Helios
Unlucky0013
Lord Zee
DracoLunaris
Frettzo
Vec
Eviledd1984
Kalmar
ButtsnBalls
The First Skirmish
Year 30AA, autumn, Ha-Leothe, hilltop village east of Ha-Dûna...
The midday sun cast a golden light over the brown, fallow potato fields, raw still from the harvest days, and the orange leaves of wintering trees floated gently on the wind as miners entered the palisade gates of the hilltop village of Ha-Leothe with baskets of crudely mined copper ore and malachite from the tunnels in the crags and valleys around the town. Elk- and cattle-drawn carts of lumber occasionally joined them, all of the resources collecting by smoking kilns, smelting the ore into bars readily transportable for the journey to the capital. The early hints of winter were visible on some of the taller peaks, so production had to be sped up to reach the quotas before the valleys would seal with ice and snow and force the traders and taxmen to go all the way around for two weeks. In his longhouse, the théin Valix of Leothe, legendary victor of the Reconquest and champion athlete of many games and sports at festivals, carried his mask with uncharacteristic discontent. He eyed his wife Muine with a frown and gestured to his bowl, full as it was of pea and potato stew with onions. Coldly, he mumbled,
“You burnt it again.”
Muine huffed and gave her own bowl a sip. “What if I did? Do you think you could do any better?”
“What I think, woman, is that I, at least, would not be so daft as to burn stew - it’s stew, for gods’ sakes! It’s at least six parts water!”
“I will throw this in your face if you do not shut up, you know that, right?” she replied threateningly and tested the swing of her arm. Further down the table, there came an exhausted voice.
“Mom, dad, please don’t fight,” said Garix, their oldest son. His four sisters wore equally tired expressions, though they sipped their stew silently as usual. Muine sighed and sat down.
“They’re right, dear. Dinner time is peacetime - if you have something on your heart, we can discuss it afterwards.”
The théin scoffed, but gave his burnt stew a slurp regardless. “Then so we shall.”
At that moment, there came a knock on the door frame. The théin sighed, put down his bowl and stood up. “Come in.” The many tapestries functioning as their door were pushed aside, revealing the panting, red face of a young woman, gasping as she was for her breath. The théin and his family eyed her curiously and Valix asked, “Gods, Pinya, what’s gotten into you? Where’s the fire?”
“There’s--... Ugh, there’s no fire, chief!” Pinya gestured madly over her shoulder. “You, you better come see this.”
Valix blinked, shifted his glance around the table and sighed. “Alright, fine. This had better be worth it.” He stepped over to a wooden chest, opened it and took out a finely sewn fur vest, a hat, woolen mittens and a cloak. Putting them on in a hurry, he followed the woman out into the courtyard of his estate, then out into the broader village and onto the battlements of the palisades. There, many more people had gathered, chattering and spying at the horizon. Pinya offered a final exhausted breath as she pointed at the woodland border below the hill, where there was an unmistakable host of people on the march - some mounted, some marching. The théin squinted and leaned himself on the palisades, rubbing his eyes to make sure what he was seeing was true, indeed.
“What do you think? Sigerans?” asked another guard. Valix pursed his lips.
“Could be, but judging from the runners from the west, I’d say they are more likely to be Cenél raiders, here to finish the job after their betrayal.” He counted the numbers he could see under his breath. “Stromvarde, how many túnskioldings can we have ready within the hour?”
“The shifts in the mines should be switching any moment, sir - we could have them all armed and armoured as soon as you need them to be.”
“Good. Make it so. Teagan, find my hildargeach - tell them to take to elkback.”
“Understood, my théin!”
“Say, théin? Have you seen those banners before?” One of the guards pointed to the host and Valix leaned over the battlements again.
“... Is that a snake?” he asked uncertainly. The guards around him tried to get a better look, some moving further along the wall to see if they could get closer.
“... Could be. Could also be a rune of sorts. Hard to tell from this distance. Can’t say I’ve seen Cenél fly those colours before, though.”
Valix pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Has Kaer Jane come back yet?”
“No, théin, she is still in the woods. Should we send someone for her?”
“Bah, knowing her, she will be back by the time we are routing the enemy. Focus on getting the people armed.” He turned around and clapped his hands for attention. “Alright, people, to spears and hauberk! There are foes on the horizon and we are not going to let them reach Mother Dûna so long as we still live! Sound the horns!”
The echoing song of baritone horns came booming from the distant hilltop fort. Jjonveyo squinted upwards at his goal, ears perked. He looked past Darragh, who rode next to him, and to a soldier with a unique golden mane trailing down his helmet. "Set the troops into a spaced anvil position with wings, space it two for archer bleed through, then hold rank." The Tsar then looked at Darragh, "I have a feeling pride will send them straight into us - you and your warriors will remain with me behind the anvil formation."
“Not warriors.” Darragh corrected. There was a stark difference between the warriors and the Fakir. Though he could understand why the mistake was made. Some of the Fakir carried stone great axes, massive mauls and shields. Though the majority walked with their gods-given objects. Slates and staves. Through which they channeled their magic.
The Fakir and recently made Boyar had no desire to stay behind though. “Allow us to prepare the circles at least.” He eyed the forming front line of the Celeviak. Then they rose towards the village. “It is time the Dûnans learn to fear the power of the Cenél.”
"Prepare as you need," Jjonveyo gestured. His own soldiers were nearly done with their organization - spearmen in neat columns spread wide with archers funneled in front of them in a thin line, cavalry on the far flanks and set at slight angles inwards. The whole formation looked to engulf the flats that laid before the slope of the hill.
The Boyar kept his grim expression as he pulled his stag around. With a single nod the other Cenél made their space and started carving out circles in the earth. Filling them with swirls and patterns only the Fakir knew. Ancient knowledge had been retrieved from the caves already. Sacred stones were put at corners and edges and large candles were lit as well. Darragh turned to face the front again. “When the lines clash you can let us loose.”
"Very well," Jjonveyo looked towards the hill again, "If they can make it to the line."
“We’re not riding out against -that- are we?!” boomed Pathalix, hildargeach and bloodsworn soldier of Valix’ clan Leothe. The théin’s expression, too, had gotten visibly more skeptical.
“It is true that their numbers have grown--...”
“Numbers have grown?! They’re three times as many as us! And they’re in formation! The Cennies’ve obviously gotten help from someone! Someone powerful!”
“But who on Galbar’s got this kind of manpower in this region?” asked Tvínn, another bloodsworn. The théin grumbled quietly.
“... Didn’t a runner come by some weeks past with news of a warlord from the east? Some Chelevyak fellow…”
“Jonwayo, you mean? Are you telling me a damn mountain goblin has this kind of force and he just happened to bring it all the way over here without our scouts noticing?!”
“Prepostorous!” snarled some of the other bloodsworn. As debate broke out, the théin distanced himself from the worst of it by moving to another section of the wall, analysing the approaching formation. After him came the dutiful Pinya, biting her nails nervously.
“S-so… What’s the plan, chief?”
“If you shut your mouth for one second, maybe I’ll come up with one.” She quieted down as the théin gave the battlefield yet another scowl. “How far away is Kaer Jane, you said?”
Pinya swallowed. “W-well, we didn’t send anyone after her, so--”
“Have her summoned here this instant - carry her here if you must. Take my elk. Only divine power can help us level out the odds here. Hama! Take all the unburnt timber from the kilns and shore up the gates and walls! Stromvarde! Find me every arrow we have and bring them to the battlements. Yes, even the ones reserved for the winter hunts! Move it, people, if you want to live to see the sunset!”
Within the hour, the battlements filled with archers and javeliners, the defenders evidently taking a much more defensive approach than initially signalled. The horns sang different signals - taunting the enemy into attacking if they dared. The théin on the battlements found himself biting his nails, too. They had not at all been prepared for an attack - much less a siege. He prayed they would move on - see Ha-Leothe as a needless target and give them time to prepare. A fool’s hope, maybe, but hope it was.
Jjonveyo's dark eyes scanned the hill fort. He looked at the mane crested soldier again, "Instruct the twelve swiftest riders to slay anyone who attempts to leave that hill, four stationed on every cardinal save ours. And have our scouts circle the area in warning of any exterior aid."
"At once my Tsar," The soldier rode off again.
The Tsar turned to Darragh, a rumble forming in his throat, "Darragh!"
The Fakir approached Jjonveyo. “Yes?” He said, his quiet voice contrasting the rumble of the Tsar.
"What is the nature of your magic?"
A grin formed on Darragh’s lips. “It turns our strongest into the wrath of the forest.” His eyes then looked out towards the palisade. Dead wood dreadfully bound together. “I’m assuming you want that torn open?”
"Yes, but first - we need to disarm them," Jjonveyo looked at the Fakir, "Can you create illusions?"
Darragh looked around him. It was a pretty bare hill. No dampness in the air. “Not here. Not now.” He said. “By dusk… perhaps.”
"If at dusk you could trick them into thinking we have charged, and they loose their projectiles - we can then tear into them safely," Jjonveyo stated almost as if questioning Fakir on the possibility.
“By dusk we can create the illusion.” Darragh said. “Whether they fall for it will depend on who their leader is, and who is advising them.”
"Plan for that," Jjonveyo commanded, "In the meantime I will gauge their leadership myself. Bannermen!"
As the foreign leader and his bannermen came riding up to the gates, they were greeted by knocked arrows and groaning bowstrings. However, the bark of a man relaxed those strings swiftly, and a head appeared over the gate, a brown-bearded face topped with a cone-like bronze helmet. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, but nodded his greeting and spoke,
“Gods’ blessings upon you, stranger. Pray tell, what has compelled you to bring this many armed men to my gates on this lovely autumn day?”
"I fear that if I am but a stranger to you, the rumors are true and your leader has left you in the dark," Jjonveyo replied thickly, "I am the Tsar of the Celeviak nation and who are you?"
“I am théin Valix, patriarch of Clan Leothe, and on behalf of the Dûnan people, I say that we do not recognise the authority of any ‘zar in these parts. Whatever you are after - blood, land or wealth - it shan’t be yours so long as these lands belong to the people of the Stone!” He hammered his chest proudly; some of the warriors on the battlements made known their agreement.
"Maybe," Jjonveyo sniffed, "Know that I am merciful and offer you a deal -- you see you do not look at a man of the living." Jjonveyo drew a knife and held it to his wrist, digging the blade in deeply. A dark red oozed out of his arm, only to slowly patter out and seal, flesh mending as if the knife never entered it, "You cannot kill me nor will my army be any easier, but we can you, so here is my promise - concede, or it will be known that it was Valix of Leothe who authorized the brutal execution of every child of this settlement. His pride, the crime."
There came a scoff from the battlements. “Your threats do not scare us, foreigner! The gods are on our side, and their wrath is swift on those who attack their chosen people! Now go back to your men and tell them to come at us! We will stand against your waves like a rock at sea!”
Jjonveyo looked down at the grassy hill, then back up at Valix, "I'll offer a peaceful capitulation once more, but then judgement will be sealed as covenant."i
“Here’s your peaceful capitulation, ‘zar!” shouted one of the archers and then proceeded to lift up his kilt and wave his member around for all to see, inciting a roar of laughter from the others. The théin snickered agreeingly and left the battlements.
Jjonveyo remained silent, and turned back down the hill.
"Darragh," Jjonveyo approached the magician, "The air, it is dry today, no?"
Darragh was in deep discussion with the other Fakir. They spoke in a regional accent. Too thick for the others to understand. The words flung around were spirited. Some even shouted. It was clear Darragh was trying to keep the calm. Then the Tsar approached. The Fakir stepped away. Avoiding the two now.
“It’s not just that.” Darragh said. “Our illusions work in the forest fog. There’s no forest and there is no fog. One we can summon with time.” But even then the illusions would be pale imitations of what they could create around their own villages.
"The air is dry," Jjonveyo continued, "Our enemy is elevated on a grassy hill - fire climbs, Darragh."
The Fakir’s face grew grim. Grimmer than usual. “Fire is unpredictable and ultimately uncontrollable. It might climb up or it could burn underfoot until it reaches us as well.” His eyes stared into those of Jjonveyo. The question hung in the air. Both of them knew it. Are commanding me?
"That's where you are wrong," Jjonveyo answered, "If we dig a trench around the hill, the fire will only rise in elevation and even if it is unsuccessful in sealing a tomb for our enemy, the trench will serve us as a defense against any escape or counterattack." Jjonveyo paused, "You asked to see Dúnans razed to the ground."
A melancholic smile flashed over Darragh’s lips. He hadn’t expected it this way, but if the Tsar wanted to play with fire he would get it. “Very well. We’ll light the fires in such a way that the Dûnans won’t expect. If you would excuse me now though, I will go convince my brethren.” The Fakir passed Jjonveyo. In a breath the other Fakir were surrounding him. Quite calmly he was explain something. Again in the local dialect. The other Fakir grew wide eyed and then spirited. They began to shout and yell and wave their arms.
“Enough!” Darragh yelled. The Fakir all fell quiet. He said a few more words and then pushed onwards towards where the stags were gathered. For a second the others just looked at each other. Each and every single one of them had pure fear in their eyes as they followed their leader.
With a gesture, a segment of Celeviak soldiers began to ring the hill, shovels and other digging tools in hand.
“What in the world are they doing?” one of the watchmen asked. The théin and the other onlookers were about as clueless. They had never seen anything like it.
“Why would they dig trenches that slow their charge?” asked another. Ponderous murmurs rolled through the people on the well.
“Maybe it’s for arrow cover?” proposed a third. It received some supportive hums until one archer knocked an arrow, pulled the string and loosed. The arrow didn’t even land close, and the support quickly turned to disagreement.
“Nah, if they were building for cover, they’d’ve come closer. No archer in the world can hit anything at -that- distance, even if the height’s on our side.”
“Are you sure you’re not just a weak shot, Béona?”
The woman scoffed. “What, do you think you’re better, Stromvarde?”
“Quiet, both of you!” the théin barked. He leaned over the palisades again and squinted. “... What are you up to, you hill trolls?” he whispered to himself. “Pathalix, have Pinya and Kaer Jane made it back yet?”
“Not that I know of, chief,” the bloodsworn confessed. The théin clenched his fists impatiently.
“Damn it… Where are those simpletons when I need them?”
From atop the palisade, the Dunans heard an order come out in Celeviak far below and a half circle of spearmen marched to cover the bottom of the hill, archers in between columns. Cavalry winged the sides in thin lines able to change direction quickly. It looked as if the army was preparing to collect a scattered charge from the entrance to the fort.
Silence rang after that, the awaiting army well behind the wide dirt trenches. Another order came out and the archers readied their bows with barbed arrows, but kept the strings relaxed and pointed down. The whole scene was baffling from up on the hill, until a shout came from the opposite side of the fort.
"Fire!"
“Fire?! Where?” The théin and the rest of the guards on the wall spun around, seeing indeed the late afternoon sky flare up in the distance. Panic and incomprehension spread throughout the guards.
“Wh-... Are they setting fire to the mountain itself?!”
“Have they no respect for the stone, for the hill?! By Boris, may they all be buried in sand until death!”
Valix felt the bubble of fury light its own fire in his chest. He tightened his cloak around himself even tighter and roared, “Stromvarde! Hold this side with your archers! The rest of you - to the well! Bring pots, buckets, your gods-damned hands - put that cursed fire out! TEAGAN! Where’s Kaer Jane?!”
The fearstruck archer hastened over to the chief, struggling through the crowd of repositioning soldiers heading for the well in the town centre. “Not yet seen, chief! Neither Jane nor Pinya have--... Wait… Wait, look there!” She leaned over the palisades and pointed at the edge of the forest, where a panicking elk was carrying two women atop its back, trailed by a multitude of enemy riders. “It’s Pinya! And she’s got Kaer Jane!”
The théin veered. “All archers - ensure the safety of the druid at all costs! Get those elkmen off of them!” The archers did as instructed, showering the ground behind the druid and scout’s elk with copper-tipped arrows. Pinya and Kaer Jane kept their bodies low against their mount, which was running in a mad panic up the hill. However, it spotted the fire making its way towards them at alarming speed, and suddenly, it veered, running away from the gates.
“Gods, stupid animal!” shouted the théin. “Do not let them get into enemy range! Keep someone ready at the north gate!”
“Yes, chief!”
The Celeviak elks stopped at the trenches, leaving Pinya and Kaer Jane alone on the hill - stuck between the fort and the Celeviak army. When it became clear the scout and druid could no longer control their elk, they jumped off, leaving it to sprint off in any direction that seemed to bring it to safety. The pair crashed hard into the grassy hill, and it took time before Kaer Jane lifted her head - she looked to be bleeding from the forehead. She slowly crawled over to Pinya, who seemed to have landed much worse than the druid had. Nearby, blood had splattered a sharp stone. Atop the walls, the théin seethed.
“Kaer Jane! Get over here before they capture you, damn you!”
The druid looked up from her dying saviour to behold the Celeviak forces by the trenches. However, none of them moved, patiently aware of the incoming fire sweeping the hill. Kaer Jane tried to wake her saviour back up with magic, but the fires approached too quickly for her to cast anything significant. Besides, Pinya seemed far, far gone.
“What are you doing, you fool?! Get over here!” shouted the théin, and eventually, Jane had to concede, picking up her thinks and limping up the hill towards the wall. The fires were hot on her heels, and she would have been dead if she had had to run through the north gate. Luckily, the people atop the wall tossed rope over the side and hoisted her up. The west side of the fort had long since began to smoke, and the palisades were beginning to catch fire as well. Kaer Jane had hardly gotten a chance to sit down before the théin stormed over to her and pointed to the walls.
“Make it rain, druid! NOW!”
“W-wha--”
“Otherwise we’ll burn to the last man!”
Kaer Jane pushed herself to her feet with the help of her staff. “I-... I can ask no such thing! I haven’t the necessary support from Claroon to demand such!”
Valix sucked in air through his teeth and paced around stressfully. From the west side of the village, he heard screams and calls for more water. “What -can- you do? What gods will answer a demand for protection? Any protection!”
“P-protection, uhm…” She flinched as her hip burned briefly with leftover agony from the fall. “G-Gibbou can help! I’ve, I’ve offered her plenty of offerings this month.”
“Then make it so!” The théin spun around and lifted his bronze-tipped spear to the sky. “Worry not, soldiers of the Stone! We may triumph yet! The gods are with us today--!”
Suddenly, he heard a gasp behind him. The warriors who had begun to cheer were silenced as swiftly as they looked at Kaer Jane. She was quivering, and she lifted her hands to behold them as they turned white as chalk. Then, as the paleness moved along her limbs, the outermost parts crumbled away on the wind, like white dust. She screamed; the onlookers screamed, too. Deafening them all, however, was a loud, cranky voice.
”You wake me up in the middle of the day to ask something as ridiculous as that? Fight your own damn battles! Shoo!”
With that, the druid Kaer Jane turned completely to moondust, leaving only her cloak and staff in a heap of dusty white on the ground. With the cacophony of the increasingly desperate and failing efforts to put out the fires in the background, the théin and his closest stood in silence.
“Did… Did Gibbou just abandon us?” asked one of the bloodsworn carefully. There came no answer. Valix’s face had lost the colour of rage and his lips parted and closed with incomprehension. A runner came sprinting and shouted,
“Chief! The western wall has burned down! We’ve lost control! What should we do?”
Valix didn’t respond. The runner shouted again,
“Chief!”
“Wh-... What?” asked the théin and turned slowly. The runner studied him desperately, seeming to grow more and more anxious the longer he looked.
“What should we do?! The walls are burning down and the fire is spreading through the town, too! The children and their guardians, they-- they must be kept safe!”
“Safe… Yes… Safe…” He looked back down at the heap. “... This was our only hope. Without the support of the gods, we’re finished.” A mighty fist struck him in the jaw and he jerked back. “Who dares?!”
“Wake up, chief!” roared Pathalix. The théin blinked. “We have yet to meet the enemy in battle! They resort to cowardly, blasphemous tactics such as burning a hill of Boris for the sake of victory! One god may have left us, but surely, the others are still with us! The Goddess of the Night is blind in the day, so she cannot see our struggles - however!” He pointed to the smokey sky, at which edge shone the afternoon sunset. “THERE! The sun is with us yet!” He stomped on the ground. “The mountain is with us yet!” He grabbed his horn from his belt and shook it before the théin’s face. “Macsal is with us yet! We are the chosen of the gods, and in this darkest hour, they will not abandon us!”
Colour returned to the faces around, and even Valix slowly cracked a smile. “Yes… Yes… The people of the Stone, of the great and mighty Dûna, have never once lost in battle. The gods have been with us every time, and they will surely follow us this time, too!”
“YEAH!”
“Take the children and their safekeepers and hide them in the old mine - hack open the old seal if you must, but beware of the old beams - do not cause a cave-in. They must be kept safe at all cost. The rest of you - find places to hide. We will have guests soon.”
By nightfall, the fires were beginning to die down on the hill itself, continuing in certain hotspots around the town. A loud blast of a battlehorn sounded from the bottom of the hill, jolting the Dunan soldiers on edge - waiting. Nothing came, and a few hours went by, until another blast and the sound of metal moving to the north - but nothing ever came. Throughout the night, false starts and terrible sounds kept the people of the town anxious and awake. It wasn't until the fake calls and shouts became routine, exhaustion was settling in, and the twilight of the morning became a reality, that everything changed.
Through the smoldering ruins of the palisade, a long dark line of spearmen came marching into the burnt out remains of the village, spears leveled. The town was silent at first, but in the smoke came the hurrying approach of steps. It was a young woman, copper axe hefted high above her head, recklessly running at the first in the line of spearmen.
”KUN IONSAI DAAAA, IHRI LAUSÓGAN!” she shouted, clearly not having slept throughout the night. From behind her came another shout,
”TOSKA! Kóme anseo!” It was too late, however. Her charge had revealed them all, and in the dissipating smoke, it became clear that soldiers were hiding all around; however, their ambush had been completely unveiled. In the confusion, more soldiers charged out of their hiding spots despite the fact that the Celeviaks hadn’t made it into the village centre yet. Archers fired at will into the spear ranks, and the officers tried hopelessly to shepherd those who hadn’t charged yet into some sort of formation.
But the well rested Celeviaks were already upon them - the soldiers charging uniform through the streets, tight so no one could go past them. Small pillars broke off to weave through the buildings.
From down the hill a loud, thumping noise came. Several heavy things were running across the ashen hillside. Faster than humans could normally run. They were Cenél, but looking as if trees were wrapped around them. These things came sprinting for the breach on bark-skinned, vine-muscled digitigrade legs. The green muscles and bark crawled upwards across the right shoulder. From which a second arm sprouted. Both the human and branch-like arm were holding the heavy weapons of the Cenél. Helping to carry the weight so their left hand could still hold their shield.
Like a storm they fell upon the ambushing Dûnans. Moving through the street with unnatural speed, their low numbers offset by the cheer brutality of their charge. They fell upon pocket after pocket of archers. The Dûnan line didn’t break, for it hadn’t even had time to form. As soon as the charge began, half the soldiers on the Dûnan side ran for their lives, while the other recklessly and zealously threw themselves at the enemy with neither plan nor skill. The only warriors who proved to be a challenge to the Celeviaks and Cenél were the hildargeach, veterans of many years of battle, and théin Valix himself; however, what could fifty men do against an army like this?
The bloodsworn formed a wall around their chief, but without their levies, they were hopelessly outnumbered. The flood of enemies split around them, spilling into every nook and cranny of the village. The bloodsworn's heads were spinning, never knowing where the next attack was going to originate - and then a mighty axe came crashing through.
The wide blade of the weapon bit into one of the bloodsworn, sending him clean off his feet and into a spray of blood. The axe came spinning down onto another of the bloodsworn, the maestro of the massacre being Jjonveyo himself. With beastly black eyes, the Tsar looked past his current victim and directly at Valix. The théin shouted upon seeing his clansman cut down, raised his spear and stepped forward to jab at the Tsar’s waist.
To Valix's surprise, Jjonveyo didn't seem to make the slightest effort to get out of the way. He walked forward, the spear tugging as it punched into the Tsar. With a terrible look in his eye, Jjonveyo walked through the length of the spear - a foreign prayer on his lips until finally his large hand shot out and gripped Valix by the throat. A deep rumble formed from the impaled Tsar.
"Did I not tell you?" The axe came crashing down, splintering the spear and leaving a slowly closing hole in Jjonveyo's gut.
Valix caved to one knee. “... You… You Sigeran devil. You burn the holy stone of Boris; you fraternise with witches and heretics; and worst of all… You have the powers of death itself.” He spat on the ground by Jjonveyo’s boots. “I curse your filthy ilk. May the black cough take you all!”
No words met his, and the silent Jjonveyo suddenly lifted the théin from his feet, and back down to the ground below, hard. The théin’s head bounced off the cobble, only to regain enough consciousness to see an axe blade dropping down - and then there was nothing.
Valix's head rolled away from the scene, Jjonveyo turning from the corpse. His eyes scanned the battle - or what was left of it. Ha-Leothe had fallen.
An hour burned past the end of the battle, with the Celeviak troops rounding up the surviving townsfolk who were either too young, sick, or old to fight - as well as the women who were excluded from fighting. The spears of the conquering Tsardom brought them all to the townsquare where the bodies of the Dûnan soldiers still laid. Flanked by Darragh and the yellow maned soldier was Jjonveyo, blood spattered over his breastplate. He stood calculating as the survivors were put into rows and pushed to their knees.
“Valix had sealed your fate before the battle began,” Jjonveyo explained slowly, “I had offered peace and life but he swore war even at the cost of every child of this settlement.” Jjonveyo pointed his axe at a terrified mother who was clinging to her baby, “But know that the Tsar is one of mercy and I decree this oath struck by Valix to be nulled by his death as well as his inability to lead. He was not competent enough to strike such a deal - unless of course you all disagree.” Jjonveyo sniffed and stamped the butt of his axe into the ground, “I will ask each of you this, and listen closely and ponder the words for it will determine your fate.”
A pause.
“Do you want to live?”
The survivors exchanged looks. Then a mother with a babe on her arm crawled a little closer and, still on her knees, lifted her free arm in the Tsar’s direction. “Hail the ‘zar of the east, Jonwayo,” she said submittingly, respect in every word despite her botched pronounciation. Others quickly followed in her steps, submitting themselves to the Tsar’s leadership.
Dark, unforgiving eyes stared down the people as they praised their new Tsar. The tree-wrapped Cenél were standing each at least a head if not two towering over the Celeviak soldiers and watched the people kneel. Some exchanged glances, others looked at Darragh. Their faces began to sour. Their Boyar, their Fakir leader looked anything but pleased. After a few minutes it turned his back to the spectacle and walked away. The tree-kin Cenél trickled away. Following their leader.
