I’m the Phalanx.

-

Roran, of Saeveril

Imperial Officer,

Second Main Othrim*,

replying to Anfalon, of Orloriel,

First of the Hallowed**,

Lord Superior of the Imperial Phalanx,

Afore the Battle of Serpent’s Canal,

near Teleniel Bridge’s ruins.

Last month of 190 NC

*Othrim/ Band (Unit)

Military subdivision of the Zilan Imperial Phalanx

Constantly numbering five hundred Hoplites

**Hallowed Othrim

Elite unit of the Zilan Imperial Phalanx

And the King/Queen’s bodyguards when on campaign

Constantly numbering a hundred and fifty Hoplites

(Wyvern engraved head with horns on the cuirass and Aspis)

Roran, of Saeveril

Oras Hells in witch’s visions

The black and gold banners of the Imperial Phalanx were billowing amidst the smoke clouds, the ground still burning at spots. All four Main Othrim had started retreating to the galleons ten kilometers to the east and moored at Last Port. The army was going back to protect Cydonia Cazan abandoning Sibara and the Plague Isles. The Aken had landed at Cyran, turning this front into a colossal distraction. Civilians were hurrying to escape towards the port as well, everything else left to its fate.

Roran swung his helmed head forward where the rearguard was trying to hold the horde from breaking through. The Hallowed Othrim led by the Lord Superior were cornered between the walls of the burning Sibara and the army of the Constructs. They had held long enough for most of the expeditionary force to pull away to safety, but the King wanted the Young Othrim to make every effort to help them disengage as well.

Rumor was he’d almost lost his wyvern in last night’s battle.

“Oras Hells in witch’s visions,” Theodas cursed, eyes gleaming behind his new hoplite helm. “Everything is on fire!”

Yeah it is, Roran thought as the column came to a stop behind the engaged shieldwall of the Hallowed. An officer looked back and saw them setting up, so he ordered his last line of hoplites to get out of the line, his voice lost in the cacophony of battle and the loud crackling of the collapsing buildings further inside the city. The Hoplites came running towards them, gleaming black panoply and shields with the Red Wyvern’s head prominently displayed, several of them sporting bleeding injuries. Then the next row pulled back through their lines and the one after that.

Then the dead came.

“SHIELDS!” Onas of Lyriel bellowed, the sound of the attacking horde otherworldly. Some looked like humans, or Zilan. Some appeared normal, warriors carrying a variety of weapons and armour, others were tall as giants and some were hideously deformed sporting more arms and even several heads.

Roran wasn’t prepared for this.

The giant took a spear in the face, steel tip destroying his right cheek and teeth. He flinched and stumbled back, got another spear thrust to the ribs and retaliated swinging the two meters long ironwood club, weighing a hundred kilos at least, killing three hoplites at once. The whole line disintegrating as the Constructs poured through the opening.

Damnation.

Roran chopped an arm away with his front-curved Kopis, only to find himself defending against the other three arms using his round Aspis, a shield with half-circle cuts on the upper and lower portion for his spear. The latter he’d used earlier and the Construct had it still in him.

Madness.

He parried a sword away and blocked another, his sandals slipping in the sludge. The third sword clanging on his helm and dropping him on his knees. Roran growled grinding his teeth, his neck-muscles burning and ears ringing.

The soulless automaton came at him again, one eye black, the other blue. His torso elongated to accommodate the two extra arms, the shape grotesque and callous. The Aken could create stunning animated art out of dead flesh, but they rarely did. They mostly went for expediency.

Roran stumbled back trying to defend himself, right arm bleeding below the elbow, skin and flesh flapping over the exposed wound and blood trickling down his brow. The Construct warrior kicked his shield and got his opening. He used one of his swords to block his blade and tried to finish him off with the other two.

He failed.

His whole body turned into a block of clay, the fires ranging not that far away from them drying it up quickly. Cracks appeared, parts of him falling off and then the whole thing crumbled down to an amorphous pile, with only his blades and armour remaining.

Whoa.

The dead lay broken and despite their enormous casualties the Young Othrim had made it. Roran turned his head around and stared at the young sorceress with the large purple eyes and blue robes. Despite the dark circles on her face, she looked absolutely divine and out of place.

“Gratitude,” He croaked. “You saved my life. I’m Roran, of Saeveril.”

“I know,” The young beauty replied, her long hair blowing in the breeze created by the firestorm. “I’m Rinariel, of Edlenn. Will you be alright?”

“Aye, I need no healing,” He mumbled, hoplites around him, crying, puking or congratulating each other still shell-shocked. Half their force gone in ten short minutes. “Where are you going?”

Rinariel pointed at the walls of the inferno that used to be Sibara.

“What’s in there?” Roran croaked incredulous.

“Anfalon’s group tried to stop him but failed, so the High Priestess had to intervene. He must not be allowed to reach the fleet,” Her mother, Roran thought, finally connecting the dots. Praise the Goddess. “She needs my help.”

“To stop the Wyvern.”

Rinariel frowned, plenty of fear into her expressive eyes. “Stop the Wyvern,” She whispered.

Roran nodded in understanding and she reached to touch his hurt arm. Her fingers burning the ache away. For a moment, amidst the dead constructs and his slain brethren, Roran felt safe and loved. Nourished and clean as if was standing inside the Eternal Springs waters and not in a infernal battlefield. Rinariel then turned with a shy smile and glided away. She was soon lost inside the black smokes and putrid clouds.

The young sorceress never made it out of the city.

“Roran,” a familiar voice said and he opened his eyes. He stared at Theodas’ ancient hoplite helm for a while in reverential silence. He’d set it up on his armoured chest whilst resting. The old steel carrying the nicks and cuts of centuries of battles, well after his original owner had perished.

Here’s your panoply, was written over the entrance of the campus.

You are the Phalanx hoplite and the Phalanx is in you.

“It’s time sire,” Ulovir said respectfully.

“Is Lord Rothomir here?” He asked getting up.

“Vulas informed us,” Ulovir replied crooking his mouth. “He sent a runner.”

“Lots of them in his Guards,” Roran commented dryly.

“Indeed,” Ulovir agreed and gave him his flask to wash his mouth. “Paeris is here as well and Darunia with her mother.”

“One tenth of the Favored Council,” Roran said mockingly and smacked his lips.

“What’s left isn’t much better than what was lost.”

“Aye,” Roran agreed in turn. “The best always die first.”

“Ah, Roran,” Lord Rothomir said seeing them enter the long narrow hall, the twenty high-back chairs representing the leaders of the Favored arranged in a semi-circle only partially occupied. The Lord of Abarat Fort facing them. Of course the Fort was a couple of kilometers to the east and this was the ancient walled king’s estate overlooking Elas Bridge, the narrow land-bridge across the Great Acid Lake leading to Nesande’s Garden. “I heard you returned from the coast. What news of Cydonia Cazan?”

Paeris turned his handsome head his way, his expression dispassionate. Darunia and Olonelis appeared annoyed with his presence, but Onas his old commander in the Young Othrim, the five hundred strong recruiting unit of the Imperial Phalanx, greeted him with a slight nod of his head. Onas was missing an eye, but his aura was strong still and unruffled. Vulas, the commander of the Abarat standing guard appeared stressed in comparison.

“If one stands at the edge of the broken earth and stares beyond Nuala’s Quiver, he would see three of the Six Peaks rising over the torrid waters. Cyran, the Rock and the lights of Isildor. Cydonia though is still under the waters,” Roran said evenly.

“What of ships?” Rothomir asked, tall and clad in rich red robes, his dark cobalt beard neatly trimmed.

“No ships in the sea,” Roran replied. “We would need docks built to attempt to cross.”

“And ships,” Olonelis said, the Elderblood pursing her lips. “You will have us return to the shores Roran?”

“The volcanoes are spent Olonelis,” Roran replied. “The tremors long stopped and the land has healed itself. You would have us stay in our shelters for another century?”

Lord Rothomir raised his right hand. “Roran that’s enough. I appreciate taking the risk and your report, but we can’t invest manpower and time in your expeditions. Commander?”

Vulas cleared his throat and stepped forward. He was standing next to Rothomir.

“Pelleas was driven out of Goras,” Vulas started, glancing at a couple of scrolls he held in his right hand. “The Exiles are in control of the ruins.”

Darunia gasped in shock putting both hands on her pretty face.

“How did he manage that?” Onas asked, casually lighting an engraved long pipe and inhaling the aromatic smoke. “The bards beat him upside the head with their lutes?”

“They have stronger magic,” Lord Rothomir hissed.

“Nonsense,” Onas countered, Rothomir narrowing his eyes at the insult. “The Sorceress will never return to Wetull, nor will she bother with Pelleas. If she lives still. As for Soletha she is a healer. Pelleas is a pagan and a buffoon to boot. Therein hides your culprit!”

“What was Pelleas doing in Goras?” Roran asked intrigued. The Veils of Nether were a minor cult living on a mountain well outside what had been the outer walls of the capital.

“Cleansing the land,” Rothomir spat with a grimace. “We needed his warriors.”

“They are a cult of fanatics Lord Rothomir,” Roran said.

“Are we to abandon Queen’s law?”

“The Queen had him sentenced to death.”

Rothomir stood back not likening Roran pointing out that the reason he was after the exiles was to strengthen his legitimacy by weaning out the opposition. A lot of important bloodlines had followed Edlenn’s younger daughter in exile, none more prominent than the Sorceress herself. While the late High Priestess had returned a shell of herself from the Plague Isles and became the soon to be young Queen’s biggest adversary -until her own untimely demise, the Zilan remembered.

Lord Rothomir had a very weak claim on the gilded throne.

Politics surviving annihilation and the empire’s demise itself, was irony not lost on Roran.

“Pelleas has been absolved and returned into the fold, whilst the exiles are still eating one another Hoplite,” Lord Rothomir finally said. “Still clinging to their search of a greater spell, the next big Gift. Look where that brought us.”

Exploding lava has brought us here, Roran thought, endless schemes and infighting.

“Pelleas failing to defeat a bunch of artisans and healers is shocking,” Onas insisted. “Didn’t he control that Hydra?”

“Vemoro stayed on Snake Mountain, but Pelleas had brought its mate into the city,” Vulas explained.

“And still lost!” Onas grunted and sucked at his pipe furious.

“He claims a Wyvern killed the Hydra,” Vulas continued and Roran stared at him intrigued. “Burned everything.”

What?

“A wild one?” Onas probed sitting up straighter.

“A Sinya Nore brought it with him from Eplas,” Vulas replied and the silence that filled the hall momentarily came undone by Olonelis who exploded in laughter.

“Hahaha!”

Lord Rothomir combed his beard with a ring adorned hand silently watching their reaction. Roran realized he already knew about the missive.

“Hardir O’ Fardor?” Onas queried, glancing at him.

Roran smacked his lips, but said nothing.

“A human,” Olonelis snapped. “Are you serious old bones?” She admonished the old officer, although she was as old as Onas was. Her daughter had turned pale and Lord Rothomir was staring at him intently.

“Pelleas wouldn’t lie about that, but don’t you need a wyvern’s magic to hatch an egg? Where would a human find one? How would he know? The wyverns died out, right? We didn’t find any bones, or eggs. The Den lay empty,” Onas insisted.

“That’s probably that crazy bitch’s doing!” Lord Rothomir growled.

“You assume the Circle survived,” Onas argued.

“Even with their bones, no human, or Zilan can quicken an egg without knowledge, or another wyvern’s help,” Olonelis blasted him irate and Darunia started shaking panicked. What are you doing in the Council lass? Roran thought and a memory surfaced in his mind, a breeze of air from a door he’d cracked open earlier.

You better leave the past lay undisturbed, else it’ll come back to haunt the present.

“GET EVERYONE AWAY!” Theodas bellowed veins popping on his neck and then the wall exploded outwards, red melting boulders and iron splinters from the reinforced walls raining over them. As small as nails and as long as scorching hot spears. Theodas gasped and dropped to his knees, a three meter rod piecing the hoplite right through his torso, his helm rolling on the debris covered ground and stopping in front of a stupefied Roran’s feet.

A horrifying screech rang down the blazing roads of Sibara, now visible through the chasm the explosion had created to the city’s walls. Roran stumbled upright, his legs shaking and his body battered from the debris. His eyes caught the first fireball tearing at the smoking clouds traveling upwards. As large as a four wheeled wagon. Another one right after and a third.

The air crackling and turning dry, the earth twisting and sinking under his feet, the earthquake making large cracks appear on the ground, ever growing and his very skin blistering, being as he was so near to powerful spells fired at rapid succession to the heavens.

The sorceresses were killing everything in a great radius to keep themselves and their magic going.

“RORAN, FOR CRYIN’ OUT LOUD! LEAVE HIM SON!” Onas barked at the top of his lungs standing two hundred meters away and waving his arms like mad. “ROOTS ARE DEAD UNDERNEATH, THE SOIL IS GONNA CAVE!”

Roran groaned in agony and angst, grabbed the burning Theodas hoplite’s helm as he’d lost his own, but barely made it two steps before going down. He stood up grinding his teeth, explosions rattling the city to its foundations. Burning buildings started coming down, the great Dome collapsing kilometers away, the sound reaching him a wraithlike rumpus, just as the sun disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Oras horn coming out of a dungeon.

RRREEEEEEHHH

Roran went down again panicked, blood and dirt in his mouth and rolled on the smoking ground suddenly in the blind and in the dark. Every inch of the sky had turned into an onyx black it seemed.

Desolation.

Divine retribution.

“Oras Hells in witch’s visions,” he muttered watching the gargantuan blazing Wyvern fly over him.

“What kind of Wyvern?” Roran croaked and Onas frowned, his washed out thick azure brows connecting in the middle of his forehead, fully alarmed. Vulas, of Nortoris rubbed his face, checked on the scowling Lord Rothomir again and told him.