Orneiades closed his eyes and tilted his head back, drawing in a lungful of air and wincing as it filled his nose. The wind seemed hostile to the Field. The afternoon breeze no longer wafted the familiar smells of his home onto that ground as it had done so many years prior. Now the Field of Ocitae stank of nothing but waste. Yet he found it unsurprising. Such was the state of the city beyond the walls of Aucksbau and Bryvwuld. Pressed between his fingers was a pouch of cloth scented with herbs. He lifted the cloth up to his nostrils and rinsed away the stink with a deep draft of fragrant air. Now I have to carry this damned thing everywhere I go. He regained the grip on his reins and shifted in his saddle, straightening his back and twisting his body, sighing at the deep pops that sounded up his spine.
“Where are the Cenrisanct sending you after this?” he asked his companion beside him, who sat motionless and stiff as stone atop a white horse. He was a little shorter than Orneiades himself, although not any smaller in brawn. His thick, dirty blonde hair wound down to cover most of his brow, and it crowned over a set of dull brown eyes. No doubt he was also of a wealthier cen. Only the most distinguished families in the Enclave enjoyed the means to rear a purebred such as his or were pompous and daft enough to craft their armor with purple sleeves. He had seen many of them yet didn’t recognize this one’s face. Perhaps a third or fourth son.
“I’m to remain here and help in the negotiations with our…allies.”
“Is that what we’re still calling them? No wonder those Plyrean bastards snub us.”
His companion glared at him. “Do not joke of our misfortune, Orneiades. The gods will take note.”
Orneiades chuckled. “My tutor always warned me not to look for doves in the heavens or to try and hear the seraphs sing. Ambition is the root of fortune, Ceion, not the gods.”
Ceion scoffed. “Then we are a community of apathetic men. Ah! At least we’ve finally been afforded this fortune,” he said, nodding towards the outer field.
“That’s surprising. I expected more,” said Orneiades as he watched a disordered throng of poorly armed men march slowly nearer.
The remark produced a great guffaw from Ceion. “These are just veterans that the Plyreans have neglected,” he replied.
“Another reason why we can’t trust them.”
Ceion spurred his mount forward and motioned for Orneiades to follow. At length, they halted before the party, at the front of which were three men clutching half-sheathed swords pressed to their chest. Orneiades raised an eyebrow, for their wear appeared far more ornate than the others, though no less dirty. His nose caught their stench, and he again sought to allay the discomfort it brought with his herbs.
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“Good afternoon my friends,” said Ceion, “This is Orneiades of cen Hilmstray, grandson of Klaitos, heir to his progeny and namesake, and I am Ceion of cen Halsii, son of Cenrisanoi Rom.”
“Alexios,” one of the three replied, “I’m afraid we don’t have such esteemed families.”
“Nor do you need to,” said Ceion. “Why do you bare your swords at us? A wolf bares its teeth before it lunges.”
“Spare me the snobbish quips you rich Elsic city men use to impress your pretty women.”
“I will speak as I wish to someone so brazen! Now, what do you want?”
“By the looks of how many men you brought, I reckon you already know.”
“You can’t pass this way,” said Orneiades, “You will be swept away by the river before you ever reach the other side.”
“And what’s more,” Ceion added, “the Covenant of Lye and Poul forbids anyone but the Els from settling within the Enclave.”
“We’re starving, homeless, and landless. I don’t care what agreement two dead kings came to a century ago.”
“The Els are not your keepers!” Ceion barked. “Go back to your slums!”
The man frowned as he looked to Orneiades and noticed that he uttered no protest to the slight. “What of you? Do you just stand there and be his whore? Don’t your gods command you to be charitable to the lowly?”
“We have been more so than even your own administrators,” said Orneiades. “I admit I’ll never be able to understand your troubles, but you must be patient. The Plyreans have agreed to a conference with your leaders in attendance. We will negotiate there.”
The man’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Tyrants don’t listen to the grievances of the oppressed, halfwit. Do you think we’d be here if they did?” he shouted.
“Begone!” Ceion countered with greater ferocity. “Your heads will line the shore before we waver to an army of vagabonds!”
“As our gods are to us, may yours be to you!” The man fully withdrew his sword and rushed forward with his militia responding in kind. Orneiades quickly steered his horse around, and just as he did he heard a deafening clang mixed with a bone splitting crack. He half-turned his head to look as he felt the airstreams of stones rush past his face and the vibrations of his armor roll through his body as some dashed against his backplate. He took one last glance at Ceion, helmetless and struck from his horse who reared and bolted. Yet he resisted still, attempting to crawl and claw away from his assailants, grunting through a mouth without teeth and shouting incoherent words through lips that dangled at his jaw. Orneiades snatched a bugle from a satchel fixed to his saddle and blew out a shrill sound from its bell. At the signal two companies of cavalry on either end of a short three-lined formation of infantry charged forward past their commander, linking at the enemy’s center. The impact sent a roaring crash into the air that was quickly drowned out by a surge of wailing. Just as they had entered the fray, the two groups broke course and continued on obliquely before halting some distance away. The cries of the militiamen rose to a clamor, and, casting their weapons aside, fled this way and that.
Orneiades turned to his subordinate beside him. “When the rest have been run down, mount their heads along the shoreline. Leave their bodies to the field.”
“But my lord, this is a sacred place.”
“So be it. Let Ocitae feel what has come about.”