End of Empires - N3S III

End of Empires - Update Fourteen
Nightmare

Ten Years
500-510 SR by the Seshweay Calendar
389-399 RM by the Satar Calendar
215-225 IL by the Leunan Calendar





“If you seek Exatai, the Silver Path is yours. Justice, compassion, tolerance, tempered strength. If you seek apocalypse, the Gold Path is yours. Arrogance, righteous anger, unbridled aggression. You shall destroy everything and build nothing.” – Talan the Elder

“Faeiao brought his army to us
With countless bloody spears
They burned and plundered for a year
Until we turned to fight.” – from
Of the Fall of Faeiao of Salei



Still and warm, night lies silent over the city. Behind the walls and around them, men already settle into the mind-numbing, incredibly boring deadliness of a siege. Always it goes like this: the eagerness of the first march, the heat of battle, but inevitably the slow, slow siege afterward.

War reduced to a facsimile of daily life. No battles here, just chores. Cook food. Seal up breaches in the walls. Observe the other side, boredly. Occasionally take an arrow in the gut and die in agony. Daily life.

The night is insidious, almost a blanket. Campfires burn, little flickering candles in the darkness. The city is utterly, completely quiet.

The besiegers, too, are quiet tonight. Word had it that Kargan was already on its last legs, its garrison simply too large to feed, as the noose of blockade tightened around the city. No sense throwing soldiers against the immense walls or harbor defenses when it was more likely to simply fall on its own, given but a little more time.

It is the perfect night.

Their teeth almost chattering with hunger, a few Satar soldiers move through the streets of the old city with grim purpose. The night is thick; like a cloak drawn fast around them.

They burst into a slave quarters, where the people within stand to attention quickly. It is not smart to annoy your superiors, not now, not when their tempers are so short. And so when the guards chain them together, only a few protest, only a few struggle. The vast majority are compliant. Children are taken from their parents, and when they protest, their mothers shush their cries, and tell them to be brave, to go with the men. For surely it is their only choice.

The soldiers leave one of their own to guard the prisoners in this block; he stands, sweating volumes. Men and women stare at him hollowly; he pointedly ignores them, remains aloof, but he will not tolerate the sound of anyone talking. His compatriots move to the next block, to do the same. And again and again.

The operation passes as quickly and smoothly as one might expect. There is too little resistance to note, and even if the actions seem bizarre, no one questions the Satar now.

It is a warm night.

Hours later, every slave in the city is chained in some fashion, and guarded. The children are taken to another quarter, locked away safely, far away from the night. And so it begins.

The soldiers return to their first blockhouses, and they take the group of chained slaves to another, clean room. There, their throats are cut as simultaneously as can be managed. There are not enough soldiers to make this quite work, of course, and the bubbling screams prompt some of the others to struggle madly against their bonds, kicking, biting, clawing, scratching at the soldiers, but it is of little consequence.

On and on they continue. There are many Aitahists, and there are so few hands. Heavy work. Throats to cut, blood to wash off the hands. Even with the doctrines of their commanders ringing in their ears, a few of the young soldiers are horrified by what they are expected to do. But after a hundred throats, what is one more?

They move to the next house, and repeat the whole process. Once or twice the slaves will already have stirred, hearing the cries from the next street over, and a few of the garrison are killed by an overwhelming crush of poorly chained slaves, but for the most part the restraints do their work well, and the entire Aitahist population of the city is coldly exterminated.

But this is only a prelude, for the butchers' work is only begun.

Calmly, they proceed to every body, drain the blood as best they can – they are inexperienced, of course, and are a little less than skilled. Messy even when careful. Some of the blood ends up in barrels, to be stored for later uses. Much more ends up in the floor, or on the clothing of the soldiers, or in their hair. Then begins the process of preparing the meat. The organs are removed, a quick slice through the belly and then some cleaning work in the abdomen taking care of much of the intestines; the lungs must be prised from behind the surprisingly difficult to penetrate ribcages. The skin is removed. Meat is cut away from the legs, the arms, the breast, the buttocks – few places are spared. The muscles and fat are taken to a central building in the city, where, even as more and more bodies are brought in, the meat is carefully salted and stored for curing.

Bizarre logistical problems crop up – such as what to do with the remnants of the organs and heads: ultimately the garrison decides there is a little they can do beyond dump them in the sea beside the city, or beyond the walls. But beyond this, there are few hijinks in the operation.

The non-Satar in the city – and there are many – cannot help but hear the screams, and see the carts pass by their windows. But it is confusing – most of what they see is covered by cloth, or by the darkness. No one quite knows what is going on. Thus, they are silent.

Even the next day, with the iron taste of blood heavy on the air, few know exactly what has happened. But the links between garrison and city are many. Men question why they do not see the Aitahist slaves in the streets anymore – or why soldiers, in addition to being covered in grime, now have a congealed crimson in their hair. And of course, some of the soldiers will talk.

But no one questions the meat. Food is food, doubly so in a siege.

And the rumors secret themselves between the lines of battle. Blockades, even in a siege, are never absolute. And word spreads.

* * * * * * * * *​

It must be said that the Satar are not averse to showmanship; Nephrax-ta-Delphis ordered one of his catapults to launch a barrel of salted meat at the opponents' battle lines. It broke on impact, scattering only a little meat over the lines of circumvallation, but the message was sent quite clearly.

The commander of the besiegers, Folunlui Aramsayafa, absorbed the news stoically. To many others, it might seem that he was fighting monsters out of a children's tale, rather than men, but he knew better than to let that affect his decisions. The Satar clearly wanted to goad him into attacking their city, to break against their walls, despite their clear advantages, in the hopes of stopping further massacres, but his faculties remained intact. The preparations for such an assault would have to be very careful indeed.

And so the allied army began to dig trenches of approach, preparing sapping equipment, building battering rams, new traction trebuchets, and on and on the list went. The general went from group to group, talking to each in their native language, assuring them that justice would be served – one way or another – before the end.

As preparations continued by either side at the siege of Kargan, the focus of the War of the Three Gods (as it had come to be known) shifted southward. The Moti field armies maneuvered carefully around in the Upper Sesh, while Satar militarization reached a fever pitch. The acting Redeemer, Satores, ordered a levy of the entire able-bodied populace of the Satar, from all walks of life. The densely populated Sesh more than sufficed, and all in all he raised an army of almost absurd size – around a quarter of a million soldiers.

Of course, such a massive host was not without immense difficulties, and even with the Satar doctrines of racial superiority, they recognized the need to train the new soldiers before throwing them into the meat-grinder.

But just as obviously, the Moti were not content to simply let them train this new host in peace. They began to raid the countryside in earnest – helped along by a mysterious decline in the number of Satar cavalry. Fifth-Gaci was somewhat worried by this last development, but who was he to look a gift-elephant in the trunk? The more exposed estates of the Satar nobility burned by the torches of thousands of Moti cavalry, while the field army threatened multiple Satar cities.

For their part, the Satar garrisons had grown so large as to become logistical nightmares, requiring food supplies that simply weren't growing anymore. The Satar population had for the most part never been directly responsible for agricultural activities, but it certainly had been crucial to the maintenance of the slave system which had produced most of their crops. Slave rebellions, fed by rumors of Satar brutality elsewhere, started to flare up throughout the remaining land. On top of all this, the Upper Sesh certainly wasn't the more valuable part of the river valley.

But their commanders, surprisingly, seemed unworried by the problems they were facing. The Moti were not allowed a free hand by any means, and the steady erosion of the Satar lines of defenses was fought at every step, but few aggressive actions were taken. It seemed bizarrely out of character for the Satar.

And though the Moti quickly recognized this was a major warning sign, it didn't really matter either way, because they were not the first target of the Satar.

Instead, the greater part of the Satar cavalry force marched north.

* * * * * * * * *​

A wedding in peninsular customs is no small affair, especially a royal wedding between the two premier powers in the region. Thus, it was with great fanfare and pomp that the Haina princess made her slow way through the Trahana country: first, through the great trading hub of Bashima, where they feasted for three nights on the finest fare from the whole Airendhe, then, in a grand procession, by massive pleasure barge through Lake Maregai, stopping by island monasteries and fishing villages nestled in secret marshlands, before finally coming to Mara, where they prepared for the ascent up to Traha proper.

The Enadanbar and the princess rode at the fore of a long, long tail of retainers and friends, and by the time that the colorful menagerie ambled through the gates of Traha proper, the populace cheered them both in great roaring crowds. The monsoons were due soon, and the dry air of the mountain capital seemed positively charged with energy.

Only then did the celebrations proper begin. A normal Trahana wedding spans two days; this one spilled over onto four, as it opened and closed with dazzling festivals. The spires of the Machaiambarai were hung with great lengths of colorful cloths, and drink and food flowed freely through the streets. On the second day, the bride was presented to the Danbar, who accepted her with grace and charm, and led her into her new home, while the groom stood outside and waited overnight to meet his beloved. On the third day, at the rising sun, she emerged from the palace and took his hand, leading him within, and the crowd roared its delight.

All seemed well in the country from then forward. The campaign against the northern tribes was ended – or perhaps simply paused – on a resoundingly positive note, with the frontier secured and its lands annexed. New temples were raised in the capital, larger than ever before. Put simply, peace and prosperity reigned supreme.

Yet by the end of the decade, there were hints that this was merely an illusion. News from the north told of the campaigns of the rising empire of Dehr, which even now was on campaign against the city states that lay between their aggressors and the Trahana. Many worried that Dehr would not stop before the whole peninsula fell under their hegemony, in an empire that matched the legendary tales of old. At the same time, however, diplomatic overtures from the Danbar seemed to meet with cordiality and friendship among the northerners.

Meanwhile, the Haina, now unworried by their friendly western neighbors, continued the colonial and exploratory enterprises with renewed vigor, sailing far to the southeast. The currents here were quite unfriendly despite their best efforts, and they were unable to make much headway, but a colony was established in a sheltered bay, and at the very least the return voyage to their homeland was extraordinarily smooth.

In the north, Dulama fears of collapse and ruin proved unfounded, for now at least. The Plague seemed to have largely run its course in fairly short order, and the Emperor was quite hale and hearty when he welcomed the great lords of the empire to Mora. The great central palace was quite an imposing site, with high vaulted ceilings and sunken amphitheaters, with glass from the east, masonry from the south, and gem-studded statuary from the rest of the country.

The new capital complex was perhaps only matched in grand imperial enterprises by the great canal from the River Thala to the city of Hachtli. Finally completed near the middle of the decade, the much improved communication to the western provinces and the ocean there meant the Empire's hold on its disparate parts was more secure than ever before. With the Hai Vithana preoccupied, and every other power relatively nonthreatening, the Empire had few worries, beyond the occasional recurrence of plague.

The Emperor thus began to preoccupy himself with a fight against corruption in the nobility, improving the records and bureaucracy of the various sub-imperial administrations, and establishing a new office of Imperial Auditor to ensure the proper destination for would-be wayward funds.

Simultaneously, however, some minor difficulties arose in the western provinces around Dula. While religious toleration and relative harmony was the norm for the land, many viewed the overzealous Iralliam preachers with suspicion and dislike, and the Iralliam preachers likewise found this new land to be a somewhat unwelcoming one at times. While these tensions were hardly life-threatening, they were certainly annoying for the majority of the citizens in the former capital.

The kingdom of Naran, legend had it, was as old as the pass which it guarded; it had lived through countless regional upheavals, outlasting the Amure and the Tollanaugh Empires, and through much of the life of the Dulama. Few even blinked when a new Ónnaran was crowned; though this lord might have grand ideas, it was likely that life for the prosperous little trading nation would continue as it always had.

The Ónnaran, however, had somewhat different ideas. He immediately led a campaign to secure new land for settlement, and extended his control further than any of his line had before. Though perhaps a minor development on the world scale, the people of the pass seemed poised to expand well into the coast land of the west, and maybe further, into lands unknown.

* * * * * * * * *​

What words can you offer a dying cause? The ships gathered in the harbor of Cheidia, preparing for one last battle against the Empire, but all the inspiring rhetoric of a thousand orators would not have disabused them of the odds against them. There was always a chance that they could somehow manage to triumph, but things looked very bleak indeed for the Eastern League. No help was forthcoming, not from the Savirai nor from Leun, nor indeed anyone else.

They decided to give battle near the city of New Kalos, where the waters were narrower and would possibly give them a chance to even the footing against the superior numbers of Opulensi. And in truth, the battle was not as one-sided as it might have later appeared, and the Opulensi suffered many losses, nearly a third of their fleet. But even so, the day's verdict was never really in doubt.

The Eastern League, however, could not really match the Opulensi in a straight up fight, and their fleet scattered and dispersed before the enemy. After that, the campaign was fairly simple. The Eastern League had only ever really been a danger for its fleet; once that had been defeated, their land forces really could not make much of a contest of things. New Kalos surrendered rather than subject itself to a long, pointless, and devastating siege. Cheidia followed suit afterward. The colony at Paulinth was taken by a quick expedition, and without fanfare, the war was over and the Opulensi reigned supreme. For now, of course.

With their hold over the eastern trading routes seemingly secure, the Opulensi looked forward to a presumed boom in shipping, unbothered by tariffs and piracy. Alas, this was not to be, for even as the newly-freed Opulensi fleet swung into action against the already present pirate forces in the far east, the ships of the former Eastern League scattered to the winds, and many turned to piracy to remain in business. Thus, especially in the Nakalani off of Naelsia and in the Leunan Sea, trade became more dangerous than ever before.

Meanwhile, however, the western part of the empire thrived. Opulensi developments in ranged weaponry led to a new class of ballistae that helped somewhat against the pirate threat, while farmers inland in Spitos thrived on the sudden peace they had found. A new class of religious figures known as Iehorai were soon found preaching through the Empire, and the impetus of government pressure led to a new, unifying canon for Indagahor. On the other hand, lack of sponsorship meant the faith was still somewhat vulnerable to the evangelism of the nearby Aitahists, which did in fact win a few converts in the Empire's heartland, though hardly enough to really concern anyone but the most pious.

As most of the world convulsed with ongoing, vicious wars – the Opulensi, the cradle of civilization, the south, the north, and the middle as well – the far east had seemed comparatively serene. And indeed, peace continued through these years. But it was a strained sort of peace, with rivalries growing more intense by the year, and indeed threatening to boil over soon and bring war to this still-untroubled region.

Convinced of the value of Auona both as a strategic linchpin and as a piece of the heartland of their empire, Leun did not take kindly to renewed expansion of the Farean state. Though the newcomers were still far off from the borders of Leun proper, the rate at which their northern colonies grew astounded the oligarchs, who ordered a major southward effort to meet it somewhere in the middle.

Initially only copying Farean methods wholesale, the Leunans first offered gifts, then trade and alliances to the numerous natives on the island, the northerners followed this up by establishing strings of outposts in disputed land between the various small tribes. This did not particularly endear them to anyone, but it did ensure their power could be projected deep inland – an alliance with the great Leun soon became a valuable commodity indeed among the free islanders. This only increased in value when the remaining hostile tribes were conquered and their lands appropriated by Leunan allies.

Of course, Leun did not simply leave their allies be after this: they instead began to introduce settlers into the most “tamed” regions – by which point the outnumbered natives could only watch mutely as their lands were appropriated. Despite... well, probably because of its cynicism, this strategy effectively countered the Farean advance northward, which had stalled in any case. However, as either side entered new and unknown territories, frictions and disputes popped up in multiple places. Farean-aligned tribes on more than one occasion clashed with those backed by Leun. While the two militaries themselves hadn't came to blows – not directly, at any rate – they inched closer and closer to exactly that situation with every passing year.

The Leunan forces, quite incidentally, stumbled across a lost and previously unknown city deep in the center of Auona, on the shore of one of the smaller lakes there. The natives who live there in the present day seem to have little idea of the ruins' origin, and claim the original builders died some time ago; the Leunan explorers immediately dubbed it “Evetias,” after a legendary lost city in their own mythology.

Simultaneously, Leun aggressively pursued the cash crops of their smaller neighbors in Parthe, trying to corner at least a small piece of the growing trade. As it happened, the indigo did do well in the wetter parts of their country, and they joined Parthe as one of the leading producers of the dye.

This is not to say that they had an easy time of it. With piracy on the rise in the Leunan Sea and the Nakalani, they had difficulty exporting their new indigo crop to the west, which at any rate concerned itself more with its ongoing war than with new luxuries out of the east. New developments somewhat mitigated the former problem: the Leunan oligarchs had launched a series of expeditions to the northwest, which met with simultaneous southwestern expeditions by the Savirai. Though the Leunans worried that the desert empire would attack them, such anxieties proved unfounded – the Savirai were more interested in opening up an overland trade route to parallel the maritime one.

Leun, as one probably already imagined, echoed the sentiment.

However, for an already paranoid regime, the distractions kept piling on.

Reacting to an overstretched and aggressive Tazari chiefdom, the Acayan state of Iolha led a grand campaign against their northern marches, soundly defeating the barbarians and further cementing themselves as the premier power of the far northeast. At the same time, the Tazari launched an ill-considered series of raids against the Savirai, which some feared could bring the western empire into the east in full force.

Parthe, for its part, continued along in splendid prosperity. Settlers erected new plantations all along the northern frontier, while trade continued to boom. Extensive experimentation by the king with ships from Leun and the Kitaluk proved somewhat inconclusive. The Kitaluk ships proved quite superior in handling on the open ocean, but the Leunan vessels were certainly easier to construct, and easier to scale up in order to hold large cargoes. Ultimately it seems most prudent to use one or the other when the situation merits it.

* * * * * * * * *​

The Evyni Empire had been able to take control of the Accan periphery of the Exatai with almost shocking ease, a combination of surprise, overstretch, and slave rebellions toppling the garrisons there. In almost a single stroke, they had eliminated the entire powerbase for the Princes of the Sun – the ruling dynasty of the Exatai – and moreover bowled over a whole Satar army on their way.

Determined to reclaim the northland and reduce the war to a single front, the Satar joined with their new Vithana allies into a single host, and in a ceremony full of elaborate ritual, made the Vithana Redeemer Jahan a Satar lord. He was proclaimed Prince of the Moon; in turn, he swore that he would defeat the various challengers to the Exatai, restore the justice of Exatas to its distant northern marches, and finally reclaim the south.

The Evyni had not been idle, either, and had quickly regrouped their armies after their initial victories for another series of campaigns. Advancing southwards from the Rhon, they took Elova with fairly little difficulty, the Vithana forces only offering token resistance, and plunged through the former land of Elets.

From here on, however, they started to run into problems. The steppe was nowhere near as easy a campaign ground as might be imagined; the sheer logistics of keeping an army fully supplied in such barren lands were difficult enough; meanwhile the Vithana harried them at every turn. The steppe cavalry continually drew them deeper into their own territory, only to melt away whenever the Evyni chanced to catch them in battle. The Evyni commanders were almost unbelievably patient, but they lacked an ultimate objective – the Vithana army couldn't be pinned down.

At the same time, the Redeemer's armies delivered a stunning counterattack through the southern Rhoms into the Evyni-held Oscadian lands. The Evyni garrison there was considerable, but it was largely composed of immobile infantry forces. Consequently, as soon as the initial defenses were passed, there was little to stop the Ardavai and Vithana forces from rampaging around the region, wrecking havoc and generally raising an Accan rebellion against their new overlords. The Evyni forces held together despite all this, their legendary discipline proving vital.

The Empire desperately reshuffled its armies – including those on campaign against the Vithana across the Rhoms – and reinforced their garrison in Acca. Initially, Jahan's forces attempted to continue their raiding and harrying strategy, isolating Evyni detachments and cutting their supplies, but this proved impossible in the face of numerous newly-constructed Evyni fortification and cohesion, not to mention the fact that they were entering into increasingly built up terrain that resembled their steppe home less and less. Frustrated and perhaps a little overconfident because of their initial successes, they engaged the Evyni directly with mixed success.

In the end, the Ardavai forces reached Acca proper and managed to take the city through treachery, but they had already shot their bolt. Jahan was immediately pressured by the Ardavai nobility to reconquer the Sesh Valley, which most of the Ardavai elite considered far more important than Acca (seen as a largely superfluous frontier province by those whose lands lay on the Sesh). Leaving Accan levies as garrisons and reinforcing them with some of his best cavalry, he marched for the south.

The Evyni lay bruised and battered from the Exatais' assault. Though they faced fewer foes now, their armies had lost tens of thousands of soldiers, and they needed time to regroup in their own lands before a new campaign could be launched.

In the west, the Xieni took advantage of the weakness of the Evyni to launch a renewed campaign against them, driving back the skeletal forces that had been left to stop them, and putting the old city of Naiji under siege. Many in the Empire feared that the primarily Ming population could become a fifth column and effectively give the city to the steppe invaders, but such worries proved unfounded. As Xieni forces had been stopped at the Einan's third and fourth fork, the most important parts of the Empire remained safe from their depredations... for now.

For their part, the Vischa had come out of the campaign quite well – practically no losses, plenty of plunder, and even a gift from the Moti which they did not even need to do anything for. Naturally they had annoyed many among the Vithana and the Xieni leadership – who had received little to no help from their eastern cousins but had watched them take a share of the loot anyway.

Thus, the northern war ground to a screeching halt. But the situation would radically change with the news out of the south.

* * * * * * * * *​
 
* * * * * * * * *​

Back ships. Black harbor. Black night.

Hard to see how the city could hold out for much longer. The walls are strong, and they do not lack for food, but it has been a dry summer. Water is getting scarce. And scurvy has been rampant for three years now, weakening or killing.

The plague came soon after. The Satar seemed happy to tell the world of the horrors of Kargan. The Faronun replied in kind, catapulting bodies of plague victims into the city. A man whose body already fails is easy prey to the disease.

Black ships. Black harbor. Black night.

The best blockades are imperfect, and smugglers have no morals if the money is right. For a week, they have done their best to get in, to slip past unwary ships and then a gap in the harbor boom. A lantern flashes now, signaling. They slip in the tiniest of gaps, and wander a silent harbor, where only a few merchant ships remain. Caught, and trapped, and rotting. The newcomers lower muffled oars into the harbor waters, which plunge into the waters again and again.

Slowly, near silently, they settle next to the docks, and toss ropes ashore. Men waiting there tie the ships with the quick efficiency of lifelong sailors – Accans, not Ardavai. But they are clearly not Aitahist. No Aitahists left in this city.

Slowly, the men lower a long, long plank from ship to shore, and the first of them clambers onto it, and scampers quickly down onto the dock, where he wobbles a little at the unfamiliar feeling of land under his feet. He looks about for a moment, and then comes calmly to the dockyard commander, whose sword is already drawn and pointing at his throat.

“Are you the Opulensi?” Even though it is their city, and has remained so for decades, their voices are hushed.

“That I am. That we are,” he says, and his accent echoes that.

There is a quiet little celebration. Years ago, they had sent entreaties to the Opulensi, begging them to come to the city and relieve them. Now, it seemed, prayers were answered. The men scarcely dared to believe it. The commander, of course, didn't believe it at all. His face remained hard, his sword pointed at the captain's jugular.

“We'll need to see your holds. The grain that you're bringing. And water.”

The Opulensi man nods. He may have been a merchant once upon a time, but he is a military man now. He understands the need for absolute surety, the desperate determination to get everything perfectly correct here. The Ardavai commander comes on board their ships, goes below decks, and, after a few minutes of checking, calls his men aboard the ships. Kargan had been saved.

Ardavai laborers begin to unload the ship, crate by precious crate, while the sailors and soldiers stand watching. The Great Cloud rises behind them, sprawling across a whole patch of the sky, in an endless dance with the stars. The men cut impressive silhouettes against its bright white light, even with their thin, ragged bodies.

But then there is a shout from the guards. The two commanders come over, and everyone begins to gather. “This one,” the guards call, “this one was trying to slip away.” The dockyard commander eyes the smuggler suspiciously, and begins to ask him a question.

The smuggler shrugs. It was worth a try. “'Ware. My kin lie everywhere, eternal. Waiting,'” he says.

And then he cuts the dockyard commander's throat.

The smugglers draw a dozen blades from hidden places, and killed the stunned Satar quickly, though there is a lot of noise, and a lot of blood on either side. A watchman on the harbor wall sounds a warhorn, but there are already smugglers on the other side, through before the gates have closed. The Aitahists burst through the city, setting fire to storehouses, to armories, to everything that might burn, and they move to kill guards just roused from their sleep.

And at the same time, the subtle and tireless work of sappers comes to fruition as a section of the outer wall begins to sag, while signal fires flare and a hundred catapults unload at the city at the same time. Men who have advanced far ahead of the walls of circumvallation in protective trenches surge forth, towards the beginnings of a breach in the wall, and elsewhere – with ladders, with rams. Arrows flit from side to side.

An assault is a deadly thing – for everyone. The grounds just outside the wall cover themselves in a thick death-colored blanket, and men trod on their fallen comrades, boots squishing in blood and entrails. The men at the walls stagger back with arrows in their eyes or mouths, choking on the liquids that well up.

As the ladders slam against the wall, the men who mount them are easy targets, even when covered by their comrades' arrow fire, and so many fall to their ground and perish that it is scarcely believable.

At the breach, fighting is, if possible, even more vicious. The soldiers clamber over a great pile of wall-shaped rubble, and men on either side give no quarter if they can. There are no formations here, and though the battle line and discipline hold, this makes it only a tidier type of horror. Swords are made to hack off limbs or disembowel, and those who fall are immediately trampled by the push and shove of the carnage above.

The Aitahists made for the central of the three gates, and there a ferocious tussle breaks out behind the walls. They do not make it to the actual gatehouse, but as they occupy the besiegeds' attention, the gate is pounded into splinters by an ingenious new mechanical ram devised by the Seshweay engineers only a decade before – for the attack on Neruss.

Reports come in that ships are beaching themselves on the seaward walls, and soldiers issue out of them, clambering up the defenses, even if they know they are at best a distraction for the real assault. And the others continue pouring forth, a great army, and even as the defenders hold out as best they can – knowing, surely, what would come next – they are weakened, they are tired...

Finally, defenses fail. The city that everyone swore could not fall begins to fall. And the carnage begins, as Aitahists and Faronun alike pour into the city, burning and slaughtering in a mad frenzy of rage that their commanders only halfheartedly try to restrain. It is a damned city, a cursed city, and it burns under the twilight skies of early morning, and the cries of the wounded and dying make a symphony that echoes across the seas.

Smoke billows through the streets like a noxious fog, clouding everything. Men and women are pulled out of their homes and killed on their doorsteps, and their blood runs crimson down the gutters on a long slow run down to the harbor. This is not to say the slaughter is indiscriminate. Distinctions are made – soldiers hail the inhabitants, and those who answer with the rising cadence of the Accans or the thick Satar vowels are gutted. And there is blood – so much blood.

Time passes.

In the morning, the sun rises. We always think the natural world indifferent to our struggles, but the sky is hazy with smoke, and the sun turns a dull, burnt red.

A wind blows from the Lovi sea, and a general stands in a square, the blackened ruins of a city about him. Before him kneels Nephrax-ta-Delphis, Prince of the Scroll, Lord of Kargan, enchained and manacled. Aramsayafa looks to one side, as if considering something far off, but then his gaze slides, his attention focuses on the Satar.

“Do you know what my people tell me?”

There is a pause.

“They tell me that I should make you pay in some fashion for the men and women you killed. Some of the suggestions are most compelling.”

“Kill me if you like.”

“You are a civilized man. Or so I thought. So the Scroll are supposed to be. Why did you order... it?”

The Satar Prince grins. He has been living on cured meat and minimal water for the past four years, and his gums are ragged red with scurvy. His teeth and eyes alike are streaked with blood. “What would you have eaten?”

Aramsayafa frowns. He gestures to his guards.

“Houa Pahouaia.”

* * * * * * * * *​

Quiet settled over the Had. The river lapped low against the banks: warm, gray, and muddy, moving slowly through a country that was brown and green by turns. Through the country of Bisria, tense, and concerned over the possibility of a Kothari invasion – concerns which had not yet come to pass, of course, but which looked not too unlikely these days. By the cities of Tynet, Salgaron, and Jaffna, raising and repairing fortifications by equal measure. Down to the ocean, the blue gulf between Helsia and Palmyria; here the two nations still raided one another at times, the traditions of hostility persisting even in an era of official peace.

The Kothari Exatai seemed much better off than their northern counterparts these days, having capped their southern conquests with a decade of peace. A new civil service academy had been constructed in Jaffna, modeled after the Opulensi forms, and already graduates had begun to filter out through the bureaucracy of the country. Hanakara had been settled by one of the more successful generals, with many of his retiring soldiers, and finally the interior of the Hamakuan Peninsula bustled with inhabitants, after long, long centuries of decline.

The ceremonial conquest of Zhish finished somewhat after the real fighting had long since been over and the cities all surrendered – the once king of Zhish agreed to fight with seven of his warriors in the traditional Satar death match to determine rulership. With the Kothari being represented by the Argai aspect warriors, none doubted the eventual outcome – though the Zhish soldiers fought bravely, the Kothari dispatched them with only two losses. The satrapy passed under the rule of a Kothari general.

Indeed, the conversion of the lands from Indagahor proceeded along, too, even if the pace was slow and measured. The Zyeshu had never been particularly receptive to the religion, but the more pragmatic and worldly had started to attend Iralliam religious services. Hanakara, filling rapidly with new settlers from across the Kothai, converted even more rapidly. Naturally, some of the new converts to Iralliam were judged by the Grandpatriarch to be somewhat lacking in fervor, but the process had at least begun.

Of course, not everything was rosy for the newly enlarged empire. With little to no naval presence, the Kothari could only watch as Annua slipped into the hands of a local potentate. The city soon became a haven for pirates, who troubled the southern coast and the local trade routes.

In the neighboring Holy Moti Empire, outside of the war life proceeded much as it had for the past hundred years. Though a significant number from the population had marched off to engage the Ardavai, the advisers of the king, especially the enigmatic and brilliant Evanri, carefully tended to a growing and prosperous economy in the wake of the Plague.

Of course, in the absence of the Ayasi, leadership of the Empire was not so concrete, and Evanri often faced stiff competition from grasping courtiers and the influence of the increasingly powerful clergy. But the conflict never got out of control, with the war occupying so much of the realm's resources. Naturally, though, if the conflict were to be resolved...

Meanwhile, in the black rock gullies and endless verdant forests of the south, peace had finally come to a close. The Clan of Kogur, able to bully its way into retaking the old Kratoan settlement at Rangi, refused to content itself with such a meager prize. Having secured the island, they immediately demanded the old colony at Anzai as well, which, unlike Rangi, was actually a fairly prosperous and pleasant Putran town. Putra, of course, refused, and prepared to fight the northern invaders, mobilizing their forces, fortifying Anzai proper, and readying their fleet to do battle.

Alas, for all their fortifying, the Kogur managed to slip past their defenses and land an army nearer Putra proper, and attacked the capital itself. Despite the relatively even balance of forces, the factor of surprise meant the woefully unprepared capital garrison found itself unable to hold back the intruders; the king of Putra vacated the city and retreated, ironically, to Anzai.

Yet the Putrans proved surprisingly resilient, and the fall of the capital meant rather little to them. Assistance was soon en route from Parna, which had heard of the struggles of their brothers to the north, and sent forward an army to do battle; at the same time, the Putran fleet was actually around the same size as the Uggor, if inferior in design and equipment.

Thus, the Kogur retreated behind the walls they rapidly built and reinforced in Putra proper, and while their naval forces were able to guarantee supply of the city, they were unable to do much else. It was an unfortunate turn of events, for the Kogur had optimistically settled a number of other minor exile clans on the coast near Rangi. Without naval protection, they were rapidly overrun by the free-ranging Putran forces, who were only eventually stopped by an alliance of the more powerful Kogur vassals, and local tribesmen who had been bribed with gifts from the Chief himself.

Soon, the war escalated out of control, with Putrans and Kogur alike attempting to bribe and cajole the neutral tribes into joining their forces, and soon a proxy war raged deep into the jungle, with old tribal conflicts that had been buried for years resurfacing, and much blood being shed far from the lands which had started the war in the first place.

Meanwhile, having sent off a fairly large chunk of their army, Parna found its most distant frontiers somewhat vulnerable to the more powerful tribes on its borders, who resented the little empire's recent expansion efforts; a minor conflict flared here as well.

News of these wars filtered through the jungle slowly, if at all. Thus, the faraway Utugia only heard whispers of rumors – there were men in the east and north who were killing each other, men who built stone houses and sought to bring all the jungle under their rule. The chiefs of the Utugia scoffed at the supposition that these stone-dwellers would be able to affect them at all, and continued with their fairly isolated existence in peace.

Also on the periphery of civilization, but far away, across many hundreds of miles of ocean, the Baribai began to emerge from their long period of isolation, on more than one front.

Firstly, in the north, the immense strength of the Opulensi navy was apparent even to the Baribai, who decided that, instead of raiding, they would rather begin to trade and make contact with these strange northerners. While of course the Opulensi establishment couldn't care less about the newcomers in their uncomplicated, small ships, the merchant class were more than happy to sell their wares to these strange people, who brought island curiosities to their markets.

On the other hand, the Boar People have discovered a people nearer and to their own hearts. These neighbors are called the Ilfolk, who are quite disunited, but seemed to be easily the most powerful tribe the Baribai have ever encountered, aside, possibly, from the far-off Opulensi. These people seem fond of numerous bloody rituals, many conducted at a mysterious Temple of Snakes which seems to lie deep within the territory of their jungle island. On the other hand, they don't seem to be terribly aggressive, and some of the Baribai have already extended tentative overtures to them; where they will go is a question that will doubtless be answered in a very short time...

* * * * * * * * *​

The procession did not pass under the red cliffs, nor within sight of the banded citadel, pale sandstone, its greatest tower carved in the image of a great vessel. It came from the west. Yet even from the west, Magha awed.

Through the outer walls they went, companions and retainers of the Prince of the Moon. Vithana horse archers on their steeds, small as ponies, trotted side by side with cataphracts on great chargers. They passed beneath the gates, red garnets glittering in the clouds that clung to the lakatar, the wind spirits that intertwined over the portal to the city. A few elephants went by their sides, purchased from a Moti trader long ago, purchased before the war, howdahs rocking gently from side to side with each step, like the deck of some bizarre ship.

Beneath the second wall they continued, a high face of massive red blocks, and onto the great avenue of the city, shot almost straight through the city to the the Den of Wolves and the palace complex, they rode. A crowded street on any normal day, it had been cleared, and long lines of guards stood on either side, pikes lining the road like leafless trees, swaying slightly in a low heat. A great cheer rose. The people stood on either side, many jubilant, many quiet. Anxiety and excitement mingled, though both were hidden behind masks.

Many of the Vithana riders were stunned by the grandeur of the buildings they passed. Though they had seen Acca, too, that city's low palaces were old and weathered. The buildings here towered several stories, their columns carved with cockatrices, their windows lined with balconies. And far down the avenue, they could already see the bulk of the Matraxas, white stone walls against the dull red of the city, bright marble pillars and arches, and the curve of an astonishingly blue dome, like the swell of the world.

Through the city. If Jahan felt as impressed as his Vithana companions, he hid it well. The Vithana Redeemer and Prince of the Moon rode on a massive silver horse, draped in crimson and gold, white and black, flanked by the Princes of Shield and Spear. His mask was of silver, with a sleek inlaid crescent adorning a cheek.

The greatest roar of all was saved for when they entered the Den of Wolves, the sun hazy beyond the clouds of dust. The Princes made their way in one by one, Spear and Shield, Sword, Arrow and Wheel, and newly masked Scroll and Moon. The arena had been cleared and lain with the whitest of white sands, a blinding mirror to the sun above; the seats of the amphitheater were packed to the gills with thousands of eager spectators.

The Oracle entered last, and the cheers died down as he raised his hands for silence.

He was an old man, but his voice could be heard above all the whispers of the crowd. “Attend!” he boomed, and they attended. He told them of the ancient Satar, how they came to these lands, how Arastephas conquered this city, and Atraxes rebuilt it.

He told them of the story of how Taleldil had once been but a man, but he forged his mask and conquered the heavens, waging even now his war against the rest of the gods; how we fight for his eventual triumph. How he must triumph.

And he told them of exatas.

Of the might of kings, of their justice and brilliance, of cleverness and strength in battle. His arms swept about him, and he bid them, again, “Attend!” For here was where Redeemers were born.

The trial was as old as the Satar. He who rules the Exatai must be the greatest. He who rules the Exatai must defeat all would-be challengers on the field of battle. He who rules the Exatai must be triumphant, and victorious. He bade the Princes draw their weapons, and retreated before the ritual of combat.

The Prince of the Moon stood in the middle, his silver mask gleaming. He called forth, “Elikas-ta-Tisatar!” And the Prince of the Shield stood forth, and raised his sword in salute, then lowered it. His sword, his Shield, went at the feet of the Moon, and all could hear him say, “Yours is exatas; for that I bend my knee.” Jahan touched him on the head, and told the waiting crowd, “Ours is the Shield, that which shall stopper our craven foes' spears, and force him back to the Kothai! Ours is the might that shall bring us Exatas!”

“Itarephas!” The Prince stood forth, and offered his sword. “Yours is the exatas...”

“Ours is the Sword! That which shall carve limb from trunk! The Sesh shall be Satar, and so shall the Kothai. Forever onward! All shall fall beneath the might of exatas!”

And so it continued. Spear, Wheel, Scroll. Last, the Arrow, Satores laying a single, golden-tipped quarrel at his feet. Only then did the Oracle enter the Den once more, and with this, the crowd fell utterly silent. Not even a babe at the breast mewled, for the Oracle carried a golden mask.

“You are the Redeemer, he who will lead us into the darkness and out once more. You shall have fire and wind and men at your command. Forth from Magha, into the Sesh, to crush the Iralliam heathen, to kill the Aitahists, to reclaim all that is forever ours with force of arms. None shall withstand you, to the end of your days.”

And with that, Jahan unclasped his mask. Some in the crowd turned away; they watched something utterly intimate. None went unmasked in the Exatai; children were fitted with little bronze masks by their parents until they were old enough to forge their own. Only once would they ever see the Redeemer's face, weather-beaten from his years on the steppe, lined and tanned. He held up the golden mask for all to see, and placed it once more over his face.

The crowd roared.

The Redeemer was born.

* * * * * * * * *​

After the destruction of the Indagahor faction at the court of the Savirai, the Empire's new faith seemed secure. The remaining loyalist forces were crushed, one by one, in the south, while the northwestern Maninists were brought to heel by a strong force of cavalry. Missionaries spread in all directions, a new land route to Leun was opened up by far-ranging expeditions, and Eastern Aitahism spread like wildfire; already a civil war in Occara raged, with some supporting the Aitah, and more opposing the growth of the new faith.

Reforms of the military began, the Emperor fashioning a more disciplined and organized force than that which had suited for conquering the far-flung Empire – he was more interested now in creating one that allowed it to fight evenly with its numerous civilized neighbors. At the same time, the Aitahist government began to tithe those of other faiths within its borders, while otherwise showing toleration – a strong incentive for conversion, and also a convenient new revenue source.

All things considered, however, it was likely naïve to expect the Empire to be content with this position.

Indeed, it was not.

Though it had been scant years since the conversion of the Emperor to his new faith, the Savirai already turned their eyes towards their nearest neighbors. Despite the old nobility champing at the bit for another chance at an engaged Opulensi Empire, the Emperor (probably wisely) decided to eschew that option. He went west.

With the Khivani preoccupied by their war against the Airani Roshate, both the eastern frontier of the Khivani themselves and the outposts of their allies the Astrians lay open. The Savirai struck the latter first, swooping down on Caon and immediately defeating the Astrian forces that attempted to stand against them in the field. In less than a season, the Savirai put all of Astria's cities under siege, and one after another fell to treachery or their siege works.

It was at this point that two goddesses met.

The Aitah, savior of the Savirai and the prophetess of the desert had led the the Savirai army in its siege of Tadon. After its fall, ships arrived from the east – most bore food, or trade goods, and carried away indigo, cotton, and spices.

But one carried another prophetess.

The first Aitah had long ago lived in the Sesh, and fled after the Satar horde conquered her homeland – to some place in Helsia, it had been said, where she helped that land begin to convert. It was said that there, too, lay the last Scion of the great Aya'se, legendary hero of the Seshweay. And so the title and the bloodline had passed from generation to generation – naturally many of these stories were more rumor than anything else, but the end result was a goddess all the same.

And so it was on the docks of a small city in the scrubland of Astria, in the shadow of an old temple of the Cult of Hulos turned trading depot, that the two Aitahs walked towards one another and embraced.

The two goddesses then retreated into a private hall, having much and more to discuss of the faith and its spread, emerging after hours to the adulation of a crowd of curious Savirai soldiers who had gathered outside. And just as quickly, the somewhat odd meeting ended, with one going on her way, supposedly far to the east, to convert still new lands to the faith, and another continuing with her armies, for the Savirai were far from content with the cities of Astria.

Sweeping across the coast of the Khivani Roshate, the Savirai armies reached the River Peko in only a few weeks' time, and there met supporting fleets out of the Aitahist Union in the west, crossing the river and threatening Reppaba faster than anyone would have believed possible. Speed was of the essence here, for if the Savirai could catch the Khivani unawares, they would be able to defeat their army, and the Airani alone would remain a threat among the Roshates.

But the Khivani army, on campaign against the Airani in the midst of the desert, had received news of the conquest of Astria some time before, and reacted quickly enough to send reinforcements Reppaba before the Savirai attack could reach it. Yet, as the Savirai surely knew, the Khivani forces alone would be unable to stand against their own armies without a lot of luck. The Khivani sent an offer to the Airani – to join with them, their age-old, mortal enemies against this new power which threatened to upend the Roshates completely.

There were merits to acceptance and refusal, of course. The Airani would face encirclement by the Aitahist powers if the Khivani fell... Yet on the other hand, the potential fall of the Khivani promised to net them quite a lot of gains.

Ultimately, however, their calculation came down on the safest side of all – they hung back and waited to see what would happen. The Khivani did not disappoint, deciding to relieve the siege of their capital in a pitched battle under the walls of Reppaba.

Though they had started the campaign with some twenty thousand foot and nearly as many ahorse, the Savirai had lost a fair number of men in both taking and garrisoning Astria; the force that lay beneath the walls of the old Siran capital numbered only some thirty thousand, about as large as the Khivani themselves – though the Savirai at least had a large advantage in cavalry. Both armies arrayed in somewhat similar deployments – the classic approach of cavalry on the wings and infantry in the center.

With both sides of similar quality and composition, it was a fiercely fought battle, with neither side gaining the upper hand initially. With far more light cavalry especially, the Savirai were much better able to harass the flanks of their opponents, and steadily pushed them back, but their infantry were disciplined enough to avoid getting caught between the advancing horns of of the Aitahist formation. In the end, though, this fight turned into a more general retreat, and the Khivani withdrew in good order, having bloodied the Savirai's nose but little more.

The siege unbroken, Reppaba fell somewhat into the next campaign season, but the Khivani Roshate, their Rosh still alive and their army still intact, showed surprising resilience, as yet delaying further Savirai progress.

* * * * * * * * *​
 
* * * * * * * * *​

Marona had been a lovely city, before the war – nestled between the hills as they gently rolled down to the ocean, a river flowing by the western wall and a creek trickling through its center, high stone banks supporting close-set red roofed houses. But the High Ward's governor took less notice of its beauty, and more of its defensibility – his army fortified in encampments all around the city, the olive groves and vineyards but a distant memory underneath ten thousand feet.

And when those armies left, the administrators stayed, the better to communicate with the front line, and the city found its population swollen a little, makeshift houses creeping up the sides of the hills, extending from the walls in all directions. The camps came and went, as new armies were raised, sent off, and came back in victory or defeat. And the city watched.

The war had not gone well. Incompetence and inaction had let the rebellion, handicapped as it was in some ways, gain the upper hand. The western cities fell, one by one, and the Stetin reduced the easternmost valleys. In the south, the Rosh had began to venture northward, and the defenseless cities there fell quite meekly into his clutches. Gallat's grip on its empire was starting to fall to pieces, and though Marona was prospering, the city was subdued. All in the wineshops and the dockyards wondered when the city's turn would come, and to whom it would fall in the end.

They needn't have waited long. The governor, a vain and – to put it kindly – stupid man, barely even reacted as his empire broke into shards. They say he was captured in his palace, engaged in foul and depraved activities in his private quarters even as the armies of the Bhari descended on the city. The defenses, undermanned and barely commanded, simply turned and ran when the foe came, trying to defend their families from the inevitable sack.

What an end for such a state. Older than the trees itself, Gallat had gone through much – from lesser power to dominant empire in the north, from backwater to center of one of the world's greatest religions. It had gone from kingdom to theocracy to de facto tyranny. And now, all of that mattered little, for the hubris of its last general dwarfed his abilities.

On the periphery, the people survived, of course, but even pretensions to the old trappings of power died away. In exchange for peace, the eastern governor relinquished claims to the rest of Gallat, instead raising the banner of the new state of Tarena. In the west, Sirasona and the other city states remained independent, cunning and powerful enough to avoid attacks from the Roshate, for now. But in Senden? In Edrim? In Sern? In Marona?

The city watched. And the people waited.

* * * * * * * * *​

The news of Gallat's fall completely overshadowed other developments in the north – at first, at least. Few noticed the rather low key war between Luskan and Cyve, for Luskan raiders were unable to really do more than burn and reave on the Cyve shores, while Cyve did not really bother to do more than defend against these attacks, holding a line of coastal fortresses that prevented the brunt of the attacks from ever reaching the inland areas of Glynt's Kingdom. Fewer still noticed sweeping measures by Osric, Bayuk of Luskan, who instituted an imperial bureaucracy on the model of their southern neighbors, wrote a new code of laws, and oversaw their implementation throughout his kingdom. And practically no one noticed the gradual increase in influence of the Aulfrelesti house.

But what came next... everyone noticed that.

Luskan, apparently uninterested in continually trying to exert influence over the isle of Ederrot, instead turned their raiders towards the Frelestican coast. The first few ships, passing in the autumn storms and emerging from gray and troubled oceans, took the outer parts of the Frelesti coast by surprise, and managed to take a considerable amount of plunder back home before they were spotted by the Frelesti garrisons.

However, the Frelesti had been expecting the raids (if not their timing), and moved to secure the coastline, raising numerous fortresses, and repelling seaward invasions with much bloodshed. Though the work of driving off reavers proved difficult for the less mobile, land-bound armies of the Frelesti, with no other flanks to guard, they were able to systematically pinch off and annihilate raiding parties, drive off larger armies, and generally prevent large-scale damage to the more important parts of their territory.

Thus it continued for some time, with the Luskan raids beginning to slow, and in some places even stop as the raiders themselves saw less and less of value there. Overtures to the Nech monarch had met with little response, and the war effort seemed to be fizzling before it had even begun.

So it was that when Glynt landed in the southern part of the Aulfrelesti dominion, there was almost no opposition.

The Cyvian King showed little mercy in his campaign, burning and pillaging as he made his way north to the city of Aulfrelesti proper, and generally destroying any resistance that formed against him – indeed, what little there was withered in the face of this assault, and the Cyve forces reached the heartland of the Frelesti lands before the latter had even managed to get word to their northern forces to return home in defense.

From here on, however, Frelesti resistance stiffened considerably. Though Luskan raids forced them to maintain numerous garrisons in the north, the greater threat had become clear. They drew away most of their army to face the Cyvian army in the south. Unfortunately, the defenses of Aulfrelesti impressed no one, Glynt least of all, and the southern king overwhelmed the undermanned city garrison before the relief force could even arrive.

At a stroke, Aulfrelesti was sacked, and Cyve had crushed the most important of the Frelesti potentates before he could react.

Nonetheless, the House of Aulfrelesti at the least refused to go down without a fight, and attacked Glynt's forces near the shattered capital. Lord Aulfrelesti's army gave a good account of itself in the battle, but ultimately was unable to do much more than get a stalemate; each of the armies retreated to nurse their wounds after a bloody and rather pointless confrontation.

The news got worse, as, while Aulfrelesti's armies were away, the Luskan raids intensified in the north, and indeed one of the more minor Frelesti states in the center of the coast fell entirely to the western raiders. At the same time, Aulfrelesti was now left without his homeland, and his army remained in the territory of another lord, who was not so eager to feed his erstwhile rival's sizable force. Yet he also could not risk enraging Lord Aulfrelesti, who had enough soldiers to make a play for the northerner's realm and use the invasion as an excuse to make himself King of all the Frelesti.

But if the Frelesti were disunited and divided, so, too, were their rivals. Luskan and Cyve, after all, continued their own war in the west, and did not cooperate on even the most basic of matters – indeed, Luskan raiders began to hit the Cyvian garrisons in former Aulfrelesti lands. Thus, the Frelesti were able to escape destruction or even widespread losses beyond the Aulfrelesti seat itself. Still, no one was fooled – if the Frelesti could not find a stroke of luck or genius, what hopes they had for continuing independence might evaporate quickly.

* * * * * * * * *​

News of the fall of Kargan had disappointed the new Ardavai high command, but none believed it more than a minor setback. Kargan had fallen to the Satar some time before, when they had driven out the old masters in their triumphant ride through the cradle. Should they defeat the Moti now, there was little doubt in anyone's mind that they would be able to recapture any and all losses, and impose a new Exatas across the lands that they had ruled for so long.

Naturally, no one regarded the task of crushing Moti lightly. Too long had the Satar battled their southern neighbors to remain naïve about their abilities and determination. Also, importantly, no Moti had any illusions as to the grit of the Satar – and none at all doubted that the enemy knew these things as well. No one would retreat simply because their army had suffered heavy losses, if the enemy suffered proportionately. Any strike that could really change the fortunes of either side in the war would have to be bold – like the initial Moti march into the Delta.

And while both armies prepared for some great armageddon, the other facets of the war grew still more brutal. The Iralliam armies spared none of the lands they occupied – they tore down every Ardavan temple they could find, stone by stone, breaking them and reusing the material for any number of other functions. Ardavan priests who were slow to renounce their faith found themselves executed by the occupiers. The Seshweay rebellion was surprisingly a little more kind to its prisoners, mercifully enslaving them and using them to rebuild many of their defenses and shattered infrastructural pieces. The Ardavai crushed dissent as they always had.

And yet it was still the Ardavai who fell into the most desperate situation. The slave rebellions and the shortage of workers, combined with the loss of the most fertile lands, meant the harvest had simply evaporated. An army as large as theirs could only be kept in the field for so long – if they did not retake the rest of the Sesh, that was. And the Moti – indeed, the whole Alliance – maintained their supply lines deep into Ardavai territory.

Thus, the nobility and military commanders of the Satar urged the Redeemer to push forward, engage the Moti in battle, and liberate their remaining occupied territories. Jahan, however, seemed to have different ideas.

Vithana and none too interested in watching his horde dashed away against the armies of the Moti in a decisive battle, the Redeemer urged caution and harassment of the Moti, instead of directly challenging their foes. Jahan initially ignored the resulting noble dissent and friction in the upper echelons of the Exatai, or at least, tried to quiet it by seeming to take a more proactive stance against Fifth-Gaci.

Bizarrely, the ploy seemed to work, thanks to a strange degree of compliance on the part of the Moti. Falling back before the harassment, unwilling or unable to challenge the more numerous mounted forces of the enemy, their forces began to fragment, and seemed to be on the verge of disintegration.

Watching the Satar press forward, the Moti forces became increasingly less coordinated, and almost sloppy, with detachments several times only barely escaping the marauding outriders of the enemy. Naturally, they left the land behind them increasingly devastated – any inch yielded to the Satar was scorched land, unable to support their increasingly ravenous host. But all the same, the common soldiers began to wonder at the wisdom of invading such a prepared enemy.

Things went worse and worse for the would-be conquerors. On a quiet night before the end of all things, the Satar struck. The shadow warriors attacked from darkness and assassinated many of the Moti generals, including, it was rumored, Fifth-Gaci himself. Already uncoordinated, the main field army fell back in disarray towards Kirost.

Jahan was convinced to take the field. The Satar pressed hot on their heels in pursuit, believing that their enemy was entering into a full-fledged rout.

But then, quite suddenly, the fortunes reversed once again. The Moti army, far from being in a rout, had simply drawn the Satar into an exposed position – even though the losses their leadership had incurred were real, they still had quite enough organization to turn and face their enemy. Perfectly positioned, the other Moti army pounced at the same time, and though the Satar were able to see the blow coming, they were unable to catch either army by itself. The Moti were far more coordinated than they could have expected, given the presumed lack of leadership with the death of Fifth-Gaci.

On the other hand, the Satar still maintained a slight advantage in numbers. They withdrew slightly to more advantageous terrain, where the enemy could not easily strike from more than one direction, and arrayed their forces for battle. Within a few days, the Moti approached.

Thus was the stage set for the greatest battle in recorded history.

* * * * * * * * *​

The air shimmered weakly over gold-brown scrubland, waves of heat rippling slowly off the earth. The sun hovered quite high, but it felt as though it sat on the back of every neck, an orb of brilliant heat just beside the skin, roasting men in their armor. The moon slogged through a pure blue sky, red-gold, yet tinged blue by the air blow. And to the south rose those mountains, the great Kotthorns, the legendary Kothai, black foothills rearing over the plain below.

Two armies faced one another across a wide-open space, arrayed in line upon line upon line. Spears grew from the earth like ten thousand thickets, and horses and elephants danced nervously at the sight of their foes, knowing what this silence meant. Red banners from one side, white from another. Four hundred thousand stood there that day, if the chroniclers can be believed – a number scarcely imaginable... a number greater than all but one or two cities in this world.

And on either side, the generals. Jahan, every inch the conqueror, astride a massive horse, surveying his soldiers. Opposing him? A ghost.

Fifth-Gaci lived. Perhaps the assassins destined for him had been intercepted; perhaps they had been stopped at his door, or by his bedside, or in the process of trying to kill him. The how of the matter scarcely mattered. After all the rumors of his demise, the sight of his calm figure atop his great war elephant gave heart to his soldiers, who raised up a great cheer. The terrors of the night had passed – their Ayasi yet lived.

But all this was just a prelude.

The Satar arrayed in three great masses. The center, their infantry, and a few elephants procured before the start of hostilities – though their elephant corps was much inferior to that of their foes – many of the beasts had aged or hungered and died, with no replacements in the intervening years of warfare. And on either side, the wings, composed of rank upon rank of the finest Satar cavalry, cataphracts, horse archers, everything from the most heavily armored to the great body of Vithana steppe cavalry that the Redeemer himself had brought.

The Moti host was still the larger force, thanks to its allies, a vast array that seemed to stretch to the very horizon. Their infantry numbered tens of thousands of pikes, archers, and swords alike, and was supported by units of cavalry and elephants, the latter among the most splendid of any corps that set foot on the battlefield that day. Though traditionally their cavalry rated as inferior to their foes in number and quality, today, they were no inconsiderable force. Moreover, despite expectations of a low-quality conscript force, the Moti infantry contained more professionals, more veterans, and was better armed.

For hours, the armies assembled here under the baking sun, their sheer size necessitating a long, long deployment.

But all this was just a prelude.

The battle began swiftly, as the Satar cavalry sprang into motion on either flank. Quickly, as a haze of dust rose around them, they closed the distance with the Allied cavalry, who gradually gave ground, pinning the Satar cavalry in combat in order to allow their other forces to reinforce the wings. The Satar then withdrew from the flanks slightly, and sent forward the Vithana horse archers to harass their opponents with a storm of arrowfire – though the Moti's position on somewhat higher ground neutered these attacks.

Meanwhile, the infantry bodies of the two forces began to clash in the center, and though the Satar cavalry had been well-trained to withstand the Moti elephant corps, here in the center, the great beasts proved much more decisive, and the Exatai's infantry gradually gave ground, the less experienced soldiers among them panicking in the confusion of the battle – the dust kicked up by the elephants alone blinded many, and the noise was absolutely deafening.

But suddenly, the Satar warhorns sounded, startling the beasts, and the infantry were reinforced by cavalry detachments, the Exatai's own elephant corps, and the more professional of their infantry, who better knew how to deal with these beasts. For their part, the elephants began to turn and panic, running among friend and foe, disrupting both alike. Both sides opened their formations to avoid casualties from the elephant rampage, and it took the Moti some time to regain control of their mounts.

At the rear of the Allied formation, assassins struck at Fifth-Gaci once more, but the leader's bodyguards had been alarmed by previous attempts against his life, and were now all the more ready to defend him; the attack fizzled before it had even begun.

Without their elephants, the Allies advantage in the center of the field faded, and the battle there stalemated fairly quickly. At the same time, however, Satar attacks on the wings were unable to get the upper hand either, and the battle quickly turned into one of attrition, something no one wanted – least of all the Ardavai Redeemer Jahan, who preferred a more conservative approach. Argument broke out between Jahan and Satores, the Satar commander, and their lack of coordination began to tell as their forces gave ground to the Allies across the battlefield. On the other side, the ailing Fifth-Gaci directed his soldiers with precision.

The first day, then, belonged to the Allies, though only narrowly, and when the sun started to set in the west, neither force had truly gained the upper hand. Skirmishers remained on the field for some time later, but in time each force withdrew to its respective encampment, waiting for the dawn to return.

Even as the stars still faded overhead, and the last hint of the Maw remained in sight just above the horizon, each army mobilized, hoping to steal a march on their opponents.

This time the Satar overloaded their right, hoping to force a breakthrough against the enemy there; the Moti forces stood strong, however, and Allied elephants rapidly reinforced them, charging downhill into their opponents' formations; the use of horn and arrow to startle and frighten the beasts proved effective once again, but the Satar found they could not reform in order to drive off the enemy infantry, and withdrew once again.

However, the Moti could not truly capitalize on this; the sheer size of either force had made them excruciatingly difficult to control. After an hour, the gap in the Satar lines closed once again, and the golden opportunity for the Allies vanished.

And so the battle still raged on, neither side willing to concede the field, neither side able to completely overpower the other. The Satar seemed to break first, in the center, but Fifth-Gaci feared a trap, and refused to pursue with more than a screening force of cavalry – the Satar indeed reformed and marched once again towards their foes, connecting as the sun wound and wended down the western sky, the empyrean turned a gray brown from the sheer amount of dust kicked up by the forces.

So ended the seocnd day.

At this point, Jahan considered retreat once more, wanting to return to the raiding strategy, but Satores rightly argued that the army would rapidly dissolve if they could not secure a victory at the field today. The Redeemer grudgingly acknowledged this point, and so the stage was set for the third day of the Battle of Karhat.

On the third day, the battle was lost.

On the third day, the battle was won.

Once more, the armies closed for battle, and this time, the Satar sent a force of cavalry forward to screen their movements by kicking up a great cloud of dust. The Allies, too, hid their movements, keeping a large reserve of their elephants and their most mobile infantry behind a ridge, and otherwise arraying their force in a line across the high ground, as if daring the Satar to come and attack them.

The Exatai obliged.

First a number of Vithana raiders struck the Allied left once again, harassing them, and forcing the enemy to reinforce that flank. Then, seeing their foes committed, Satores ordered a charge of the finest cataphracts the army could must, plus the greater part of their professional infantry, all plowing into the foe's right, before they could react or send reinforcements.

It was an awesome sight – a whole array of cavalry, spears and armor shining in the noonday sun – looking for all the world like the bringers of apocalypse.

The charge broke the enemy's first lines, and plunged deep into the second line of their formation, but Fifth-Gaci had already called up his reserves from behind the ridge, and as he saw the true intentions of the foe, he ordered the elephants to lead a countercharge directly into the great mass of battling soldiers in the middle of the field. The Satar once again panicked their foes' elephants, but at this point it hardly mattered; the armies were too tightly packed, and everyone took casualties from the beasts now.

In the end, the Satar levies broke first, and though Satores valiantly rallied them again and again, he could not stem the tide alone. The Redeemer collected his own most loyal forces and left the battlefield, and the main body of the infantry withdrew in good order due to Satores' efforts, but the levies melted in the face of the enemy tide.

In the end, the Allied army had triumphed – and though a hundred thousand lay dead or wounded on the field, they accounted it a good day. Helsian, Aitahist, and Moti banners flew all across the horizon, tattered, ragged, but intact.

* * * * * * * * *​

The Exatai made good account of itself from then on, but time and numbers were against it now, as the problems they had faced before only redoubled with defeat. Nikros fell all too rapidly after the battle, as had to be expected. The numerous fortress monasteries held the southern border against their foes, and Satar river boats prevented the enemy from crossing the Sesh safely, but when the whole Allied army, bearing down on the Exatai's heels rounded the headwaters of the Jaffa, they could not be stopped.

Xephaias held out for much longer, being a ludicrously well fortified citadel, but the Moti force outnumbered its foe to such a degree that they could both cover this and the monastic forces even while continuing its own advance. Fording the headwaters of the Sesh proved to be a much more difficult prospect, as Satores managed several victories against their advance parties, but when the full Allied army was brought to bear, they had to retreat once more.

The Siege of Magha would not end by treachery this time; rumors of the sacks of various other Satar cities had spread, and no one wanted to see that fate visited upon their beloved capital. But this time, there were no Accan forces out of the north, no relief. The Seshweay, still the best in the world in siege warfare, constructed ramps, sapped the walls, engineered magnificent towers of kinds which had never been seen before.

But though the city stood strong, the strength of the Exatai's armies had faded in battle. The city resisted for a year – longer than it ought to have, by rights – and ultimately the Allies broke its walls, and utterly laid waste.

Silver City, Sapphire City. No more.

The Matraxas burned, its sapphire dome torn to pieces, a smoking crater in one side opening before the whole edifice tumbled down upon itself. Allied soldiers graffitied the ruins, and those of the Den of Wolves, and though the Citadel of the Arc was left fairly intact, it was occupied by Allied soldiers. The monasteries of the Red Cliffs of Magha, too, burned away in the siege, and though the cost was dear to the Allies, the city had fallen.

The Exatai burned, in all its glory. Cities smoked and fortresses fell. Yashidim stood, they whispered, but the old home of Satores was without its Prince, who had withdrawn to the north, to the Rath Tephas, to try and salvage what could remain of the Exatai. Where was Jahan? Few knew, though raids continued in earnest all along the line of Allied occupation. The Redeemer had not burned himself, nor died in battle – that much was known.

Where had it all gone wrong? Ten thousand tomes of the old faith and histories were squirreled away by wit or trickery, but more burned in the fires of Magha. Thousands of babes were pulled from the breast, their heads dashed against walls as slaves rose against masters. The whole of Satara was aflame.

In an encampment outside Magha, the Ayasi Fifth-Gaci passed under a smoke-red sky, his kidneys failing, but his glorious task completed. The northern Empire, of silver and gold, sapphire and dust, had fallen, and even as twilight dimmed overhead and turned to midnight, even as his eyes faded, he felt as though he finally passed into the light. Not so far away, Aramsayafa walked among the ruins of the hated foe, and marveled at what beauty could spring from evil – the cockatrices on the pillars of the Den of Wolves shimmered a pale red in the setting sun.

And far from either, in the north, a Prince who had once been a boy looked at the Veil of the Lakatar. Stars, sapphire and ruby, burned like hidden coals, swathed by streams of distant sun-cloud, newborn worlds far from this blood-soaked one. His thoughts wandered back to his father. How prescient they had been, so very long ago.

Ten thousand prayers answered.

Ten thousand ignored.

So the night passes.

* * * * * * * * *​
 
* * * * * * * * *​

Maps:

Political



Cities



Religious



Economic



* * * * * * * * *​

OOC:

Theige is booted from Gallat for not only failing to send orders twice in a row, but failing to do anything other than to stop multiple other people from being more productive with the country. It's really hard to overstate my annoyance at this.

Apologies for the tardiness. The extreme tardiness. Yeah. I will hide in shame.

Also, some parts suffered somewhat in quality, especially near the end of writing... fortunately I spaced them out enough geographically that I think only a couple of players really got shafted. :p
 
OOC: I passed out from joy. Now if I can only remember what I was doing...
 
If Thlayli is getting whole updates spoiled, and I can't even get a highly relevant religious thang spoilered in the slightest, I'm not going to be a happy camper.
 
NK, don't give in to interrogation. :p Let us all learn the results at the same time, or else Thlayli will be able to torture us with information of the war! ;)
 
Lord_Iggy said:
NK, don't give in to interrogation. Let us all learn the results at the same time, or else Thlayli will be able to torture us with information of the war!

Oh baby, the Canadian is angry - HULK IGGLES SMASH!
 
Huh? I thought my smileys made my attitudes clearer. I assumed from Masada's post that Thlayli was interrogating NK for update results, which wouldn't really bother me unless he decided to lord that information over us. At any rate, we know his kind are evil cannibals anyway. ;)
 
And since I need to bump this because of the update, here's a deleted scene from the update (it was getting long in length and this scene was rather redundant after the final section anyway):

Obviously, spoilers if you haven't read the above.







A boy walks through the desert. Who can say where he comes from? Perhaps not even he. All that came before was just a dream, barely remembered. Did it even happen? Hard to tell now. Maybe this is reality; just him, walking through the desert. One foot in front of another. The horizon never looks to come any closer; the mountains behind him never any further. The desert, featureless – or perhaps too featured. The rocks are so numerous that they lose all meaning as markers; after half a hundred go by it is impossible to tell if he's passing the same rocks over and over again.

Perhaps he is going mad. Perhaps all that came before was the madness, and this is the one moment of clarity. One foot in front of another. Over and over, the same step, lifting the foot from the trail of prints behind, swinging it through the air, muscles screaming with exhaustion, settling it down. Is time even passing? Is this literally the same step? Perhaps he is dying, and his mind, in protest, is remembering this last step over and over again. Perhaps if he tries to stop, he will find that he is already dead.

No, no, he says to himself. The day sky is fading over his head. If there is day and night, he is still alive.

Or is he? Maybe the sky is not fading, and his vision is. Maybe this is simply a slow way of giving up. Peaceful. It is no shameful thing to die in battle, he muses. And surely, he died in battle. For it was the battle that drove him into the desert, with no food nor water, stone rending the soles of his feet, blood appearing in his trail. Yes, he was slain in battle. It has simply taken a long while for the blow to fall.

Into the golden valley, eating the silver dust. Thirst beyond imaginable thirst. His vision blurs. A shiver runs down his spine. He hears the voices of his friends. An illusion. He shakes his head, and feels his brain press hotly against his eyes, thumping against the sides of his skull. His tongue swells, as if to plug his mouth and stop that precious spittle from leaving into the desert air. He hopes that he is not asked to speak when he dies. He doesn't think he could manage more than a croak.

The sky is definitely fading fast now, and the stars are beginning to come out. That calms him. If he were dying, he would not see the stars. He knows he will probably die in the frigid desert night, or at least be too weak to continue come morning, but there are worse things. At least he will watch the night spirits fly, one last time.

Minutes pass, and he realizes he is no longer moving, indeed, that he has slumped sideways against a boulder. It is strange how quickly a desert cools. The rock is still warm to the touch, but the air is already cold. He looks up at the cloudless sky.

Above him, the stars, spinning in great, slow arcs. The Maw is low tonight, the strange wisp of star-cloud looking like the sun's fire slowly wafting into the night. Across from it, the moon, a deep blood-red, dark and crescent-shaped, barely lifting above the horizon. And between them... what is that?

Another light, one not familiar. A fire? Why is there a fire in the desert? Voices? The cold of the night cramps his muscles, but he forces himself to his feet. He begins his journey again, one foot in front of the other. A wolf howls somewhere in the night. A good omen. He goes faster, limping with exhaustion. He will not perish, not tonight...

A long darkness.

Nothing.

A boy wakes in the desert, every inch of his body aching. His gut clenches from hunger, his cheeks are salty from tears. His mouth is too tumescent for speech, even after he grabs a canteen and guzzles the water inside ferociously. He wipes his lips clean, and his hand scrabbles by his side, where he finds his mask, the bronze still cool to the touch in the early morning twilight. Carefully, he fits it over his face.

Then, and only then, does he sit up.

Others are moving here. One nods at him. He tries to say, “I think I was dead.” He's not sure what came out. It still hurts to make noise.

The man nods, his mask a dull crimson in the lightening sky. “Dead boy,” he agrees. Then he glances at the sky. Even as the sun ascends over the desert flats, and the tiniest hints of clouds glow a golden-red like copper-gold, the northern sky darkens. Storms are coming, the dead boy realizes. Storms after sunrise.

* * * * * * * * *​
 
TO: Bayuk of Luskan
FROM: Glynt, King of Cyve, Lord of the Isle of Ederrot


Do you take me as a man of lesser means than yourself? Am I some lowly prince of the wastes in your eyes? Has your defeat by my hands not proven your inferiority to my kingdom? Haste will be made in Luskan raids ending on my people. No war shall last between us that will end well for you Bayuk. I offer my wisdom to you, as the great man I am, and with it grant you this chance to walk away and accept my dominion of the Isles. My prowess on the field of battle will hold no ground in your favor, my armies will march to your belly and slice it open as we would a fresh hunt. Your blood is on the table of diplomacy Bayuk. Do what is wise and modest of a noble. Know my power and fear it.
 
What Was Once Lost

The Grand City Burned. A collection of Faronun forces stood in a plaza, littered with masonry and wreckage. The battle was over. The hunt was on.

Say Tarofa o hayaera,
Sayfin raian gaio mourai?


Poluhai Sirou's bloodlust had abated. It had been sated by the three Dahaiaou who had graced his sword, and now, he sat in wonderment, gazing at the burning city.

Loaifa o Saraebaha, Hailsia o Paraiafo,
Fouru o ieraita,


Hierofaen Aramsayafa whispered the words hoarsely, a mantra, a hold onto sanity amidst the destruction of Caroha. His eyes moved quickly through the ruins, the memory of the map of the city burned into his mind by a lifetime of study.

Dahaiaou o Treda,
Farapay haigao rosaida said boroaf, ioura.


Poluhai was not a learned individual. He had been raised in the Port of Aramaia, raised as a tailor's child. He had been taught how to read by his uncle, and knew the old stories. He knew of the time that Farou the Great had existed, when Haiao shone brightly upon all and Istria was banished to the far corners of the earth. But the bad times had come, and the Dahaiaou had slain the old order, setting brother against brother and bringing the time of light to its end. The Dahaiaou had stolen much on that day, but some could be recovered from Kargan.

Say Tarofa o hayaera, sarafay daiaigoa cora,
Say Farou o hayaera, raesha daiaigoa thaera,


Hierofaen's frantic searching was rewarded. The squat domed building ahead of him held the treasures he sought. The scholar prayed for their safety, and motioned towards the building. The soldiers advanced, moving in twos into the building. A few tense seconds passed before they returned. One spoke in the affirmative. Hierofaen was overjoyed.

Daera say robouru,
Daera say parcouru,


Poluhai marveled at the interior of the archive, a rich mix of browns and reds. The architecture was alien to him, yet at the same time strangely familiar. Yet at the same time, the wonderment was best with disgust. What good people had these demons enslaved to build such a beautiful structure? The young soldier firmly resisted the urge to race to the books and parchments carefully placed into the heavy wooden shelves, keeping his eyes on the outside. The time to read would come later.

Radmafae raena dae,
Fanai houa pahouaia.


Hierofaen could barely keep tears from his eyes as he read the titles on the seals of the ancient, cracked scrolls. Slave. The Fall of Salei. A compendium of the old fables. Yet there were not only old fables here, more had been collected. Literature from every nation of the world, some familiar, others written in scripts and languages completely unknown. But there was more! A copy of The Beautiful Turns, translated into the runes of the Satar, and what must have accounted for the complete works of the old playwrights, again translated from flowing Faronun script to the forceful blocks of the Satar. The Dahaiaou had stolen, they had pillaged, yes... but they had also embraced and adapted. Faronun works were known to these people. It was a perversion, the existence of these corruptions of the original texts... yet it was deeply moving at the same time. Unable to restrain himself further, tears began to fall down the old scholar's face.
 
Phew. That's just massive read. And the most epic battle in history. Wow.

Just one thing NK, you forgot my campaign against Cynta :p (not to complain much, everything went smoothier than expected. I'd still like you to check that one up).
 
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