricted his vision enough to miss Gimoss’ sneak attack, kept his brains inside his cracked skull. Well that and the fact Isil Mehtar O’ Mecatan was the best armorer that had ever lived, on top of a very close friend.
>
> Anfalon dug himself out of the ruins after six grueling days, but by that time everything was over.
>
> He reached Sibara’s torn down walls walking on a shattered shin he’d stabilized with a broken spear shaft, a ruined shoulder and severe potion poisoning as he’d glugged down everything inside his field satchel. Galadriel, the Seer Witch of Cydonia, spotted him first coming out of the ruins and rushed to his aid.
>
> There was nothing of Sibara left undamaged either by war, or fire. From the eighty Sorcerers, Witches and their pupils that had arrived to squash the Aken, but ended up fighting Gimoss instead, only a shell-shocked few remained to celebrate a victory that tasted more like a crushing defeat.
>
> None looking more hollowed out than the High Priestess herself. Sintoriela’s spawn looked neither majestic, nor talented Anfalon thought approaching with the help of the injured Galadriel.
>
> She just looks broken inside.
>
> “She can’t find Rinariel,” Galadriel informed him, adding empathetically despite their well-documented rivalry. “Better is the knowledge of one’s certain demise, than the endless ambiguity of one’s uncertain survival.”
>
> “How’s Ena?” Anfalon grunted and accepted a flask of water. “What of the Hallowed?”
>
> “They left with the King. Everyone thought you slain Anfalon. It was a suicide mission. As for poor Ena, she’s badly burned and I don’t think she wants to come back. Not after what happened to Nororis,” Edlenn replied clenching her jaw and gathering her robes stood up to allow the healers to take the unresponsive mystic away.
>
> “The Blue Sorceress is dead?” Anfalon rustled and spat down to wash his mouth from dirt and old blood.
>
> “Aye,” Galadriel said and took the flask from him. “Enough, back to the ship you hard-headed fool,” she added with a courtly smile.
>
> Eh, Anfalon thought feeling her fingers warming up soothingly, where she touched his arm.
>
> The bone kind of gave, so I’m not sure about that.
>
> “Anfalon,” Edlenn asked him as they turned to limp away. “Have you seen Rin? She was with the Young Othrim at some point. It’s been ten days now.”
>
> “I’ll look into it,” Anfalon assured her looking back and she nodded clinging to hope.
>
> What is a mother to do?
>
> Or a father? He added thinking of his own killed daughter.
>
> How does one replace the irreplaceable? It’s easier to put a new king on a throne.
>
> Or win a war.
>
> It took him a day to reach the ruined docks, but the last ship was still moored there and since the Wyvern had flown away, the sailors and injured aboard had been lulled into a false sense of security.
>
> Or they were just too traumatized to give a damn anymore, he thought and approached a sitting alone young cadet hoplite, wallowing with his back on the foremast. The injured Zilan, kept rubbing at a dented helm as if he could repair it with his fingers.
>
> “You were with the Young Othrim?” Anfalon asked him and watched the young Zilan frown at first, then his eyes widening realizing who he was and attempting to stand. “Stay down. What’s your name?”
>
> “Roran, son of Saeveril,” the young Hoplite blurted out, his whole torso bandaged and sporting large blisters over both his arms and legs. “Second Hoplite of the Young Othrim,” Roran glanced at the helm he was holding shocked as if he’d just realized it. “First, I guess.”
>
> “We don’t move up the ranks,” Anfalon rustled eyeing him. “Unless the spot is vacated lad.”
>
> “Aye Lord Anfalon.”
>
> Anfalon sighed and stood to watch at the ship being loaded.
>
> “Is there another ship coming?”
>
> “Edlenn asked for one I believe,” Roran replied unsure and Anfalon remembered why he’d approached him in the first place.
>
> “The High Priestess firstborn,” Anfalon started and the look on Roran’s face told him a great many things. Some of them sweet and a bit foolish given where they were, but the most of it bitter and painful. “Was it quick?” He probed to give her forlorn mother at least that.
>
> Roran hanged his head and grimaced, giving him the answer.
>
> Eh, Anfalon thought his heart heavy, Galadriel’s words coming to mind.
>
> How is that better than not knowing Sorceress?
>
> How in all gods is that better?
>
>
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'Great' Anfalon, of Orloriel
Come soon, bring everything
Part V
-First of the Hallowed-
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Lymsiel’s body was warm. Her skin soft and unblemished. At a hundred and sixty years, the young Healer had just started her teen years. Still a baby in a sense, he thought and frowned at her ministrations.
Strays grow up faster in the woods it seemed.
And old men allow time to wash the rules away.
Then again even if one remained unchanged and unmoved alike a granite plinth, the rules themselves didn’t, or there comes a Great Leveler at some point and wipes everything clean.
“What was her name?” Lymsiel murmured in his ear and Anfalon grimaced. “You’ve let me in, as I did,” the healer continued softly.
“You knowing don’t mean, I want to talk about it,” Anfalon replied and moved, the female’s body an enticing load he could easily cast aside.
But he hadn’t.
Not the first time months back.
Or the second.
All the times after that.
Old men can be self-serving.
“You changed the course of our lives,” she reminded him. “The moment you marched into our village.”
“Maeriel did that.”
“Nah, it was all you and a bit of Phinariel. We wouldn’t have left if you hadn’t appear. We trust you Anfalon. I do that is. From the very first moment.”
She wasn’t subtle about it. The young healer had showed her heart from the start without fear and had never wavered.
“Hardir must succeed,” Anfalon cautioned her crooking his mouth. “Else your trust might turn to regret.”
“It won’t,” she murmured and for a moment they remained silent, each reminiscing of their past.
“Was there another after that?” Lymsiel whispered, so close to him she could sense his thought patterns.
“Many.”
“I meant another child,” she gasped hurt, her gloominess spilling on him.
“You know the answer to that,” Anfalon grunted and stood up, the shade of the ruined Shrine uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Going another way, won’t trick me into discussing it!” he admonished her.
Lymsiel stood up as well and went to gather her discarded tunic. Anfalon kept his eyes on her while she put it on dejectedly. With a groan he reached for his undergarments as well.
“Speak,” he rustled. “Out with it Lymsiel.”
“What if another came?” The healer asked him.
Hmm.
Anfalon should have figured that one out sooner. It was a concern of course. The strays had multiplied spectacularly in the wild. “You’re too young to conceive—”
“I’m with child,” Lymsiel blurted out interrupting him.
Ah.
“You wish to return to Goras?”
“All gods, didn’t you just hear me?” Lymsiel bemoaned and the Hoplite on watch probably heard her as well.
“Lymsiel, it’s standard practice for pregnant females to excuse themselves from campaigns. Signed in law I believe,” Anfalon replied calmly and walked to her.
“I’m not going back,” the healer retorted stubbornly. “Where I’m from females can hunt and serve until the very last moment! This one will!”
“In the jungle yes, but campaigning is a whole other matter,” Anfalon added patiently –and you can’t hunt to save your life girl- then frowned staring at the jungle around them troubled. He realized it sort of challenged his argument, seeing as they were campaigning in the jungle. Technically they were still in the Temple grounds, but Nature had invaded deep into the ruins. Hmm. “You wish to come with us?”
“I wish to come with you! Goddess!” She bristled.
Anfalon nodded maintaining his composure to her outburst and spotted 'Second' Hoplite Diryel standing uncertain near a leafy wild flower shrub watching them.
The watch must have been recalled and Diryel was looking to locate the strugglers.
“Yes?” Anfalon asked her and Diryel stepped forward with a glance at the flushed Lymsiel.
“Zanylon has the troops ready sire,” the female Hoplite reported. An excellent student, strong, resourceful and very brave, Anfalon thought and glanced at Lymsiel. Dependable, talented and an empath, Soletha had said, but his mind was moving down different paths. Casting personnel evaluations aside. Another won’t necessarily perish afore you do. It’s fear of loss that’s stopping you, not her merits. “We are ready to march down the road. The guards as well,” Diryel added treading carefully.
His daughter had been a healer, alike her mother.
He hadn’t thought of it up until now.
The coincidence worth of note.
Anfalon had liked Lymsiel since the first time he’d seen in her village, but for completely different reasons.
He just knew.
Like every Zilan did and it had nothing to do with merits and castes.
Naught to do with the past and the pain of losing.
Nor with fear, or stubbornness.
All the laws in the Realm couldn’t rule over one’s heart.
Unless he was dead.
“I’ll catch up with you Second Hoplite,” Anfalon replied, his frown deepening. “See to give me a bit of a challenge this time. The unit is seriously slacking lately!”
“Sire, I’ll stay to—”
“I need no escort Diryel,” Anfalon cut her off. “Lymsiel shall walk with me, so she needs no other escort either. I’ll suffice!”
“Of course commander,” Diryel replied and bobbed her helmed head. “May I offer a personal word sire?”
Anfalon frowned and stared at her. “What is it?”
“Congratulations,” Diryel said and turning on her heels trotted away.
It was more like a sprint.
“You think she’ll tell the others?” Lymsiel asked standing alongside him.
“It’s the army,” Anfalon replied indifferently. “Everyone knows everyone. The news will spread. Nothing to bother ourselves about.”
“I’m sorry.”
Huh?
“What for? It’s the darn truth!” Anfalon responded with a glare, though he softened it a bit at the end. “Can you use a knife?” He asked changing the subject sort of.
She didn’t look like a spear wielding person.
“Ahm, a bit,” Lymsiel replied unsure and blinked seeing the shortsword he was offering her handle first. Fine, it was a handbreadth longer than a knife, but one needs the reach in a scrap. “I’m a healer Anfalon.”
“A bit won’t do healer. So you’re training with enthusiasm until we leave the jungle behind. You’re to be a mother first,” he deadpanned in a non-nonsense kind of way. “But you can heal your enemies after you cut them up properly. So take solace in that.”
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They found the ambush site a week later and the road turning much clearer after that. Scattered bones and rotting empty-eyed skulls remained at the drawn out ambush site. The slain left unburied and to the elements. The flesh eating plants had fought with the scavengers next and plenty of animal bones were mixed in with the human and Zilan remains.
“A mixture of armours and weapons. Good quality Abarat plates and blades left behind,” Zanylon reported, his young face strained. Death is the one thing you can’t train for, Anfalon thought, an eye on Lymsiel wandering about off the path. It has to smack you in the face.
Real battle being the second.
With fatherhood a close third.
“Horselords?” He asked with a frown and reached for his spear.
“Mostly Zilan. If I had to guess by the Hydra amulets, these were cultists finely kitted. A good trap. Scouts came by days later and continued on after them,” Zanylon continued grimacing, when Anfalon hurled his spear in a sudden swift move towards Lymsiel. The ‘Wraith’ whistled flying true and sunk right through the flesh eating root sneaking up on her, nailing it on the trunk of a nearby tree next, after dislodging it from the ground.
“They figured Kalac was heading back,” Anfalon continued calmly while Diryel run to pick up his spear and console a shocked Lymsiel.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“Ahm, yeah. They will squeeze them between two forces if they have more troops waiting at the edge of the jungle.”
“That’s already done,” Anfalon replied and took the spear back to slot it on his back with the shield. “Lymsiel stay in the path,” he added, eyeing the returning pale-faced healer. “Leave flower gathering for later. This spot is tainted with the dead.”
“Should we send a scouting team ahead?” Diryel asked and gave the healer a flask of water to calm her nerves down.
“We don’t have time to slow-foot this,” Anfalon replied. “We cut west out of the path towards Eroshin’s river bank. Look for the first bridge.”
“How do we cross it?” Zanylon asked. “It’s reported destroyed.”
“Plenty of ways to cross a river,” Anfalon grunted. “The weapons will use a raft, the soldiers will swim using ropes and what’s left of the bridge to fight the current. Either way we hug the river, even if we are forced to use the second one. Avoid the road.”
“You wish us to approach them from beyond Eroshin? The caves are on the other side of the stone bridge sire,” Diryel argued.
“So are Rothomir’s troops if he has half a brain cell left. He loses the bridge and we control the approach to the canal, whilst severing his link with Pelleas. Planning a landing is more dangerous than defending land.”
“He could have men guarding both mouths of the bridge,” Diryel countered.
“True. But usually the rear sentries are prone to slackening given they have friends and not enemies on the other side of it,” Anfalon replied.
“And don’t guard their own rear,” Diryel added with a satisfied smile.
“Despite orders given,” he retorted with an angry grunt.
“I’ll notify the men commander,” she beamed nervously and trotted away.
“Was she flirting?” Lymsiel asked a little annoyed.
“Yep. She was nervous because she’d missed the root sneaking up on you,” Anfalon replied and stared at her with the hint of a smile. “I have given her specific orders Lymsiel. She’s to watch over you at all times.”
“Ah,” Lymsiel gasped blushing and stared at her feet. The sandals there standard issue and of no particular interest, given the gravitas of their conversation. “Gratitude,” she added softly.
Anfalon snorted and pointed at her shortsword. “How about being more careful? Your safety is of a great concern to me you fool! What? You just figured that one out? Good grief,” he sighed when Lymsiel leaped into his arms. Every soldier present looking away and to the canopy with renewed interest all of sudden. “Eh, just use the darn blade the next time,” Anfalon murmured into her blue mane and kissed the top of her graceful ear. “Stab it down its gullet a couple of times. They hate chewing on steel.”
“I rather hide behind you,” Lymsiel gushed and Anfalon fathomed that worked fine too.
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There was a perfectly fine raft waiting on the other side of the collapsed bridge. Plenty of cut wood piled near it and ropes tied to the support beams. So his almost four hundred strong unit crossed the river in half a day.
Anfalon wanted to leave Lymsiel back near the riverbanks along with their civilians and most supplies, but while he left most of them there, the healer refused to stay behind. So Anfalon tasked the hundred and fifty guards that were to follow after his fast-moving hoplites as a rearguard to watch over her.
He needed Diryel in the frontlines.
He knew the newly trained Goras soldiers were a question mark in the field. Even his hoplites were untested in battle. They might perform well, or not. The bigger the unit, the less the coherence.
They heard the distant sound of battle on their approach to the half-hidden camp on the Canal’s side of the stone bridge. The lights and the clamor of men and weapons. Garth had opted to fight away from the bridge, drawing away the majority, if not all, of its defenders.
“Do we cross sire?” Zanylon asked, large green eyes shining under his helm. Two hours marching in the night had everyone’s eyes adjusted by now.
“Diryel?”
“My lord,” she whispered, her mouth pressed tight.
“Slot your spear and shield. Kopis in hand, after me,” he ordered and eyed the nervous Zanylon. “Back to the others. Make no noise, but prepare them for a fast crossing.”
Anfalon was moving afore the acting ‘Third’ Hoplite had time to answer him.
Zanylon was fifth in rank in the full unit, with Diryel Fourth and Lyceron with Hobor, Second and Third respectively. The ranks given based on skill and on per unit basis. They were curved letter numerals on their helms. If the Phalanx was present in full force, then every Othrim’s First had bronze regalia added on his helm, silver for the Leader of the Hallowed and Lord Superior of the Phalanx. If the Monarch was present his armor was decorated in gold details.
Diryel came after Anfalon running hunched to take advantage of the tall beewort blossoming near the river. They dashed towards the bridge’s mouth, but paused twenty meters away when they saw the sentries sitting near the still standing roofed portion of the bridge. Their interest on the distant unfolding battle across the river.
Diryel signed with her hands, making a bow and placing a finger on her ear.
Scouts, or rangers.
Anfalon pointed at her sword and she offered it to him.
Armed with both blades Anfalon got up and started walking briskly towards the bridge and the two sentries posted there, an eye on the mostly dark silent camp, the other on the backs of the two Zilan talking with each other about the unfolding battle in refreshingly formal Imperial.
Apparently Garth hadn’t used the Wyvern yet.
Anfalon walked almost to the bridge’s entrance, but three meters before reaching it, one of the sentries turned hearing his footsteps and paused unsure for a moment before seeing his armour.
“Any news sire?” he asked him relaxing and his friend turned to glance his way as well, but showing no signs of alarm, that is until Anfalon reached close enough they could distinguish the markings on his muscled cuirass.
The Hallowed muscled cuirass was of course decorated differently.
“What…?” The first one said and got a foot of blade through his heart, the leather armor offering as much resistance as his sternum. Very little. Anfalon had used so much force in his strike, the sword punched out of the dead scout’s back moving in a straight line and exiting between his shoulder blades.
Anfalon left it there and swung around to deal with the second guard, hearing Diryel running to assist him. The Hoplite’s feet hitting the ground as she approached, another smaller rabbit-like noise moving away from him.
Uh?
The second scout gurgled trying desperately to draw breath, carotid artery severed and spraying gore down his collar. He collapsed on his knees and slowly drowned in his own blood, the red at the sides of his gnarling mouth and sliced open neck frothing and bubbling.
Anfalon twisted about, just as Diryel reached him breathing heavy as she’d sprinted in full battle gear.
“Good job sir,” she gasped smiling and then frowned seeing the bodies of the slain up close.
“Sshh,” Anfalon warned her and scanned the bridge first and then their surroundings. “Keep your mouth shut,” he whispered and stooped to retrieve his sword. He returned Diryel’s and then walked away from the bridge, his eyes searching the ground for tracks left in the mud.
He found none.
Where?
How?
“What is it?” Diryel whispered sounding spooked.
I didn’t kill the second scout, Anfalon thought nervously and then his eyes returned at the shadows cast by the bridge’s supports. The heavy shadow of the roofed portion of it reaching inland ten meters at least away from the columned entrance.
“Give me a lightstone,” he ordered Diryel gruffly moving at the edge of the thicker cast shadows to block the way towards the seemingly abandoned camp. “You need to burn incense or your blood for this part,” Anfalon said into the emptiness. “Not enough free cover to shield you from my eyes.”
“Sir?” Diryel asked, deeply confused, but tossed him an oval lightstone. Anfalon raised it, waited for it to warm up reacting to his hand's temperature and then placed it down between his legs. “You have less than a minute. Diryel, toss me another one!”
Anfalon took two large strides back, sheathed his sword and reached for his spear.
“Put it away,” a masked Nym chuckled and walked out of the shadows, directly behind Diryel, the tip of her thin blade looping to nick the Hoplite’s chin from behind. Diryel flinched, feeling the blood running down her neck and turned around, gasping scared seeing the blank lacquered black-plate mask the assassin wore, with only her indigo-colored eyes showing through the round incisions.
“Step away from her,” Anfalon warned sternly.
“Put the stone away,” Nym chuckled, in a child’s voice. “Or the next cut opens an artery.”
Anfalon stooped and picked up the lightstone. He tossed it in his satchel and Diryel stepped away from the wearing a thin long cloak, over her tight full body leather armor suit, female.
“What are you doing here?” Anfalon grunted.
“There are two votes against Garth in the Othrim’s camp. Thought I'll find them in the one across the river, but eh, somebody very naughty moved them,” Nym started and seeing Anfalon had frowned, she added innocently. “Ah, there’s a part of the Phalanx fighting against Hardir. Right now uhm. I’ve a man, or woman, watching him, but he is in grave danger. You should hurry up and help great Anfalon,” she lowered her voice for the next part, sliding near him without making any noise, but for the final two steps she took on her toes. The purposeful tapping sound that of a rabbit running away. Nym chuckled under her mask and added in a dramatic male voice. “Cross the bridge, hit them from the rear,” mimicking a famed warrior’s voice perfectly.
The warrior being Anfalon.
You could mistake her childish madness for stupidity.
Innocent.
Even playful.
You could, if one was a fool.
Anfalon raised his spear to keep the assassin away.
“Who’s in the camp?”
“Hardir’s enemies,” Nym replied ominously and showed him her empty hands, under her long cloak.
“Who’s in the camp?” Anfalon repeated gruffly.
“Garth is losing,” Nym reminded him with a child’s cackle. “Our friends are dying great Anfalon. The Phalanx will march over their dead bodies.”
“Lead us,” Anfalon said with a grimace.
“Aww,” Nym half-purred half-griped, the final product a chilling snarl and glanced at the staring them intently Diryel. The hoplite had her sword out. Her grip on it so tight, muscles all tensed up, she would probably hurt herself instead of parrying an attack. “Elwuin and Darunia,” Nym finally said. “Onas is amidst a lot of blades, but we’re working to thin that out. I hoped you’d buy me the time. You know smashing them into submission with your manly arsenal of moves.”
“Elwuin is no politician,” Anfalon grunted, surprised hearing they were still alive. “Heavens above and Darunia? What she’s ever done to you?”
“We can use her to influence her mother?” Nym asked innocently.
“Not if she’s dead!” Anfalon growled. “Not if we put a knife on her neck to force her! You’ll never gain her support that way.”
Nym stood back with a sigh.
“Hence why the priority plan is to remove them completely,” she elucidated and then jumped away lithely to avoid Anfalon’s spear thrust. Anfalon didn’t intent to kill her. It was a warning.
But accidents happen. You taunt, you must be prepared to dodge a spear.
“No,” he told her with finality. “Unless Garth signs an order, which I hope he doesn’t, you’ll kill no one.”
Nym reached for the hood of her cloak and put it on over her head.
“I’ll kill whoever is marked Anfalon,” she retorted, neglecting to mention by whom. “But I won’t harm these two as a personal gift to you. I’m a romantic at heart. We should work together yes?”
“Gratitude,” Anfalon rustled. “But I rather you left me out of your schemes.”
“Hehehe,” Nym chuckled and sidestepped into the shadow cast by the massive stone bridge’s roofed mouth. Diryel who was standing a couple meters away gasped noticing a silk white hankie lodged in her collar, slowly turning red with blood.
“It’s alright,” she assured the alarmed Anfalon. “I’m fine. I… believe, it’s another gift.”
It most certainly isn’t, Anfalon thought and breathed out to relieve some of the tension of the strange encounter. Then he sent Diryel to bring everyone on the double.
It was time they marched against Rothomir’s forces and hopefully Nym was lying about the Phalanx being there.
> Lord Onas seeing a lot soldiers pouring to his rear come dawn and very near their main camp, tried initially to dislodge Vulas from the raging battle –now in its third, or fourth reiteration- but the Abarat officer responded he feared his -slowly grinding down their opponents- men would have a collapse in morale, if he pulled them from the line. Lord Onas sent word to Roran, of Saeveril next and the Othrim leader, who had inflicted considerable damage to Garth’s left (or south flank), agreed to retreat towards their starting positions to deal with this fresh threat.
>
> It was a sound decision taken in very brief a time and with the amount of info available, as the veterans of the Second Othrim could move swiftly across the battlefield and meet the unknown threat decisively. While it left the mauled Garth’s flank free to help their pressured main line, it was believed the Abarat troops would last long enough for the Othrim to finish the job and return to assist them. No other unit could do the grueling back and forth march and fight at both ends of it, but they could.
>
> Roran marched every able bodied Hoplite he had available straight towards the bridge grieving for the loss of Bellas, one of his longtime friends and lieutenants. He was determined to smash this new force Hardir had pulled out of the hat and return to avenge his friend’s death fighting Hardir himself. Roran wasn’t a vain character to seek everlasting glory fighting a famed opponent, nor did he went out seeking it.
>
> Hours later and just after noon Lord Onas not liking the way the battle was going ordered the camp raised and sent a runner to inform Vulas that he should not attack again. Garth’s defending force had been bled dry, but the Abarat troops had received appalling casualties and just couldn’t break through. The reasons several, from the soldiers deep rooted fear that an outright rout could force Garth to use the wyvern, to the hardened spirited defense by the Goras warriors.
>
> Just as the runner was leaving Lord Onas command outpost, less than a kilometer from the frontlines, the Phalanx returned.
Nym wasn’t lying.
Anfalon rushed to the front of their lines, his unit spread out fifty wide, four deep, five hundred meters from the bridge and less than two hundred from Lord Onas main camp beyond the river.
He had delayed a direct march against the enemy lines seeing the huge difference in numbers (the mere fact that there were two big camps feeding their opponents to Garth’s one telling) and that Garth had slowly retreated towards the hills and the mouth of the gullet in the course of the night, narrowing the front so that he could defend it properly. At the same time negating his opponent’s advantage in numbers. It was an ever delaying tactic bound to fail without reinforcements, as the Monarch of Morn Taras couldn’t safely disengage. His mostly inexperienced troops would just break in complete disarray, if the order was given for a full retreat.
Anfalon knowing that marching with two hundred men up the field wouldn’t cause a sane commander like ‘Old Eye’ to overreact, opted to lose some time to bring the rest of his force up to the bridge. He set them up in such a way they could easily be seen from Onas’ Rangers, but far enough to remain mysterious and cause them worry.
A group of four hundred looks much more sinister from afar than half that number up close.
It worked so well, Onas sent a whole Othrim against him.
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Anfalon could discern the familiar armor and the engraved Z on the shields, as he reached the front of their own formation. Zanylon and Diryel standing rigid left and right of the compact mass of Goras hoplites waiting for the marching Otrhim to reach them.
“That’s a full Othrim,” Diryel murmured nervously, when he walked beside her and Anfalon grunted. He tipped his hoplite helmet back to better see the thick lines of Zilan approaching.
“No they are not,” he finally replied after counting the rows of helms quickly. “But they are close to it. Four units out of five, I would wager.”
“Widen the front sire?” Zanylon asked and Anfalon shook his head negatively.
It was pointless as his backup plan was to retreat beyond the bridge and defend the mouth thus creating an even smaller front.
That is, if longtime edicts had completely collapsed and his original tactic failed.
“As you are hoplite,” he told him and walked about ten meters in front of their formation, just as the Othrim and its officers came to a thunderous stop twenty meters away.
“Ten steps forward! HEY!” A Hoplite standing outside their lines bellowed and the Othrim responded with one roaring word, taking one large step forward each time.
AUU!
And the Phalanx moved closer in a deliberate slow step, the ground shaking.
AUU!
The shields raised, hundreds of spears poking outside and ever approaching. Now Anfalon could see the hoplites eyes, behind their slits, smell the sweat on their bodies and the oil on their blades. Some had blood on them still, but most warriors facing him hadn’t the chance to fight yet.
AUU!
“HALT!” The officer barked, another marching up from the back of their formation briskly. Anfalon cracked his neck right and left, reached to unhook his shield, allowed it to drop, but gave it a timely slap when it did and it rolled on the ground in an arc to rest on his greave-covered shins.
“What is this?” the officer berated his subordinate. “Why did you stop?”
“The Hallowed sire,” the Hoplite replied tensely and the tall leader turned to stare beyond Anfalon.
“That’s a female standing over there Malon,” he grunted his eyes returning on the soberly staring him Anfalon. Ah, it’s you. Anfalon thought remembering the young injured hoplite he’d met on a ship ten centuries ago. “They are trying to fool us yet again. Bloody Lord of Lies is against us! We won’t fall for looted armours again! Othrim—”
“First Hoplite,” Anfalon boomed cutting him off. “Since when does a mere Othrim Leader dress himself in silver panoply’s honors?”
The silver leader raised his right arm to stop the protests of the Othrim.
“Him who leads all Othrim,” the imposing warrior said turning to face him. “Shall assume the white gold regalia.”
“Yet you still carry that old bronze helm,” Anfalon replied. “Did you ever fix that dent, Roran, son of Saeveril?”
Roran stood back, his eyes ogling in disbelief.
“I knew your father,” Anfalon continued. “A man of the sea, went down in the line of duty. Yet here you are as I said, grasping at a higher rank dishonorably.”
“Ah, Oras Hells in Witch’s visions,” Roran gasped too shaken to respond.
The murmurs of the Hoplites standing in tight packed rows behind him ever growing, not in anger anymore, or in protest, but in awe.
“Is that…?”
“Wraith, Umbas and Acharn,” another in the front row said, eyeing Anfalon’s named weapons.
“Yeah, that’s Great Anfalon alright,” added a third resolutely, the stout veteran hoplite anchoring the formation’s corner.
“We don’t move up the ranks, unless the spot is vacated lad,” Anfalon repeated what he’d told him on that ship and Roran blinked stumbling on his feet remembering it. “Will you do it now?”
“I saved the unit. Preserved the men and the arms,” Roran responded in his defense straightening up and stilling his eyes on Anfalon. “I’m the Phalanx,” he added simply.
That is a firm no then.
And that's my fucking dictum!
“The Phalanx is in me ayup. But who am I Roran?”
“Anfalon, of Orloriel,” Roran replied, what everyone had figured out by now, sounding strangled. “First of the Hallowed.”
Oh well, he thought and stooped to pick up his shield afore setting his old eyes on them for a long moment. Those in the front row and the lurkers at the back. He then glanced at the one named Malon and the Hoplite bobbed his helmed head.
“You lot were much livelier a minute ago,” he boomed with a mighty voice disapprovingly. “I expect the same pathos and enthusiasm henceforth. Roran, of Saeveril,” he continued looking at the shocked at the unexpected turn of events Othrim leader and his subordinate. “Keep your chin up and fall back in line son. On the double. As for the rest of you, WELCOME BACK INTO THE FOLD!”
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“Sire?” Diryel asked him the moment he returned to their lines, her young eyes enlarged with worry. “What is going on?”
“Prepare to march after them,” Anfalon told her brusquely. “Since you lads aren’t broken in all the way through, you might want to issue a slight trot order Zanylon. Make it a half-sprint,” he informed the other young and worried Hoplite. “Those cunts are going to move pretty fast. Let’s not embarrass the unit.”
> How in all gods old and new did Arguen Garth Aniculo, the name’s translation impossible to discern, whether it describes the man, or the title and he had plenty of those, assume control of Goras? How did he subdue the Zilan factions? Never has so famed a reign secreted its origins so much. Yes one could read the official history in the Royal Archives in Sinya Goras, if he has permission to visit Tenebrous Castle, the vaunted Morn Taras. But doing so, or become friendly with the King Beyond the Pale Mountains has always been a vague notion then and now, years later.
>
> The lines blurring on what one must give up to enter the inner circle, until one realizes Arguen Garth’s common word for friend was often times synonymous to the word servant. Be it servitude, or fear. Skill, or military brilliance. Magic, or the Wyvern’s menacing shadow, Garth’s conquest of Wetull has never truly been explored by an independent historian and remains shrouded in thick veils of mystery and deep-rooted superstition that borders the absurd.
>
> While unlikely and unscientific, for most learned people outside of Wetull, Arguen Garth just appeared out of nowhere. His ascension impossible to predict, let alone prevent.
>
> A notion I can’t possibly and with a clear conscience get behind, both as a historian and a man of logic that has witnessed true political and military acumen up close, as it sounds and probably is, naught but an attempt by very prominent men and women to shift the blame of their monumental failures elsewhere.
>
>
>
>
>
> -
>
>
>
> Lord Sirio Veturius
>
> Circa 206 NC
>
> The Fall of Heroes
>
> Chapter L
>
> Addendum
>
> -Volume III -
>
> The Onyx Wyvern’s ascent
>
> (Monarch of Goras & the interior,
>
> The Great Reefs ocean route,
>
> Bank of Goras & SETC*
>
> Spring/ winter 191- Spring/winter 192 NC)
>
>
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Acronym for *South Eplas Trading Company
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read it at Royalroad : https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/46739/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms
& https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/47919/lure-o-war-the-old-realms
Scribblehub https://www.scribblehub.com/series/542002/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms/
& https://www.scribblehub.com/series/547709/the-old-realms/