Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Swissempire said:RACIST, RACIST.
But if its the Valin race that stands in the way of Bladeist freedom, then well, my work is cut out for me.
Should your comments be considered a declaration of war against New Veritas?
LINESII- Into the Darkness- Part II
- Thread starter Lord_Iggy
- Start date
Should your comments be considered a declaration of war against New Veritas?
Kentharu
Zebra Commander
From The Gorinese Empire
To New Veritas
The Lord Kaiser would advise you to consider Guangfei's peace proposal very carefully.
To New Veritas
The Lord Kaiser would advise you to consider Guangfei's peace proposal very carefully.
Swissempire
Poet Jester
No. We can't invade you ATM. The Lengel Legacy is your greatest ally Thayli. Contempts actions have repurcussions even now!Thlayli said:
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
The Guangfei Empire withdraws her offer of white peace to New Veritas.
Curse you! That's two hours I could have been playing Civ next weekend you've stolen from me! 
The Sintonians are actually one of the more enlightened and rational Bladeist nations. But New Veritas won't give them independence both de jure and de facto, so Sintonia must maintain and extend its gains by force.
The Sintonians are actually one of the more enlightened and rational Bladeist nations. But New Veritas won't give them independence both de jure and de facto, so Sintonia must maintain and extend its gains by force.
Swissempire
Poet Jester
I'm medieval Italy to Sintonia's Midevial Ottoman Turks.
Nah, i just made that up.
Nah, i just made that up.
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
Lord_Iggy said:Curse you! That's two hours I could have been playing Civ next weekend you've stolen from me!
My withdrawal of white peace to New Veritas? He refused it anyways
Stats?
Silver Steak
The Ghost of SS
alex994 said:
Lord_Iggy said:
alex994 said:Stats?
Lord_Iggy said:
Umm... Quite the evasive artist, Iggy? I guess it's an inherent part of being a good MOD.
Silver Steak
The Ghost of SS
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Far off thunder on the steppe blew the heralds horn to battle. The clouds were rising, black from the gods above, brown from the earth below, and a few recalcitrant rays of sun glinted off of helm and shield and sword. Tiran squinted. The banners were too diminutive to make out the heraldry. The wooden tower rocked on the back of the great ramid as he slid his way along the rail to the aft of his northern battlemount.
Guides! he called, down to his scouts. The face that looked up at him was the windburnt face of a Lengel warrior, craggy and lined. A True Lengelnot the honorless dogs who had come from the southlands, but one who had been forged in the icy fires of the north. An honest, yet still fearsome warrior. And five thousand of his brothers rode in that roiling fog of sand that lay before them in the distance.
Can you make out the banners nearest us?
The scout turned. Leaning over the neck of his Lengel steedonly a little bigger than a ponyhe cocked his head from side to side. I will, was all he said. And then the horse spurred forward, galloping lightly over the grasses, sending up tiny jets of dust.
Less than twenty heartbeats sounded in Tirans chest before the steed wheeled, and the scout came racing back to his lines. As he reigned up, Tiran read his face even before he heard the joyful words. They were behind the enemy.
He turned to his men, a drawn up line of thousands, with the long chequed banner of the Merhai clans soaring above them, the arctic fox looking with favor upon the spears and ramids that had assembled to bring war to this southern world.
Men of the Merhai! Before you, you see the banners of a host of thousands. They are the Lengels, the most fearsome of the beasts upon the worlds. Undefeated, they have sent their hordes like waves breaking over the rocks into the soft men of the south. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Yet these Lengels that lie before usFalse Lengels, masking their faces in ironthese Lengels are not the ones you know, and not the ones you have ridden with.
Their faces are round and pampered. Their bellies droop like bags of wet sand. Their arms are corpulent like the rest of themthick with tallow, and barely having the strength to lift themselves, let alone their weapons. These are no warriors, no conquerors, no invulnerable black iron horsemen. These are no snow tempered blades. These are the soft tin suits of the south, and they shall bend and fall! For we are the fury of the north!
They screamed it back at him as one. THE FURY OF THE NORTH!
Sound the advance!
The warhorns roared back. Duuuhooooooo. Duuuhooooooo. Again and again they split the air with their cries. Duuuhooooooo. The gold banded, carved ramid horns vibrated with their sounds.
The ramids added their own mournful lowing to the sound as they tumbled forward. Uuuuoooooooh. Uuuuoooooooh. And the sound of half a hundred massive feet hitting the earth, a rumbling that kicked up almost as much dust as the battle that lay before them, filled the air as the battle line rushed forward. The spearmen clash their weapons on shields, even as the ramid riders yelled across the steppe.
On and on they rolled, a tidal wave with twenty massive boulders, the ramids, careening down the center. It took a long while for any of the Lengels to notice their advance, concentrated as they were on the True Lengel forces in front of them. Then Tiran noticed. There were no other Merhai here. No ramids. Where the hell is Markus? He was supposed to be fighting these bastards!
Then they were upon them.
Dadaaa. Dadaa dadaaaaaa. Iron Face horns, thin and tinny when compared to the cry of a warhorn, sounded to gather the Lengel horse archers; the men in back had noticed the enemy behind them, and cried out in desperation. Duuuhooooooo, the Merhai warhorns answered, long and low.
Horses were all craven at heart, Tiran thought dispassionately as the battle lines came together. Steeds shied from the clash, so that two armies of horsemen attacking each other would never make the steel crash that the romantics imagined. Men werentthey threw themselves onward, to be impaled; ramids simply ignored arrow and spear alike. Perhaps horses were the smart ones, he mused, taking up his bow and drawing the first arrow, and he took aim.
The low thrum of his bow was overshadowed as a whole, as the horse archers of the Iron Face armies let fly as well. Ffft. Ffft. Ffft, the arrows flew, around the battlefield, some into the ramids themselves, who bellowed in pain as needles stuck into their wooly hide.
Yet they wrought their revenge, plowing into the horsemen, tusks lifting horse and rider bodily into the air and tossing them. Tiran felt strangely dispassionate, perhaps because he was so far above them. Notch, draw, loose. A man in the saddle, far below, tumbled backward, an arrow in his chest. Notch, draw, loose. An arrow struck the ground, making a horse rear. He cursed. A man beside him in the tower on the ramid fell to the ground, an arrow in his eye. Notch, draw, loose. Another Lengel was slain.
Then the mahout pitched over, dead as well. Tiran looked around, but the rest of his comrades were too busy firing at the enemy; the ramid began to falter and mill about, as the horsemen swirled around him in a mass. Tiran lurched across the swaying tower, and took the reigns, pulling the ramid around towards the front, and sending him crashing into the mass of men. The fight dissolved into his own field of vision as he directed the ramid around, the great beast plunging its horned face into men and horse in front of him.
The line of the wooly ramids still swept onward, like some monstrous cross between cattle, wolves, and reindeer, crashing through the lines of Lengels as if they werent even there. Even before it began in full, Tiran could see the sway of the battlethe Lengels were fleeing, flying through the gaps between the forces in front and behind them.
Yet the tide of battle again seemed to be turning, as Lengels rallied around their warrior king, firing arrows again at the great ramids, and felling many in the Merhai battle line of spearmen. Tiran found his ramid growing more and more hard to control, and sent him back towards the Merhai, to regroup; a few arrows narrowly missed him, thrumming in the wooden railing.
My lord, we must retreat! a voice called.
Nay, we shall not! THE FURY OF THE NORTH! BLOW THE ADVANCE!
Again, the warhorn on his ramid sounded, and then another and another, the ramids calling to each other in symphonious slaughter.
But they were finding it hard to advance against the surging Lengel line, and the Merhai were faltering, having rarely experienced something that could be called a battle. Where in hell is Markus? he thought. If there were ramids on both sides of the Lengels, then they would not be able to resist, but the iron-masked tin men of the south were now directing their energies as though without a care in the world at both the Merhai and their rival Lengels.
Stand and fight! For Kahir! he called again, but no one would be able to hear him over the din of the battle. Tiran turned to his horn-master, but he lay dead, drooping over the railing of the ramid, still clutching his horn, which now bounced with each step the ramid took, coming perilously close to falling to the ground. When did that happen? No time to think. He leaned backward, and snatched the horn before it could fall; the leather reigns followed his clutching hands, though, and the ramid reared.
Oh dear.
He fought with the reigns to try and get the ramid under control as it lurched around on its hind legs. Tiran was now far ahead of the Merhai spear line itself. If the ramid fell, he was doomed. Tugging at the reigns, his heart raced as the ramid swayed, seemed to topple... And then regained its balance, coming down on all fours with a resounding crash, its massive feet crushing a few unfortunate Iron Face men who had been pushed under the beast by the pressing tide of battle.
He had dropped the horn in his struggles, and once again had to bend to pick it up, though this time he was careful not to pull the reigns too strongly. It almost skittered away at his touch, but he managed to close his hand around it. He stood, staggered as he almost lost his balance, for the ramid was lurching again, and heard an arrow, ffft, just as a wet something trickled down the side of his face. Warm, red blood, dripped from his cheek, but it was but a minor wound. The next arrow took him in the thigh, and he was near blinded by the pain, staggering again.
He slammed his hand down on the rail, chipping the mouthpiece, as he fought to get up. He pulled the ramids reigns again, and the beast went plunging around, as he raised the horn to his lips. This battle could not be won. It was time to sound the retreat. He took a deep breath, his lungs filling downward into his belly to sound the call for the entire Merhai army.
And then, far in the distance, sonorous and powerful, a deep cry blasted across the steppe. He blinked, squinted. Far off in the direction of the setting sun, giant beasts boldly forged across the grasslands, they and their riders both crying for joy in melancholy tones.
His breath let out in a sigh of relief. He filled his lungs again, and blew his own horn in return. Rally, it said to the forces far behind him. To me. TO ME!
He brought the ramid around again, flicked the reigns lightly, so that it tossed its head, as though to beckon the Merhai battle line on. And they came. The spearmen turned on the spot and lowered their pikes to catch the Lengel horsemen on a wall of bronze. The ramids turned and plunged into the Iron Faced battle lines. And far to the east, the wooly horde crashed into the tin, smashing all that lay before it. He scanned the battlefield, and his eyes fixed on a single banner.
Damn me if that isnt Akhidai, he muttered to himself, as the golden-crowned, iron-masked tin suit directed his men around.
The Merhai line flowed up like a tidal wave, through the battle, to Tiran, smashing the Lengels in his path, while the eastern force came closer. He caught the eyes of the nearest ramid commander across all the blood and gore, and pointed to that far off banner. Almost imperceptible, the man nodded. Tiran raised the bloody horn to his broken lip once again, and sounded a different song.
Duuuhooooooo.
A group of five ramids followed him, with a great mass of Merhai spearmen shadowing their tracks ,as they plunged through rings of iron warriors towards that king who had terrorized nations massive and small.
The tin suits bled.
Then the king was making his way through the milling horde away from Tiran and his ramids, and his men were blowing their own trumpets. Daaa, daaa, daaa, daadaaa. It was no matter. The Merhai fought onward. To the north, the True Lengels were grinding the Iron Face to dust. And to the east...
The ramid lines came together in a massive pincer, meeting in the center, and their riders voicing greetings to each other, the ramids, too, calling to each other. Duuuhooooooo, uuuuoooooooh. Duuuhooooooo. He could see the khan of the True Lengels riding towards them, his banner fluttering in the wind. The Iron-masked king fled to the southeast, and the battle wound down before his eyes as he scanned the field, with the horsemen running from the battle, a last few being speared on the pikes of the Merhai, or falling to the arrows of the True Lengels.
Tiran! a voice called from one of the great wooly ramids that had come out of the east, arduous to hear over even the fading din of battle.
Markus! he called back to his brother. What the hell took you so long?
We were delayed. But it makes no matter; the day is ours!
A few men in earshot cheered, and some blew the warhorns again in celebration. But then all quieted, as the True Lengel khan came galloping into earshot.
He looked the beggar at the tourney. Where the Merhai ramids were a dull red in color, their warriors always wore the family cloaks, usually those given them by their mothers or wives, to show their pride in their people. Many of the Lengels, too, wore trinkets. The Lengel khan, by contrast, was in boiled leather armor, and a bristly fur hat, half-covered in dry blood set astride his ears. The True Lengels were hard men, and their leader seemed determined to give that impression as much as possible.
I greet you, Odalai Khan of the Lengels! Tiran called to him.
And you, Tiran, son of Kahir, Lord of the Merhai, the man inclined his head.
We Merhai have no lords, he smiled, But I greet you all the same.
We will talk more tonight, general, the khan promised, when the men drink of our tuns of ale, we shall discuss the war. But for now... He turned to his own generals, hard bitten men, scarred and brutal. Send outriders. Make sure that these Iron Faced bastards arent trying to set up some kind of retreat.
THE DAY IS OURS! cried Markus again.
We knew that already. Tiran chuckled, and looked at the Lengel khan. I believe we have some ale to drink. To the camp!
TO THE CAMP! his men echoed.
Later, much later, Tiran climbed off his ramid, and guided the poor thing over to his comrades, men who had trained with the ramids since nearly birth. Do something for him, will you? It almost hurt to look at his mount; arrows sprouted from his hide all over, and he resembled nothing so much as a bleeding porcupine. He had his own leg tended to; removing the arrow, and it was only a little stiff as he made his way through the camp.
The camp was far from subdued as he made his way through it, with Merhai and Lengel celebrating through it, drinking the ale that the khan had graciously offered... And the ale that the Merhai, ever wary of leaving suitable celebrations unready, had lugged south from their northern forest homes. Men greeted him as he made way through the encampment, offering him ale at every campfire, and bread and meat besides. He had to turn away most of them, for the khan would doubtless take offense if he was too full to eat.
The snow-white tent of the Lengel khan sat in the center of the camp, boldly proclaiming its occupant as much as the banner beside it did. He ducked inside, and was blasted with the smells of roasting meat, sweat, ale, and blood. Not more blood. I thought we had gotten enough of that at the battle. At least it was somewhat less noisy in here; the Lengel khan appeared to be less fond of revelry than his soldiers were.
Tiran ducked through the tent. It was a luxurious thing, for a True Lengelwhich meant that it was not at all luxurious except in size. The ceiling was high, with a hole for the smoke of the fires in the top, and there were a few bundles of possessions scattered around it. Several flaps served as doors around the tenthe could see, far at the rear, a door which led to where the horses were penned. The hide was pinned open there. They always keep their horses close at hand. He found the khan on the far side, humming tunelessly to himself as he worked his way through a horn of ale.
Odalai.
Tiran.
Im glad you know my name.
Im more well informed than you know.
My name is the least of my worries when I give my counter-intelligence men their orders.
So Ive found. Please, sit.
Tiran found a place on the furs that covered the bare earth under the tent, and sat cross-legged, accepting a horn of ale from a servant. He studied the khans face for the first time. No scars crossed it, but it was a hard one nonetheless; black eyes fierce as steel stared out from under a lined brow, and his mouth was a hard, thin blade.
To the victory, he toasted, and the khan raised his own horn in reply. Tiran sipped lightly, not wanting to have his head clouded by the drink. Warmth spread through his chest, as a serving girl placed some food in front of him and the khana roasted boar with skin crackling, dripping grease onto the wooden, carved platter that bore it.
As they set to eating, they discussed all manners of thingsthe war, the future, and anything else that came to their minds. Tiran found the man an easy conversationalist, to his immense surprise.
Tell me of your nation, Tiran. I must confess, despite our alliance, I am unsure as to exactly what your people are like.
So Tiran cleared his throat.
It would take a while to verse you in all the legends of my people, so I think a brief summary shall suffice. We used to be a collection of minor clans in the valley of the Merhaithe old one, not the new one that bears that name. One clan grew more powerful than the rest of us combinedthe Fairhelt, they were called. And they naturally drove us outfor what else do powerful tribes do to occupy their time? So you could say we are a nation of exiles.
We forged our nation anew in a valleythe valley you call the Vale of the Merhai, what we call the New Valemuch like our old one. It was not so cold, but it was a good place for our wooly ramids nonetheless. Pines carpet the landscape, and granite pillars carved by the spirits rise far above the ground; children can occupy their time by hunting and climbing.
Well, we found ourselves in this valley, with ten clans and as many competing wills. We had to find a way to unify ourselves. And so... the Great Council was formed.
I heard that your Great Council is all of women, the khan said, laughing at the idea. Is it true?
Yes, as it happens. That stopped the khans laughter, though he still looked incredulous. Its something of a tradition for men to fight and for women to rule.
He smirked. You let your women rule you?
Tiran shrugged. The arrangement has worked out well enough, so far.
Is it true that your people dance around the campfires naked, singing to the spirits?
Tiran cocked an eyebrow. No. Naked? How did that quirk get added in?
Oh. Thats a damn shame. The khan laughed again.
You have a taste for naked men and women?
Only the women.
I didnt know you were the type of Lengel who wanted a foreign wife.
From what youve said, Id love them. Strong women, general, thats the best thing. Take pleasure where you can. I might take a Merhai for my third wife; wouldnt that be a sight?
If you were as brutal as they say the Lengels are, then youd wake up with a slit throat after your wedding night. Yes it would.
How would I go around arranging that?
Youd ask one.
Ha! I meant the question seriously.
I meant the answer seriously. We dont, as a rule, marry off our daughters. Theyd run off before wed manage to do it. I could introduce you, though; I have a daughter of my own. Who I havent seen in years and would probably slap me across the face if I told her that I was going to introduce her to you.
Perhaps you should, the khan said, laughing and turning his attention back to the meal in front of them.
Perhaps... Tiran muttered. The idea of seeing Nyara again, after all these years, had perturbed his imagination. He had left a suckling babe, and when he returned to his wife and children, Nyara, his firstborn daughter, would be something around the age of sixteen or seventeen or eighteen. I dont even know the age of my own daughter. A frightening thought.
The servants brought in another coursethis one of onion soup served in trenchers of hollowed bread. The smell wafted over his nostrils, and he smiled, taking up a spoon and stirring the thick broth.
You never said anything more about your people, the khan said.
Tiran swallowed another mouthful of soup. Well, there isnt much more to say. Were a somewhat nomadic people, much like yourselves, though we do farm to some extentnot enough to make us sedentary like the people of the south, of course, just a little barley in a few scattered fieldswe hunt, and we herd our ramids. We sing, we dance, we carve the tusks our dead steeds, we have a vibrant life. Much like any other people, I suppose.
Any other people who have ramids.
Well, yes. There are others, if I recall correctly. The... What are they?
Macaca.
I dont think thats quite their name, Tiran said, laughing.
Who cares? Theyre some southern nation that we wont get involved with.
Never count on that. You never know when something will come back to bite you in the
A servant cleared his throat, announcing his presence for the first time. Khan.
Yes?
We have reports from our outriders back. The false khans armies are fleeing, just as we foretold. They appear to be flying far to the south, where... well, it would appear the armies of the south are slowly turning the Lengels back. The Khemri have betrayed their masters, Im told, though its a little soon to make that judgement.
Good. Go.
With your leave, the servant bowed and left.
Interesting, that. Im glad that I declined that post, years ago.
What post, pray tell?
The khan sighed. Years and years ago. Back when I was still a general to the false khan, it shames me to say. The khan himself offered me a post to fight against some people far to the southI can never remember who they were. Swahduh, or something to that effect. I declined; he was furious, and put me in some post defending the northern frontier against shadows. Not very glorious for me, but it turned out well in the end. He laughed again, Tiran with him.
And what is it that you plan to do with your nation, Odalai?
Well... What weve always done, I would say. Hunt and fight, much like we did long, long ago. What about yours, Tiran?
Im not entirely certain, Tiran said, as a third course was placed in front of themthis one the lastof soft goat cheese that smelt strongly, yet sweetly as well. But I have a few ideas.
They talked long into the night; then it was back onto the campaign trail.
Guides! he called, down to his scouts. The face that looked up at him was the windburnt face of a Lengel warrior, craggy and lined. A True Lengelnot the honorless dogs who had come from the southlands, but one who had been forged in the icy fires of the north. An honest, yet still fearsome warrior. And five thousand of his brothers rode in that roiling fog of sand that lay before them in the distance.
Can you make out the banners nearest us?
The scout turned. Leaning over the neck of his Lengel steedonly a little bigger than a ponyhe cocked his head from side to side. I will, was all he said. And then the horse spurred forward, galloping lightly over the grasses, sending up tiny jets of dust.
Less than twenty heartbeats sounded in Tirans chest before the steed wheeled, and the scout came racing back to his lines. As he reigned up, Tiran read his face even before he heard the joyful words. They were behind the enemy.
He turned to his men, a drawn up line of thousands, with the long chequed banner of the Merhai clans soaring above them, the arctic fox looking with favor upon the spears and ramids that had assembled to bring war to this southern world.
Men of the Merhai! Before you, you see the banners of a host of thousands. They are the Lengels, the most fearsome of the beasts upon the worlds. Undefeated, they have sent their hordes like waves breaking over the rocks into the soft men of the south. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Yet these Lengels that lie before usFalse Lengels, masking their faces in ironthese Lengels are not the ones you know, and not the ones you have ridden with.
Their faces are round and pampered. Their bellies droop like bags of wet sand. Their arms are corpulent like the rest of themthick with tallow, and barely having the strength to lift themselves, let alone their weapons. These are no warriors, no conquerors, no invulnerable black iron horsemen. These are no snow tempered blades. These are the soft tin suits of the south, and they shall bend and fall! For we are the fury of the north!
They screamed it back at him as one. THE FURY OF THE NORTH!
Sound the advance!
The warhorns roared back. Duuuhooooooo. Duuuhooooooo. Again and again they split the air with their cries. Duuuhooooooo. The gold banded, carved ramid horns vibrated with their sounds.
The ramids added their own mournful lowing to the sound as they tumbled forward. Uuuuoooooooh. Uuuuoooooooh. And the sound of half a hundred massive feet hitting the earth, a rumbling that kicked up almost as much dust as the battle that lay before them, filled the air as the battle line rushed forward. The spearmen clash their weapons on shields, even as the ramid riders yelled across the steppe.
On and on they rolled, a tidal wave with twenty massive boulders, the ramids, careening down the center. It took a long while for any of the Lengels to notice their advance, concentrated as they were on the True Lengel forces in front of them. Then Tiran noticed. There were no other Merhai here. No ramids. Where the hell is Markus? He was supposed to be fighting these bastards!
Then they were upon them.
Dadaaa. Dadaa dadaaaaaa. Iron Face horns, thin and tinny when compared to the cry of a warhorn, sounded to gather the Lengel horse archers; the men in back had noticed the enemy behind them, and cried out in desperation. Duuuhooooooo, the Merhai warhorns answered, long and low.
Horses were all craven at heart, Tiran thought dispassionately as the battle lines came together. Steeds shied from the clash, so that two armies of horsemen attacking each other would never make the steel crash that the romantics imagined. Men werentthey threw themselves onward, to be impaled; ramids simply ignored arrow and spear alike. Perhaps horses were the smart ones, he mused, taking up his bow and drawing the first arrow, and he took aim.
The low thrum of his bow was overshadowed as a whole, as the horse archers of the Iron Face armies let fly as well. Ffft. Ffft. Ffft, the arrows flew, around the battlefield, some into the ramids themselves, who bellowed in pain as needles stuck into their wooly hide.
Yet they wrought their revenge, plowing into the horsemen, tusks lifting horse and rider bodily into the air and tossing them. Tiran felt strangely dispassionate, perhaps because he was so far above them. Notch, draw, loose. A man in the saddle, far below, tumbled backward, an arrow in his chest. Notch, draw, loose. An arrow struck the ground, making a horse rear. He cursed. A man beside him in the tower on the ramid fell to the ground, an arrow in his eye. Notch, draw, loose. Another Lengel was slain.
Then the mahout pitched over, dead as well. Tiran looked around, but the rest of his comrades were too busy firing at the enemy; the ramid began to falter and mill about, as the horsemen swirled around him in a mass. Tiran lurched across the swaying tower, and took the reigns, pulling the ramid around towards the front, and sending him crashing into the mass of men. The fight dissolved into his own field of vision as he directed the ramid around, the great beast plunging its horned face into men and horse in front of him.
The line of the wooly ramids still swept onward, like some monstrous cross between cattle, wolves, and reindeer, crashing through the lines of Lengels as if they werent even there. Even before it began in full, Tiran could see the sway of the battlethe Lengels were fleeing, flying through the gaps between the forces in front and behind them.
Yet the tide of battle again seemed to be turning, as Lengels rallied around their warrior king, firing arrows again at the great ramids, and felling many in the Merhai battle line of spearmen. Tiran found his ramid growing more and more hard to control, and sent him back towards the Merhai, to regroup; a few arrows narrowly missed him, thrumming in the wooden railing.
My lord, we must retreat! a voice called.
Nay, we shall not! THE FURY OF THE NORTH! BLOW THE ADVANCE!
Again, the warhorn on his ramid sounded, and then another and another, the ramids calling to each other in symphonious slaughter.
But they were finding it hard to advance against the surging Lengel line, and the Merhai were faltering, having rarely experienced something that could be called a battle. Where in hell is Markus? he thought. If there were ramids on both sides of the Lengels, then they would not be able to resist, but the iron-masked tin men of the south were now directing their energies as though without a care in the world at both the Merhai and their rival Lengels.
Stand and fight! For Kahir! he called again, but no one would be able to hear him over the din of the battle. Tiran turned to his horn-master, but he lay dead, drooping over the railing of the ramid, still clutching his horn, which now bounced with each step the ramid took, coming perilously close to falling to the ground. When did that happen? No time to think. He leaned backward, and snatched the horn before it could fall; the leather reigns followed his clutching hands, though, and the ramid reared.
Oh dear.
He fought with the reigns to try and get the ramid under control as it lurched around on its hind legs. Tiran was now far ahead of the Merhai spear line itself. If the ramid fell, he was doomed. Tugging at the reigns, his heart raced as the ramid swayed, seemed to topple... And then regained its balance, coming down on all fours with a resounding crash, its massive feet crushing a few unfortunate Iron Face men who had been pushed under the beast by the pressing tide of battle.
He had dropped the horn in his struggles, and once again had to bend to pick it up, though this time he was careful not to pull the reigns too strongly. It almost skittered away at his touch, but he managed to close his hand around it. He stood, staggered as he almost lost his balance, for the ramid was lurching again, and heard an arrow, ffft, just as a wet something trickled down the side of his face. Warm, red blood, dripped from his cheek, but it was but a minor wound. The next arrow took him in the thigh, and he was near blinded by the pain, staggering again.
He slammed his hand down on the rail, chipping the mouthpiece, as he fought to get up. He pulled the ramids reigns again, and the beast went plunging around, as he raised the horn to his lips. This battle could not be won. It was time to sound the retreat. He took a deep breath, his lungs filling downward into his belly to sound the call for the entire Merhai army.
And then, far in the distance, sonorous and powerful, a deep cry blasted across the steppe. He blinked, squinted. Far off in the direction of the setting sun, giant beasts boldly forged across the grasslands, they and their riders both crying for joy in melancholy tones.
His breath let out in a sigh of relief. He filled his lungs again, and blew his own horn in return. Rally, it said to the forces far behind him. To me. TO ME!
He brought the ramid around again, flicked the reigns lightly, so that it tossed its head, as though to beckon the Merhai battle line on. And they came. The spearmen turned on the spot and lowered their pikes to catch the Lengel horsemen on a wall of bronze. The ramids turned and plunged into the Iron Faced battle lines. And far to the east, the wooly horde crashed into the tin, smashing all that lay before it. He scanned the battlefield, and his eyes fixed on a single banner.
Damn me if that isnt Akhidai, he muttered to himself, as the golden-crowned, iron-masked tin suit directed his men around.
The Merhai line flowed up like a tidal wave, through the battle, to Tiran, smashing the Lengels in his path, while the eastern force came closer. He caught the eyes of the nearest ramid commander across all the blood and gore, and pointed to that far off banner. Almost imperceptible, the man nodded. Tiran raised the bloody horn to his broken lip once again, and sounded a different song.
Duuuhooooooo.
A group of five ramids followed him, with a great mass of Merhai spearmen shadowing their tracks ,as they plunged through rings of iron warriors towards that king who had terrorized nations massive and small.
The tin suits bled.
Then the king was making his way through the milling horde away from Tiran and his ramids, and his men were blowing their own trumpets. Daaa, daaa, daaa, daadaaa. It was no matter. The Merhai fought onward. To the north, the True Lengels were grinding the Iron Face to dust. And to the east...
The ramid lines came together in a massive pincer, meeting in the center, and their riders voicing greetings to each other, the ramids, too, calling to each other. Duuuhooooooo, uuuuoooooooh. Duuuhooooooo. He could see the khan of the True Lengels riding towards them, his banner fluttering in the wind. The Iron-masked king fled to the southeast, and the battle wound down before his eyes as he scanned the field, with the horsemen running from the battle, a last few being speared on the pikes of the Merhai, or falling to the arrows of the True Lengels.
Tiran! a voice called from one of the great wooly ramids that had come out of the east, arduous to hear over even the fading din of battle.
Markus! he called back to his brother. What the hell took you so long?
We were delayed. But it makes no matter; the day is ours!
A few men in earshot cheered, and some blew the warhorns again in celebration. But then all quieted, as the True Lengel khan came galloping into earshot.
He looked the beggar at the tourney. Where the Merhai ramids were a dull red in color, their warriors always wore the family cloaks, usually those given them by their mothers or wives, to show their pride in their people. Many of the Lengels, too, wore trinkets. The Lengel khan, by contrast, was in boiled leather armor, and a bristly fur hat, half-covered in dry blood set astride his ears. The True Lengels were hard men, and their leader seemed determined to give that impression as much as possible.
I greet you, Odalai Khan of the Lengels! Tiran called to him.
And you, Tiran, son of Kahir, Lord of the Merhai, the man inclined his head.
We Merhai have no lords, he smiled, But I greet you all the same.
We will talk more tonight, general, the khan promised, when the men drink of our tuns of ale, we shall discuss the war. But for now... He turned to his own generals, hard bitten men, scarred and brutal. Send outriders. Make sure that these Iron Faced bastards arent trying to set up some kind of retreat.
THE DAY IS OURS! cried Markus again.
We knew that already. Tiran chuckled, and looked at the Lengel khan. I believe we have some ale to drink. To the camp!
TO THE CAMP! his men echoed.
Later, much later, Tiran climbed off his ramid, and guided the poor thing over to his comrades, men who had trained with the ramids since nearly birth. Do something for him, will you? It almost hurt to look at his mount; arrows sprouted from his hide all over, and he resembled nothing so much as a bleeding porcupine. He had his own leg tended to; removing the arrow, and it was only a little stiff as he made his way through the camp.
The camp was far from subdued as he made his way through it, with Merhai and Lengel celebrating through it, drinking the ale that the khan had graciously offered... And the ale that the Merhai, ever wary of leaving suitable celebrations unready, had lugged south from their northern forest homes. Men greeted him as he made way through the encampment, offering him ale at every campfire, and bread and meat besides. He had to turn away most of them, for the khan would doubtless take offense if he was too full to eat.
The snow-white tent of the Lengel khan sat in the center of the camp, boldly proclaiming its occupant as much as the banner beside it did. He ducked inside, and was blasted with the smells of roasting meat, sweat, ale, and blood. Not more blood. I thought we had gotten enough of that at the battle. At least it was somewhat less noisy in here; the Lengel khan appeared to be less fond of revelry than his soldiers were.
Tiran ducked through the tent. It was a luxurious thing, for a True Lengelwhich meant that it was not at all luxurious except in size. The ceiling was high, with a hole for the smoke of the fires in the top, and there were a few bundles of possessions scattered around it. Several flaps served as doors around the tenthe could see, far at the rear, a door which led to where the horses were penned. The hide was pinned open there. They always keep their horses close at hand. He found the khan on the far side, humming tunelessly to himself as he worked his way through a horn of ale.
Odalai.
Tiran.
Im glad you know my name.
Im more well informed than you know.
My name is the least of my worries when I give my counter-intelligence men their orders.
So Ive found. Please, sit.
Tiran found a place on the furs that covered the bare earth under the tent, and sat cross-legged, accepting a horn of ale from a servant. He studied the khans face for the first time. No scars crossed it, but it was a hard one nonetheless; black eyes fierce as steel stared out from under a lined brow, and his mouth was a hard, thin blade.
To the victory, he toasted, and the khan raised his own horn in reply. Tiran sipped lightly, not wanting to have his head clouded by the drink. Warmth spread through his chest, as a serving girl placed some food in front of him and the khana roasted boar with skin crackling, dripping grease onto the wooden, carved platter that bore it.
As they set to eating, they discussed all manners of thingsthe war, the future, and anything else that came to their minds. Tiran found the man an easy conversationalist, to his immense surprise.
Tell me of your nation, Tiran. I must confess, despite our alliance, I am unsure as to exactly what your people are like.
So Tiran cleared his throat.
It would take a while to verse you in all the legends of my people, so I think a brief summary shall suffice. We used to be a collection of minor clans in the valley of the Merhaithe old one, not the new one that bears that name. One clan grew more powerful than the rest of us combinedthe Fairhelt, they were called. And they naturally drove us outfor what else do powerful tribes do to occupy their time? So you could say we are a nation of exiles.
We forged our nation anew in a valleythe valley you call the Vale of the Merhai, what we call the New Valemuch like our old one. It was not so cold, but it was a good place for our wooly ramids nonetheless. Pines carpet the landscape, and granite pillars carved by the spirits rise far above the ground; children can occupy their time by hunting and climbing.
Well, we found ourselves in this valley, with ten clans and as many competing wills. We had to find a way to unify ourselves. And so... the Great Council was formed.
I heard that your Great Council is all of women, the khan said, laughing at the idea. Is it true?
Yes, as it happens. That stopped the khans laughter, though he still looked incredulous. Its something of a tradition for men to fight and for women to rule.
He smirked. You let your women rule you?
Tiran shrugged. The arrangement has worked out well enough, so far.
Is it true that your people dance around the campfires naked, singing to the spirits?
Tiran cocked an eyebrow. No. Naked? How did that quirk get added in?
Oh. Thats a damn shame. The khan laughed again.
You have a taste for naked men and women?
Only the women.
I didnt know you were the type of Lengel who wanted a foreign wife.
From what youve said, Id love them. Strong women, general, thats the best thing. Take pleasure where you can. I might take a Merhai for my third wife; wouldnt that be a sight?
If you were as brutal as they say the Lengels are, then youd wake up with a slit throat after your wedding night. Yes it would.
How would I go around arranging that?
Youd ask one.
Ha! I meant the question seriously.
I meant the answer seriously. We dont, as a rule, marry off our daughters. Theyd run off before wed manage to do it. I could introduce you, though; I have a daughter of my own. Who I havent seen in years and would probably slap me across the face if I told her that I was going to introduce her to you.
Perhaps you should, the khan said, laughing and turning his attention back to the meal in front of them.
Perhaps... Tiran muttered. The idea of seeing Nyara again, after all these years, had perturbed his imagination. He had left a suckling babe, and when he returned to his wife and children, Nyara, his firstborn daughter, would be something around the age of sixteen or seventeen or eighteen. I dont even know the age of my own daughter. A frightening thought.
The servants brought in another coursethis one of onion soup served in trenchers of hollowed bread. The smell wafted over his nostrils, and he smiled, taking up a spoon and stirring the thick broth.
You never said anything more about your people, the khan said.
Tiran swallowed another mouthful of soup. Well, there isnt much more to say. Were a somewhat nomadic people, much like yourselves, though we do farm to some extentnot enough to make us sedentary like the people of the south, of course, just a little barley in a few scattered fieldswe hunt, and we herd our ramids. We sing, we dance, we carve the tusks our dead steeds, we have a vibrant life. Much like any other people, I suppose.
Any other people who have ramids.
Well, yes. There are others, if I recall correctly. The... What are they?
Macaca.
I dont think thats quite their name, Tiran said, laughing.
Who cares? Theyre some southern nation that we wont get involved with.
Never count on that. You never know when something will come back to bite you in the
A servant cleared his throat, announcing his presence for the first time. Khan.
Yes?
We have reports from our outriders back. The false khans armies are fleeing, just as we foretold. They appear to be flying far to the south, where... well, it would appear the armies of the south are slowly turning the Lengels back. The Khemri have betrayed their masters, Im told, though its a little soon to make that judgement.
Good. Go.
With your leave, the servant bowed and left.
Interesting, that. Im glad that I declined that post, years ago.
What post, pray tell?
The khan sighed. Years and years ago. Back when I was still a general to the false khan, it shames me to say. The khan himself offered me a post to fight against some people far to the southI can never remember who they were. Swahduh, or something to that effect. I declined; he was furious, and put me in some post defending the northern frontier against shadows. Not very glorious for me, but it turned out well in the end. He laughed again, Tiran with him.
And what is it that you plan to do with your nation, Odalai?
Well... What weve always done, I would say. Hunt and fight, much like we did long, long ago. What about yours, Tiran?
Im not entirely certain, Tiran said, as a third course was placed in front of themthis one the lastof soft goat cheese that smelt strongly, yet sweetly as well. But I have a few ideas.
They talked long into the night; then it was back onto the campaign trail.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
NK, impressive. Now I have to factor in grade-lowering that's coming, since I feel the need to start some sort of new story arc.
I think this one will be PMed directly to Iggy, though.
I think this one will be PMed directly to Iggy, though.
Swissempire
Poet Jester
Thayli you're making me nervous....
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
You shouldn't be, unless you plan to attack me.
Swissempire
Poet Jester
I can't, but your writings will be of Sintonia, i know it.
SPARE THEM!!!! *throws himself at thayli's feet*
SPARE THEM!!!! *throws himself at thayli's feet*
Kentharu
Zebra Commander
you should be the one who is worried thlayli
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Thank you for that, Kentharu.
Swissempire
Poet Jester
My question is how Gorin is going to attack New Veritas
