Reign of Phyre

by Nicholas Cooper

  “That’s a noble cause, Rhen, but you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble if you just asked me,” he said, laughing again.

  “Are all Yaleans as insufferable as you and Reisch? And I think… I don’t know, having seen my countrymen so readily abandon their sworn oaths, I do wonder if this dualism of Sin and Wrath might be slightly off.”

  “You’re lucky you’re insulting The Sin as well as The Wrath, Karzarki. You have a different version?”

  Rhen shook his head. “Not exactly. But think about it. We can’t even bloody agree on names of the heroes from 600 years ago. Was it Misral or Mishval? Kallix or Kalecenes? I bet if you ask the bartender, he’d give you four different names for Euphyria. What makes you think our interpretations of Yelia’s actions are any more accurate?”

  Kiern paused for a second, slightly drawn out from the alcohol. “I guess you’re right. Still, having a guiding principle is better than nothing. Seeking forgiveness for the past is not an ignoble thing.”

  That was true, Rhen had to concede, so long as there was something needing forgiveness. “But anyway, Kiern, I’m curious in finding out the truth. Maybe it’s a bit of this, a bit of that. I don’t know anything about Yalea, except that you’re from Rin Kas and that Yaleans are terrible people.”

  “I’ll poison your drink, Karzarki.”

  “Won’t work. We wean our children on snake venom and make blood pacts with mountain witches,” Rhen said, sarcasm dripping as he put his mug on the table slightly harder than intended.

  Kiern ordered another round. “But honestly, I don’t know anything. Tell me something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything.”

  “It’s cold and icy most of the year.” He stopped as though that was all he was going to say, dodging the question, but he continued. “Though if you head further north, all you will ever see is white. There are great remote forests, animals you’ve never seen this far south. The north is untamed and wild. Only the strongest call that place home. There are many villages, fiercely proud people. They find a way to survive. There are even some who call the northern islands home, though they are never safe. No crops will grow there, and the weather is hostile to most forms of life. There are legends of great beasts that inhabit those islands, and I believe them. Some say the northern villages fled there to escape the Great War.”

  “Wow. So, they are hunters then? They hunt game for their meat and fur?”

  “If the legends are true, I believe battle is the more appropriate term. But I am content with believing, without having to see first-hand.”

  “And the mountain range to the west, separating you from Tyrellia, have you ever seen it?”

  “No, but Ailse has. She…shit.”

  “Wait wait wait,” Rhen urged, not intent on letting this pass, “Hold on there, friend. You’ve never mentioned an Ailse before. Is she your wife? A lover?”

  Kiern sighed. “She was a girl I grew up with. We’re the same age. We spent a lot of time together growing up. She didn’t have a brother and I didn’t have a sister. She came from a village near those mountains. She called them Spires of Heaven. She said no mountain has business being that high, let alone an entire range spanning half the continent.”

  “I’ve never seen it myself, but I’d wager Karzark doesn’t have a mountain to compare it to.”

  “You do have a massive desert, though.”

  “Hooray.” He raised his cup.

  “Well, I’m off to bed. I’ll check the horses then I’ll be off,” Kiern said through a yawn, “Early start tomorrow.” Ulane was next, where they’d ferry themselves upstream towards Tannis.

  “Alright, don’t wake me up when you get back.” He finished his drink and headed up the stairs to his room. He would miss the comfort of the Oaken Vine. There was a lot to miss in the world if you skipped the insignificant towns. He opened the door and fell straight on his bed. The ultimate comfort for the weary traveller. He tucked himself in and shut his eyes.

  Then he heard the first scream. And another. A window smashed. He jumped out of bed and looked out his own. There were Khasari. Not just the garrison. Hundreds of them. They were attacking Mayswood.

  He grabbed the sword that he had taken from the dead Khasari in their last battle and ran down the stairs, trying to get to Kiern and warn him before it was too late. Two Khasari burst through the door and saw the barkeep. He raised his hands above his head, showing he was unarmed and not a threat. But true to Rhen’s expectation, these Khasari had discarded their Heran as well. Damn them. They made their way towards the barkeep who was confused by their disregard of tradition. Clearly this wasn’t the first time the town had changed hands, yet he had never encountered this before. The Khasari were cautious, knowing that a tattooed civilian was a Son as soon as he picked up a weapon. Rhen needed to act, lest the barman give up his life.

  “Hey! He is unarmed! Have you forgotten your Heran? You shame Karzark!”

  They turned to him, much to his dismay. “He’s the one. He’s the traitor. Get him.”

  Had he been sober, he might have thought about what to do after getting their attention. He was sobering up quickly now, however.

  Fortunately for his sake, the barkeep thought for him, producing a sword from behind the bar and jumped at one of the Khasari, slashing down with all his force into the man’s soft neck. The Khasari crumpled to the ground from both the weight of the barkeep and the fact that he was dead. The other Khasari swung around and started attacking the barkeep who had, by the looks of things, far less training. He was losing ground fast, unable to both attack and defend, as the Khasari made up more than enough for it by having proper military training and a shield. Rhen needed to do something quickly. He looked at his sword. Well, there would be no disadvantage there. As he ran, he realised he was unsure where to strike. He was going to stab the Khasari, but the barkeep was extremely close and Rhen was concerned the sword would reach the barkeep. He decided to go for the arm, as the Khasari raised his sword for a final blow against the barkeep. Much to his surprise, the sword sliced straight through, severing it from the body. The Khasari screamed in pain, dropping the shield to grab where his arm was not two seconds ago. The barkeep, an angel of mercy, used the opportunity to stab the soldier in the heart, ending his struggles with no unnecessary suffering.

  “Thank you for saving me, Karzarki, but if you don’t go outside and help the Sons, we’ll be dead all the same in the hour.” He grabbed his sword and asked for Rhen’s help in putting his leather armour on that was also behind the bar. “Let’s go.”

  They carefully peered outside before heading out. He had to find Kiern. Reisch could hold his own, at least for a little while. He headed to the stable, running between cover when there was some available. He made it there, hiding behind a barrel. He peered around the corner and saw at least a dozen Khasari. They were taking the horses. There was nothing he could do against that number, except hope that Kiern had made it out in time.

  “Come on, this way.” Rhen followed the barkeep down a small track behind one of the smaller inns in town. They bumped into three Sons and after their panic died down, deciding that banding together increased their chances of surviving the night.

  They ran down a narrow street continuing away from the Oaken Vine. Rhen glanced up and saw several Sons (his Karzarki mind distinguishing civilian from Son based on weapon in hand) firing arrows from the windows and rooves of storied buildings. There were too few of them. As if the fates had to prove his point, one of them was in turn hit by an arrow and plummeted to the ground.

  When they reached the end of the street, he glanced around hoping to find Sons and not Khasari. Unfortunately, he was not so lucky this time, seeing a contingent of Khasari turn towards them.

  “Stay together,” warned the barkeep. They stood their ground, knowing that although it was a slim chance, it was their only chance.

  The Khasari charged at them in formation, spears reaching towards their soft fl
esh. One of the Sons was pierced, missing the parry. The others managed to parry the thrust and closed quarters on their opponents, where they fought fiercely. The problem was they each had multiple opponents, and even a skilled fighter would be the underdog. The barkeep fought like a man possessed, cutting down three of the Khasari against the odds. But even though he was the superior brawler, he could not hold all of them off, and eventually a spear overcame his defence, hitting him in his gut. He fell to his knees, blood pouring from his mouth. There were three of them left, including Rhen, and their opponents more than double. The Sons fought on, their eyes shining with defiance, having already accepted their fate.

  Rhen, having taken no part in this war until recently, had not come to terms with his fate. Rather, he had come to terms with his fate, and it didn’t involve him dying here. He fought on, unable to break and flee. He managed to get around a spear and slash a Khasari on the shoulder. As soon as he fell, another two were onto him, having removed their own opponent, leaving just Rhen and one other. He parried one spear, knocking it to the right, but the other Khasari thrust his spear towards his leg, splitting it open. Pain seared through him as his leg gave way beneath him.

  Suddenly a shout came from behind the Khasari, and they turned to find themselves facing some dozen archers, who instantly fired their arrows and saved both Rhen and the other Son from certain death.

  “No time. Quickly, with us,” said a heavily tattooed, bearded Son, who pointed in the direction they began running to. There was screaming and shouting all around. He was bleeding heavily from his leg and could not walk without the assistance of his fellow soldier who had survived the onslaught. The streets were a battleground, with dead bodies lying where they were cut down, the maimed pleading for help from their comrades or death from their enemies. There were far fewer Khasari.

  The Sons jogged along, arrows notched, ready in the event any Khasari came into view. Rhen and his new friend hobbled behind, knowing that if they encountered more Khasari, they would be in serious trouble.

  And they did. About fifty of them. They quickly blocked the street and stood rank and file and began marching towards them, their shields locked together. Rhen and the others turned back around to the way they had just come, to find that more Khasari had blocked the exit. They locked their shields together too, knowing that the only defence the Sons had was their arrows. They closed the gap, knowing there was no escape. Rhen pissed himself. His own countrymen would kill him as a traitor.

  -------------------------------------

  Arys

  It is often said that history is written by the victors. At the fall of Euparyen, this was the case. Karzarki generals, eager to proliferate their exploits, often indulged in weaving fantasy into facts. Such was the case with their description of Euparyen cavalry.

  It is known, for example, that at the time of the fall of Parasen, Euparyen fielded detachments of cavalry that numbered in the tens of thousands. The Karzarki general, Tolymus Karyzel simply applied this fact six centuries forward, marking the Battle of Yarden a truly heroic tale of five thousand Khasari holding off the charge of ten thousand Euparyen legionaires and ten thousand ‘knights’. Yet, according to our best estimates, at the time of Euparyen’s war with Karzark, their famed cavalry shared little in common with their ancestors, including both skill and numbers. Two thousand cavalry is the upper limit that I would allow for Euparyen to field and given the reports of multiple battles involving the Euparyen knights of the war, it is highly unlikely that they were deployed as a single force.

  Being inferior to their ancestors, however, requires me to caution the reader to avoid reaching the conclusion that the Euparyen knights were an inadequate fighting force. On the contrary, all accounts suggest they were afforded the finest armour, being of noble descent, and never failed to give a good account of themselves in battle; that is, so long as you neglect to include the Karzarki account of events.

  Nalacata of Yulesa, End of an Era

  “With me! Hold the line!” He was flanked on both sides by his companions from Lepcis. The mainland Sons were not well-versed in cavalry tactics. The Lepcians were, in theory. They would be put to the test today. They were the vanguard not by design, but by the urgency in which they rode. The infantry ran after them at a good pace, their light leather armour a boon for now.

  He had decided, after consulting with Vaelynna, that he would wear his steel armour in lieu of leather. They needed the horses, they needed the armour for a charge. He was the captain, and he was leading his men out of Vinrael, as far as Rulven. Let the Karzarkis think what they want. They could be from Yukone, for all they knew.

  The town buildings were larger now, as was the fighting and shouting. He would blood his sword soon. He hadn’t expected meeting any sizeable Khasari force just yet, and he hoped that they had enough men with them to overcome this day.

  As his horse raced forwards, he began to see the silhouettes of Khasari. Their famed bronze shields and spears, their armour design distinguishable from the other military forces of Cerenea. The invaders of his homeland, those who had taken everything. The enemy.

  He raised his spear with a shout that was answered by his companions. They too had waited for this moment. They levelled their spears at their enemies’ hearts. His war paint was dripping down his face from cold sweat. He braced for the impact, taking a deep breath as the horses gallopsed forward. The Khasari were only five lines deep. They frantically turned around to face the Euphyrian knights. Closer…closer, and then they crashed into the Khasari line, smashing through and punching out the other side. His spear impaled an enemy in the first rank, propelling him several feet into his countrymen. Arys dropped the useless spear with the body impaled on it. His first kill. He’d always thought it would mean something to him; either he would revel in killing an enemy of Euphyre or endure some sort of trauma. Instead, he felt nothing.

  Once the charge was over the and the Khasari line broken, they dismounted, the streets too narrow to circle round, and lest the Khasari spears inflict terrible losses on the horses. He drew his Euphyrian great sword and surrounded by his men who had followed him far from home, leapt into the fray, carving a bloody path through their ranks. His armour was his invincibility. He was a son of Euphyre. He was a legion.

  Once their numbers thinned out, he saw two Sons running towards them, fleeing from another wall of Khasari. There was a lot. They packed the width of the street, twelve across and who knew how deep. Yet caught off-guard, they slowly drew back to regroup and take stock, unsure who was attacking from where, and how many.

  The two Sons made it to Arys and his men, one severely injured in the leg and a gash on his side. He wouldn’t make it, Arys guessed, judging by the profuse bleeding. Still, they had to try.

  “Get these two out of here! This one needs a healer now!” He pushed them through to his men and two carried them to a quieter part of town.

  “Tullis!”

  A Lepcian shield blocked the thrust of a Khasari spear meant for Arys, who had momentarily been distracted. As his soldier’s shield lowered, Arys returned the thrust and cut down the opportunistic Khasari. That was a lucky break.

  He looked back at the main Khasari force, who had taken up position at the end of the street, which fanned out to a wider area that seemed to be the town square. They locked their shields together and presented a wall of bristling spears towards Arys and his men.

  From the corner of his eye he could see that the main infantry force was arriving from the east. He knew what he had to do. “Listen. We charge, engage, then feign retreat and fall back to here. Lure them out of their formation.”

  His men drew their own line and advanced on the Khasari, with Arys leading. They would be overwhelmed by the depth of the ranks and would have to give ground, which was precisely what he wanted. They again crashed into their enemy’s line, fighting like men possessed. These men from Lepcis had trained precisely for fighting Khasari and knew how to deal with spears. Yet the
Khasari were packed tightly and had several spears pointed at any given Euphyrian. They didn’t need to do anything stupid or aggressive, just bat away for long enough before feigning retreat. Arys, with his armour, was more confident and swung his sword with less concern for his wellbeing. He was a good foot taller than most of the Khasari, and with help from his armour, a good deal heavier too. He grabbed the shoulder of a Khasari and threw him back behind him, knowing that his men would deal with him. He struck down another three before giving the command to retreat south. Maintaining order, they began to fall back. As expected, the Khasari momentum pushed them forward, their eagerness to win a decisive battle proving irresistable. They too maintained their formation, but the front line was pushed forward haphazardly, and they had no choice but to charge down his men. Arys, slower than his leather-clad friends, acted as rear guard with a few of his knights close by. All he needed to do was make sure they did not lose their footing and end up overran.

  As the Khasari poured down the street, the wave of infantry who had arrived flooded the street from the alleys and side streets, hitting the Khasari in their flank. It was their turn to buckle under momentum. Arys stopped his retreat and to the surprise of the three Khasari chasing him, decided that enough was enough and their time was due.

  The Khasari in the town square who were yet to reach the narrower street saw the envelopment and halted, reforming as a circular wall of spears. They encased themselves with their bronze shields, compacted tightly. There were still about three hundred of them, Arys having made a quick estimate. There would still be heavy losses even in victory. Too high to continue to Rulven. He thought for a moment.

  “Tell the men to get into lines in that street over there. Put our best men at the front. Those with shields if you can. Tell them to hold at all costs. And you, take fifty men and move them quietly to their rear. If they see you, we cannot help you. Go. Jora, get the archers into the buildings on this street. Once you are in position, start firing on them. Turn them into porcupines until they are resolved to charge.”