NationStates Jolt Archive

”Say you, our brave sons, what will your children, and your children’s children dream of? What will their example be? I stare across this field of death and despair and see hope, I do believe this shall be our finest hour. The hour of our foe’s reckoning.”
~Strategos Arteros
Battle of the Eukarian Hills


Ragged steps permeated through the hollow chambers of once mighty halls, the decorations, the paintings; all warn down to unrecognizable heaps and stains. A tall man took large steps, flanked by plate-armored bodyguards. A hole in the ceiling would let light in at certain places, glinting off of a golden crown atop the man’s head. His long cape swept dust from the floor behind him. His blue and gold ceremonial armor shone brilliantly even in places with dim light.

This was once his home; this was once the palace of the emperors. All his ancestors had stayed in this place. As he reached the end of the entrance hall and into the colonnaded atrium, a massive statue sitting atop a pedestal greeted him. It had been cut from shoulder to hip on opposite sides, leaving the top half of the figure’s torso and head missing.

He held back a tear for his father’s effigy and continued on, up a flight of stairs that formed half of a semi-circle onto a speaking platform. Behind it were halls of rooms, where the royal family had once stayed. He took quick steps here, as the eeriness of the place gave he and his men shivers, as if the spirits were watching their every move. The end of this hall of rooms was what some could have considered a palace unto itself; the emperor’s personal quarters.

Many years ago, in times of piece and prosperity, the man had stayed here with his wife and children. The memories here set him to his knees, the pain he had endured since those days was finally being released. He felt as if he could hear, even now, the words of his wife, or the antics of his children in those days. His men urged him onwards, and he complied for their sake.

The door to his destination would not budge, and was forced open with a splintered dresser. Within lay what emperor’s had never gone to battle without until he himself had done so. The sword of his ancestors lay on its rack, untouched for nearly 7 years.

“Even now it lies unscathed by age or dirt,” the man said with pride, his low raspy voice pierced the air around him. He reached out and grasped it within his hand, admiring the detail that still seemed to have no dust settled upon it, as if someone had used it only hours before.

Perhaps the spirits of battle would be happy to give him victory now.




“Do you know, dear boy, the story of how this war started?”

The peasant boy was startled, and dropped his instrument. He raised his head in bewilderment, and was greeted by a ruffled smile. A grayed, old man stood next to him, looking him over. His armor was magnificent, and his white hair and beard made him seem like someone sincere. The boy failed at the time to comprehend just whom he was speaking to; which became obvious when he neither bowed nor addressed the man in proper honorifics.

“N-no, sir?”

The man looked away and down the stone street to the gates of what was visibly once a beautiful city. But now all that could be seen was devastation. From the gates to what stood behind the pair, the palace, everything was charred black by fire or displayed gaping holes where artillery had hit. Peasants walked to and fro, carrying supplies or fixing walls. The gates themselves looked like patchwork. Even the street bore signs of destruction; during the battle that had taken place here, it was clear that men had picked up stepping-stones and used them as weapons.

“When I was a young man, nearly 40 years ago, I came to power here,” the man began. It was now that the boy understood who was speaking to him; the emperor himself, “I wonder, what would this place be like if I had been more careful? In 1202, I received perhaps the most disastrous letter in history.”

As the emperor spoke, his story seemed to induce visions to him, as if they had happened only yesterday. There he sat, in the room he had only an hour ago foraged through. Things were different then; light shone through great windows onto a desk. A young, brown haired man sat here in a deep blue robe. Stacks of papers sat one side, in between were his quill and writing area, and on the other side stood personal belongings.

He was visibly tired, his aides stood waiting for him. His morning routine involved tedious signing of laws that were drafted the night before, or revocations of laws, or military orders, or nearly anything having to do with the capital city. He swiveled his head and looked through a window at a beautiful, sunny day. Outside, in the streets, children were playing. Peasants went about their work. He could not help but think that this was the most beautiful place on Earth.

The door to his quarters squeaked open, causing him to turn his gaze to the disturbance without actually moving his head. He was visibly frustrated that he was likely receiving yet more work.

The intruder knelt, and held out a scroll of parchment, “Word from Dukaria, majesty.”

Galthunnar snatched the scroll and unraveled it. His face went pale, and his pupils shrank as he read it.

“Tell me this is a prank.”

“Nay, majesty. Doomani have landed near Dukaria.”

Dukaria, Modern Day Doomanikariaa

“Sea air,” a middle aged man with black hair a short, well-cut beard snarled, “Too pleasant.”

He looked across a field from his post near the walls of Dukaria. Dozens, if not more, boats sat ashore. Thousands of Doomani legionnaires could be seen unloading cargo, and setting up a stockade. Garrison-Commander ‘Ducari’, was bemused. What exactly were they doing? The last sighting of a Doomani in Zukariaa was in 600AD, nearly 100 years after the split of the Doomani Imperium.

“What do you suppose they could be doing, sir?” The Commander’s most trusted Captain, Herios Tartaros sat in a chair beneath the command tent, also observing their movements, “They couldn’t mean war. That’s suicide.”

“Say you,” Ducari snickered, “See there,” he pointed, “They’re unloading a gigantic cross from the looks of it, or maybe a crucifixion is taking place. Regardless, I think they mean to retake Zukariaa. Or by any rate convert us.”

“Should I go out with the corps to meet them?” Tartaros stood and straightened his uniform, thrust his sword into its holster.

“I suppose it would be the diplomatic thing to do,” Ducari replied, not hiding the fact that he doubted it would be of any use at all, it was no secret that diplomacy with the Doomani was nigh impossible.

Tartaros left the tent and mounted his horse, “Worry not, sir. I doubt they’ll be stupid enough to spark a war with such a small force. We have the entire city garrison to crush them with, I’ll be sure to warn them of that.”

The young captain rode off, rallied the cavalry corps, and hurried to the stockade. The force of some dozen horsemen came to a stop at a Doomani patrol, requesting to meet the Doomani in command. However, once they entered the up-and-coming fort, there was no turning back. From where Ducari watched, within 15 minutes the massive crosses being erected were displaying the crying Captain and his men for all of Dukaria to see.

Fifteen Hours Later

Ducari sat on his horse, seeming bewildered. He could never have thought a day ago that this is where he would be, at the command of some 10,000 men in a battle with what seemed to be the beginnings of a Doomani invasion. He spat on the ground. Across the field stood an equal, if not greater Doomani force, at least that’s what he thought. Ducaria had long been thought safe; its garrison was made entirely of citizens and had no artillery. No legionaries, and definitely no elephant cavalry.

As if to make things worse, the sea-horizon bore yet more Doomani ships. His advisors had told him for hours that immediate action was needed after the execution of Tartaros, but he refused, wishing to simply consolidate his position and let the Doomani dare to attack. It was now obvious that the stockade was but the beginning of a full-force Doomani invasion of Zukariaa. Who could say where else they were landing? They had not even received word from Aiur yet.

All Ducari could do now was hope that his men were able to hold off the Doomani legions until reinforcements arrived. Or, perhaps, a thought dawned on him, he could crush them where they stood. Overwhelming force was all he needed. He raised his right arm, signaling for archers to ready themselves, then he ordered a fire.

Mass numbers of arrows ripped through the sky, and rained down on the Doomani positions, but Ducari immediately remembered from his military academy textbooks; professional troops have superior equipment. He snarled as the Doomani legionaries boxed themselves in with their shields.

“First detachment, march!” He screamed, and 4,000-peasant spearmen began their march across the field. Doomani scorpions adjusted their aim from their fixed positions on the fully constructed palisade and let loose, simultaneously with the Doomani’s own archers.

Ducari’s eyes widened. The scorpion’s massive shafts slammed through the lines, grazing off heads, breaking legs, and piercing through chests. The arrows alone cut down at least half of the detachment almost immediately, forcing Ducari to order the other 6,000 men to begin marching immediately. As the first detachment reached the Doomani lines, their spears were met with utter resistance, and the further they moved in the easier they were to cut down with Doomani gladii.

Only halfway down the field, Ducari saw the last of his first group being cut down. He ordered a charge, at the same time as the Doomani commander. His flanks were wide open, and a mass of horse-cavalry came wheeling about on either side. Ducari, much better at fighting than the rest, held on for far longer, but the end was inevitable. 10,000 Zukariaans died that day, a horde of legionaries cut down Ducari and moved on to the city he had defended for his entire life without ever noting who he was.



Galthunnar finished on a sad note, leaving the child who was already working in a depressing situation in a much more depressed mood, he was not entirely aware of why he was being told this by the emperor of all people, but he continued to listen with full awareness. Galthunnar took his seat on a hay-wagon. His massive boots created a thumping noise where he sat them.

“No doubt you are well aware that we are not only fighting the Doomani, yes?” the old man once again smiled pleasantly at the boy, who nodded, “From the north, across the vast deserts in a land that no Zukariaan has ever seen since the days of Sarpedon, came a threat possibly greater than that of the Doomani, at the worst possible time.”

Once more his story faded to his memories, the days when he was young resurfaced once more. The man that had once been so young, though still young, was at the point visibly more experienced; his hair had already gained its share of gray. His face did not show the same pleasantness that it did in old age, instead he seemed horrified. He watched over a field from the top of a walled city, archers flanking him. Across the field was a seemingly endless horde of horsemen. Early diplomatic meetings with them, after their initial attacks in the northern forests, had revealed that they lived in a land far across the deserts passed the forests of Zukariaa, in a land called Caligulis. They were the Caligulans.

Why they had attacked was unknown, but for a year now they had won battle after battle and refused to stop moving. Here they were now, some 200 miles north of Aiur, at the city of Mor. They had shown themselves worth opponents, nigh unstoppable, on the field of battle, but they were less than frightening in their sieges. Because they valued the ability to constantly move, they did not sit for long periods of time waiting for a city to fall from disease or hunger. They outright attacked with mass of numbers, and that was what they were doing here.

A valley of dozens of small rockets slammed into the walls around the gates, tearing out portions and ripping chunks from it. One hit the gates themselves, cutting through and into the mass of spearmen surrounding it. Nearly a dozen died from that single shot. Their infantry marched forward under shield and began to ram the gates now, even as they died by the hundreds from archer fire. In some places, they breached onto the wall with ladders of platforms, but they were easily dispatched. Eventually the gates themselves did fall open, and now the horde of horsemen came charging.

Galthunnar now realized what it was that they were going to do; overwhelm the men inside the walls with the sheer number of horses, throwing around the weight like a wrecking ball. From the walls, Galthunnar could only watch as they pushed in, no matter how many died they seemed to keep coming. The men were slowly pushed through the streets, spears launched Caligulans from their seats, and a horse fell here on a man, crushing him. As the fight pushed further and further back, the number of fighters dwindled, archers had continued to fire from their positions, greatly decreasing the number of horsemen.

Nearly everyone who fought on the ground died, save for less than a thousand Zukariaans. This was the first time Galthunnar had encountered them; he was unimpressed. It would not be the last, as he and his Strategi would soon find that the Caligulans learned fast.

Galthunnar chuckled, standing in place as an aide approached him.

“Well, boy, remember that Zukariaa will win this fight no matter what the cost is. We fight for you, we fight for our freedom and survival. This is our finest hour,” Galthunnar smiled at the boy once more and climbed onto his horse. He was off once more to do what he had done for the last 40 years; fight. How could he have known, then, that things were going to get much worse? How could he have known at that point in time, that another sinister plot was unfolding in a land he had never heard of?

Castle Preston
Old Preston
December, 1245 AD

The snow fell cold and the wind blew bitterly over the land, which appeared to all the world a desolate waste. Trails were nearly covered in the snow, though some could still be faintly made out. This was the coldest winter on record, and there was no doubt that several thousand peasants would likely freeze to death before the spring months came and the rolling hills and meadows again came to life.

The concerns of the peasantry, however, were virtually unknown or uncared for within the walls of the ancient Castle Preston, ancestral home of the House of Preston and capital of the land of Prestonia. Within the castle lived the unquestioned ruler of the land, Charles III, as well as his family and several lords of high importance who advised His Majesty on the various matters of his Kingdom. In most cases, these were followed, though the King had in his advanced age (he was pushing 50, considered extremely elderly for a man of his time and station) was more apt to declare his Lords numbskulls and threaten to behead them all before implementing his own (usually catastrophic) solution. Perhaps the King was going mad in his old age. Perhaps he was simply becoming more bullheaded and unwilling to listen to opinions differing from his own. Regardless, his word was law, supreme and absolute, and thus his Lords were often left to clean up after the various messes the King made out of what would have been simple affairs.

One can imagine, then, how the Lords of the court and of the whole of Prestonia reacted when the King came storming into the great hall, shouting for joy upon returning from his afternoon prayer.

"My Lords, men of Prestonia, today a glorious thing hath occured whilst I was at prayer!," the King shouted, causing all from the mightiest Lord to the lowest court Jester to stop what they were doing and turn to hear what His Majesty had to say. After a few seconds of silence, a Lord queried the King hesitantly.

"What is't, my liege?," he asked, removing his cap as a sign of respect to his better.

"My good Lord St. John, today as I was confessing my sins before our Almighty Lord, God Himself did speak to me. He told me that He will deliver the lands of Zukariaa into the hands of our Christian people as a reward for our nation's faith and obedience to His Great Commission. Send word to the armies at once, we shall march on Zukariaa ere the cruel season yields new life," the King replied confidently.

"Your Majesty, I pray you pardon my insolence, but the armies will not make ready until April at the least. I pray you bide thy time, confirm that this message be indeed of divine origin, and upon the breaking of the Spring we shall march upon the infidels of the north," Lord St. John said in an analytical tone; the Lord St. John was, among other things, responsible for the coordination of the King's troops and His Majesty's relations with the other realms of Haven. His words seemed to have some effect upon the King, though, as His Majesty simply sighed and said "as you like it, my good Lord. Anon we shall bring the cross to the heathen northmen." With that, the King waived his hand airily, dismissing his Lords.

A few minutes later, Lord St. John and the others of the court were discussing the matter, keeping their voices low so as not to attract the King or any other unwanted attentions.

"Do you honestly think His Majesty indeed heard the voice of Our Lord?," a youngish courtier asked hesitantly.

"Of course he did, Lord Walton. His Majesty is quite the pious man," St. John replied, knowing his words to be untrue even as he spoke them. How many Varish priests had been killed, how many churches sacked, in the younger days of His Majesty? God alone knew, and St. John suspected that the King's newest conquest was perhaps a means with which to make right with God before he died. Certainly, converting an entire nation had to be worth something.

"Still my good Lord, I must wonder if this is a wise course of action. The Zukariaans have been engaged with the Caligulan hordes for centuries, and still managed to hold them off. How, pray tell, shall we Prestonians be so enabled to defeat them?," Walton replied, still skeptical.

"God alone knows, Lord Walton. Perhaps He shall smile down upon our troops. I shall pray on't," St. John said, before turning away.

Eukarian Hills
Outside Eukaryot, Southern Zukariaa
May, 1246 AD

The soldiers stood in their lines, chain mail armor shining resplendently. The journey had not been easy, but the men of Prestonia had reached the lands of the pagan enemy they were to defeat with God's help. 100,000 pikemen, 40,000 infantrymen, 10,000 archers, 75,000 lancers on horseback and 500 of the greatest knights the Kingdom had ever known stood in rank and file on the hills overlooking the city of Eukaryot. This army of 225,500 men was the largest ever assembled by a King of Prestonia for making war upon his enemies, but even still, it could have been larger. Initially standing 300,000 strong, many had deserted or died in crossing the Great Northern Mountains, which had not finished thawing when the armies marched over them in late April. Now, as Dukes and Barons and Earls and all other sort of commander marshalled their troops into lines, the King on horseback rode to the front of the formation to survey his troops. The setup was one the current King's father had used to great success in the conquests of Varland, and one that would hopefully serve the Prestonians well today. The pikemen formed in blocks of 10,000 at the center, their flanks protected by the lancers and mounted knights. In the rear, the archers were formed up in blocks 100 across and 100 deep, spaced by a few hundred feet. These archers would lay down the initial barrage on the advancing Zukariaans, followed by the pikemen and finally the cavalry to break the enemy lines. It was a simple formula, but a deadly one. Looking pleased, the King raised his hand for silence and began speaking.

"Soldiers! Men of Prestonia! The hour of our foe's judgment is at hand! We have endured hardships in our journey to reach this place, but fear not. Our Lord has assured His people of victory. When battle comes, do not show cowardice, nor fear of death. For I tell you truly, there is no higher honor than to die in battle for your King, your Lord and your Country. If there be any among you who fears death, let him now step from our ranks, that he will not spread his fear to his countrymen. If there be any among you who has recently married, and has not yet laid with his wife, let him now step from our ranks and return home to consummate his marriage. If there by any among you who has recently built a home, and not yet dedicated it, let him now step from our ranks and return home to do so," the King began.

"Now, as we have fulfilled our requirements to the Holy Scripture, let what may come come. We shall stand firm, we shall defeat the heretics, and we shall conquer this pagan land! For Prestonia!," the King concluded, to cheers and war cries from his men. The speech had succeeded in getting the men pumped for battle, but how long it would hold once battle came God alone knew.

Cassius Arteros knelt before a small alter. Smoke from incense surrounded him in the small space, hardly larger than a closet. His eyes were closed, his hands sat clasped together in his lap. He prayed to the spirits of Eukaryot, he prayed to the Titan Sukarus, and he prayed to the High Father. All he wanted was for the war that raged for so long in the west to end. For too long, the work force of his city had been depleted by the endless carnage raging from Ducaria in the west to the dunes of Caligulis in the barbarian north.

He stood up and stepped out of his alter, only to find several men standing in front of him. Men from the military. He closed his eyes and sighed, had it finally happened? Had the Emperor decided that even he would finally be dragged from his home to serve his country? Or perhaps the Emperor had died and Zukariaa had fallen to one of the wrathful forces that had assailed it for so long? Or perhaps, a thought entered the back of Arteros’ mind, the war had ended finally?

“I suppose I should get my things ready for travel,” Arteros said, making eye contact with the men once more.

“No,” one of them said, suddenly thrusting a sword into Arteros’ hand, “Ready yourself to lead men in battle once more.”

“I am to fight the Doomani? Or perhaps the barbarian horde of the north?” Arteros said, strapping the sword to his waist and without hesitation approaching the mannequin that held his armor.

“Neither,” the other messenger answered, causing Arteros’ heart to sink, “the Gods wish to punish us yet more today. Our scouts have informed us of an army marching over the mountains south of here.”

Arteros knew of the lands to the south, to some extent, from merchants. The mountains had certainly created a cultural divide, as the same god that the Doomani worshipped was also worshipped to the south. It had been some 20 years since an update on the situation of Zukariaa’s southern neighbor had been given.

“Any idea of their forces?” Arteros asked, eying his helmet carefully.

“At least 200,000 men.”

Arteros smirked, “The Iron Strategoi rides again.”

Eukarian Hills
Outside Eukaryot, Southern Zukariaa
May, 1246 AD

The lines had been drawn. Across a vast, hilly area thousands were to die for a reason they had no knowledge of. It had become clear to the Strategos Arteros that he was outnumbered severely the moment he laid his eyes upon the enemy. The garrison of Eukaryot and men drawn up from the surrounding area had formed a force of some 125,000 men over the last few days. 75,000-conscripted spearmen in basic chain mail and tabards stood in the first row, followed in the second row by 25,000 elite shock troops, the heavy garrison of Eukaryot that Arteros had formed himself in his glory days. These men were walking tanks, armored to the teeth in plate. Their helmets covered their face as a bright gold or silver mask, each of which was unique and frightening in it’s own way. They each had a long sword and a large rectangular shield bearing their family emblem.

To the back were 7,000 crossbowmen, mostly peasantry who had had their weapon of war shoved into their hands in a hurry and sent out to battle. But the thing that the Prestonians would notice most was the lack of horse cavalry. Not a single horse had been spared from the war in the west. Instead at each flank stood 10 massive elephants, carrying a ‘basket’ in which stood two crossbowmen, likely the only people who had ever actually used a crossbow in then entire army.

Arteros had received regular updates on the fighting in the west, and had learned fast that a man unaccustomed to seeing an elephant charging at him was likely to buckle. Arteros’ plan was to send up the infantry, both lines, at the same time. The peasant spearmen would eat up enemy arrows and because there were so many, they would still be able to cause damage at enemy lines. They would be reinforced by the elite, the so-called ‘Visoreds’ (so called because of their wide array of masks).

Hopefully the lines will be busy enough that the elephants could come in on each flanks and cause a rippling buckle of the Prestonian lines.

Arteros now looked from behind his golden armor, the thick plate. His helmet was perhaps the most frightening of all, because of its simplicity. The face was blank, a simple stare. It showed no life or expression, so little so that it was disconcerting even to allies. The details etched into every inch of his suit were astounding, only outdone by the Emperor himself. Arteros had no horse, so he walked along the line and began to speak.

“I know that each of you is worried about the outcome of this battle. I know that each of you believes that this might not be a winnable situation. You wonder about the future of you country, already so ravaged by the horrors of war. What have we done for the Gods to hate us so? What clouds the judgment of our holy men that they could not see this destruction coming towards us in the years leading up to it? What sin have we committed that we are to die here, that our country is to fall from beneath our feet like a rug pulled by a fool?

“I say today that the perhaps it is not our holy men who had clouded judgment, it is not our leaders, it is not even you or the enemy. It is the Gods themselves, the spirits so against our victory.”

The men in the lines began to whisper to one another, had their leader gone mad with infidelity? Did he wish the battle to be lost?

“If the Gods hate us so, then we must hate the Gods! If the spirits wish us to fail, we shall wish for them to fail! Because, men, even if these immortals do not wish us well, we wish us well! We know that if we lose, our people lose, that our way of life shall not exist anymore. That these heathens from the south, or the west, or the north who pray to their false Gods and fight the righteous with every last breath will murder our people, will destroy our culture, will rob us of all the wealth we have ever earned with the sweat and strength of our back, that every broken bone we have received and stood up with will be for naught! We know, I say we know better than the Gods if they so wish to hand us defeat!

“We know better for our children and grandchildren! And for that reason, we cannot stop now! We cannot kneel before our enemy based on the pretense that the Gods will it be done! We must bathe in the fire of infidelity if we so must to save our people from destruction! We have been on our knees for too long now, and we cannot have it anymore! It is time for us to stand up, it is time for us to grab our brothers by the neck and put them on their feet! It is time to gather our strength and come down on our foe like the fist of a god ourselves! If the High Father will not smite the evil, the righteous, the betrayed shall smite the evil themselves!”

The men began to cheer, riled up now for battle by Arteros’ speech.

“Say you, our brave sons, what will your children, and your children’s children dream of? What will their example be? I stare across this field of death and despair and see hope, I do believe this shall be our finest hour. The hour of our foe’s reckoning. The hour on which we will step upon them like a roach is creeping up on them. Now is your time, now is the time for Zukariaa to rise up to what it is capable of! No more shall we stand idly by. Today is the beginning of the end for those who fight us!”

As the oh-so pious Arteros finished, now himself worked up, the men began to cheer at their Strategos, who turned around to face the enemy, eying the Prestonian King. He put his arm out, “Infantry charge!” and some 100,000 men, including Arteros, began their run towards the Prestonian lines.

Castra Victoria
Ten Miles Outside of Aiur
December, 1245 AD

The fortified encampment was in a joyous mood, its garrison having sacked Aiur a day earlier. The army was on its way exiting Sucarii territory, bringing with it thousands of captives and millions of denarii worth of loot, including some of the pagans' most sacred relics. The Zukariaan army in the area had been utterly decimated by the past years' fighting, although rumors of approaching reinforcements had caused the Doomani to quickly sack the city and make their exit upon breaching the city's mighty walls. The Zukariaans were now too busy picking up the pieces of their fallen capital to worry about the vast army that had caused it to fall.

For Marcus Decimus Vorenus, commanding general of the Doomani legions in Zukariaa, this was the first day in quite some time he was able to give his sword arm a rest, and the first he was able to take a leak in relative peace. This was his tenth year in Zukariaa and the second consecutive time he'd sacked their capital; this time had been easier than the last. He was a tall, powerfully built man; historians put him at over seven feet tall, although that was certainly an exaderation, as he was a mere six-foot-eight. Though he was in his early forties, his hair was thoroughly greying, and his face was both scarred and wrinkled, making him appear much older.

Looking down into the latrine as he shook his wang, he could see his own reflection. He chuckled to himself, pulling his pants up, and smirked at the pagan captives who sat caged right besides it. They'd seen plenty of this in the past few hours: The Doomani latrine was in fact the sacred golden bowl used to burn offerings in the Temple of Aiur, and at first they'd been utterly appaled to see their holy object defaced in such a manner. By now it had been defaced so much that they simply sat about in their wooden cages, looking beaten as ever.

"You there, pagan! Clean my toilet!" barked Vorenus at the nearest caged captive, a girl of about 17 years of age.

A nearby Legionary standing guard unlatched her cage, siezing her by the arm and bringing her before the bowl as Vorenus walked away. In the distance he could hear her complain,

"How am I supposed to clean it without a rag?"

"Use your tounge for all I care, witch. If that bowl isn't sparkling brilliantly by the time another of my comrades needs to relieve himself, you will be the one to pay..." he heard the soldier reply.

The encampment was of the perfectly-ordered Doomani-variety, with a central parade lane leading up to Vorenus' enourmous personal tent. Around the camp was a square palisade (which had now been capped with the severed heads of Aiur's defenders and decorated with their flayed skins and crucified, dismembered bodies) with a defensive trench dug around that to slow attackers; it was a proven design that had served the Doomani for over a millenium.

Black and gold banners hung high above the camp bearing the Emperor's crest (known today as the Crusader's Death's Head) and the Aquila Imperialis.

As he strode down the main lane, a horn blew back towards the main gate, causing him to turn to see it slowly swing open. A pair of riders tore past everyone, screeching to a hault before Vorenus and snapping a swift salute, which he promptly returned. They were Iurarii, the finest horsemen in the Doomani army, riding the swiftest of horses. They were clad in ferocious looking scale mail and wielded large Spathae, the sword of Doomani cavalrymen, and bows, which they were very adept at using from their mounts. Their faces were concealed behind chainmail shrouds draped from their Doomani-style helms.

The first of them removed his helm, tucking it under his shoulder, revealing a man of a darker complexion and a head of thick black hair who had his fair share of battle scars,

"Sir, Zuks. Lots of them, heading out from Aiur in our direction," he said in a calm, collected tone, his piercing gaze locked onto his leader,

"So soon?" replied Vorenus with a slight smile, rolling his head and cracking his neck, letting out a long sigh. "Can't even get some bloody sleep before that old fart attacks me again! Bah!" he chuckled in reference to Galthunnar, waving his gauntleted fist about.

"Very well, Decurion, that will be all."

The two horsemen saluted and trotted off to their respective unit.

In the distance he could hear the thumping of Zukariaan war drums. He swiftly began barking out orders for his men to man the walls and for his cavalry to exit the stronghold. While normally fighting mounted, he felt it best to command the defense from amongst the defense itself rather from outside with the cavalry. He'd leave his five thousand or so cavalry to Dirus, his humorless right-hand man, much hated by the Sucarii for his extreme brutality, and feared for his battlefield prowess.

The camp itself (which consisted of several dozen linked smaller camps) housed some sixty-thousand Legionaries and Doomanikariaan Auxillia. Its defenses allowed for a primary wall, built directly before the trench that was to slow the attackers, upon which the heavy infantry would stand on the defense. Behind them were the archers and artillerymen (the Doomani employed a good deal of Scorpions and Ballistae on the walls, and many trebuchets from within), nestled in high watch towers and raised, fortified scaffolding to allow them to shoot over the heads of their comrades, directly into the trenches, which had been filled with sharpened stakes and pitch.

The cavalry were deployed to the flanks of the fortress to allow for a mobile strike force and to make surrounding the camp a less-than-appealing option for the Zukariaans. In the distance, row upon row of man began to cross over the horizon. Battle was coming...

The war drums continued to pound rhythmically, heavily, claustrophobically until the army of Zukariaans was in full view, having fully crested the hill. The drums came to a sudden stop just as the front column stopped at the raised hand of Emperor Galthunnar. The old man sat at on the back of his massive, black warhorse Strider, whom had carried him into every battle he fought in for the last fifteen years. The horse’s armor was in deep contrast to its body, golden and decorative. Its head was covered by a faceplate that created to wide horns, almost making it look like a bull.

Galthunnar himself was wearing the armor that he had worn for his entire life, for every battle. It was routinely repaired, but for every place that it had been cut through the aging Emperor had ordered that the exact are that had been damaged be visible, given a worn down look. He wished to bear the pains he had taken for so long proudly. Blue straps went across his chest as a decorative touch, bearing the national color of Zukariaa. His shield was similar, bearing the Emperor’s crest, the Sun itself.

His aged face, wrinkled and disheveled, was partly hidden by his long white beard. He pulled down his golden facemask; it was his own face, embodied in gold. It even sported his beard, though much shorter.

The army itself was notable. From where the Doomani were, they might see a standard army. Blue banners whisking through the air at the end of each square of men, captains barking orders. However, what was not visible was that the armor born by this newly-raised army had already been used before. The salvaged armor from the fallen defenders of Aiur were being used once more, in honor of those who had died bravely. Now their deaths would be truly avenged, a complete reversal of the defeat that all Zukariaans had suffered. Though the cuts and damage had been repaired, the blood still stained every bit as brightly.

These men were pissed. Though they were mostly peasants pulled up from the city itself and the local area, they had grown up in a time of war. Every one of them had been directly affected at some point in their lives, and every one of them wanted nothing more than to cut down Doomani scum. The armor would look familiar to the Doomani; bright golden plate mail, filled in by chain mail and leather underneath. Each of them had a plate mask, which replaced the shield crest in many medieval armies as the display of family.

Some 70,000 of these men stood, each with a sword and two spears tucked into an easily reachable place behind their shield. Behind the masks, they each had a stoney face from the combined effects of fright at war and anger at the Doomani. Behind them were several thousand archers, arranged into similar blocks. Their armor was considerably lighter and they lacked the masks of the rest of the army. Behind and to the side of them was artillery; trebuchets, catapults, and magonels.

To the flanks were some four thousand cavalry, heavy lancers in considerably heavier armor than the infantry, from head to toe, even on the horses, was full plate armor. These men were truly wrecking balls. But the true terror of the Zukariaan military was the elephant. 20 Elephants stood at each flank, heavily armored as well in bright scales. They had been trained from birth for war to impale and crush men. Some even had skulls lodged at the bases of their tusks. A select few even had catapults and archers on their backs.

This massive army, gathered extraordinarily fast (mostly aided by the burst of interest in the military and for revenge after the sack of Aiur), now began its first attacks on the camp.

Artillery let loose; trebuchets and catapults began blasting gaps in the palisade and paths through the trenches and hitting Doomani artillery emplacements within the camp. The magonels were launched and burst over the Doomani cavalry to the sides, as well as starting fires in the camp. Now with new breaches in the palisade, regardless of what response the Doomani had, the infantry began their charge, Galthunnar in their midst. They would storm the camp, through multiple breaches. The majority of the elephants and cavalry would engage the Doomani cavalry outside. Elephants with catapults and archers on their backs also charged through one of the breaches.

To prevent a bottleneck, men with axes and torches would come in along with the main infantry and begin hacking and burning the palisade, creating an every widening breach.

But near the head of the charge, Galthunnar on his mighty warhorse had an eye for only Vorenus. The heathen would die.

Truth be told, the Doomani hadn't expected the palisades to last long, although they would certainly help in channeling the pagans through to their deaths. The archers and crossbowmen kept a steady hail of arrows pouring into the rushing Zukariaan horde, which was slowed as it traversed the trench. The ballistae and scorpions were targetted almost exclusively at the enemy war elephants which had bent sent to assault through the breach. Waiting on the other side of the breach formations of thousands of disciplined, pike-armed Legionaries (with their sword armed brethren to their immediate flanks besides the breach, meaning any that slipped by the spears would immediately be stabbed by several angry gladius-armed Doomies), who were able to wall off the breach with the iron tips of their weapons thereby slowing the elephants. This would give the artillerymen ample opportunity to plug a steel bolt through the skulls of the unfortunate creatures, whose enourmous bodies would likely serve to channel the Zukariaans into even narrower bottlenecks.

On the sides of the breach were Doomanikariaan Auxilliaries, armed with crossbows and long spears. From their vantage points, they were able to fire their deadly bolts directly into the attacking pagans as they attempted to cross through the breach, and stab down into the formation with their spears. They also poured boiling oil down into the breach and down onto those attempting to widen the breach. In this way, the Zukariaans were attacked from three sides as they attempted to get through the breach. Their numbers would count for nothing.

Meanwhile, spotters on the walls of the palisade fed signals to the trebuchet crewmen who sat within the camp in their own fortified positions. Projectiles filled with Greek fire were loaded. Their targets: the Zukariaan artillery.

When most of the enemy infantry had piled up against the walls of the palisade around the breaches, Vorenus, from his vantage point amongst the walls, saw that it was time to incinerate his foe. Instructing his lieutenant to give the signal, the archers ignited their arrows and fired a volley into the trench; this in turn would ignite the pitch that filled it (as well as the immense amount of boiling oil that had been poured into the enemy formations both around and inside the breach), and with it the Zukariaan infantry, and cutting off reinforcements from those already inside of the breach, already face to face with the pikes of the Doomani. The trench soon became a raging inferno.

As this was occuring at the breaches, where the Zukariaans had concentrated their forces, the main gate of the palisade swung open: pouring out of it were thousands of Legionaries, lead personally by Vorenus and his elite Optivarii, nothing blocking their way. Advancing in Testudo formation to prevent the enemy archers from getting the best of them and limiting the effectiveness of enemy incindieries and hit the enemy infantry on their flanks. Meanwhile, the trebuchets continued to send rounds downrange into the ranks of the enemy artillery to prevent them from stopping that assault. Hopefully by now, most of the enemy infantry would be heavily demoralized or, preferably, incinerated or impaled on the pikes. An assault on their flanks would likely be the killing blow...

Meanwhile, outside of the fortress, a cavalry battle raged. The Doomani Cataphractii had dealt with elephants before. Seeing arrayed before them elephants on the outside flank of the enemy and on the inside the heavy lancers, they immediately set to an echelon formation, the tip of the echelon riding closest to the palisade. This formation would ultimately force the enemy cavalry between them and the enemy elephants, meaning that to use the elephants against the Doomani cavarly would mean that the Zukariaans were in just as great a danger as the Doomani.

The horse archers, meanwhile, would circle around the Zukariaan formation and begin pouring fire directly into the elephants' crews in order to render them uncontrolled amidst both armies, and firing into the backs of the Zukariaan heavy cavalry, even as they clashed with the Doomani heavy cavalry to their fronts.

Galthunnar had halted his charge when the flames came from the trenches. As the majority of the men were still outside when this happened, the damage was minimal. The breaches had not been large enough for anywhere near the massive 70,000 army to charge through all at once, still hundreds fell impaled on stakes or burnt to death, filling the air with a putrid stench.

The cavalry fight was extremely vicious, the vast fighting was largely pointless and both sides knew it, as neither of them was really even fighting for control of the camp. Still, they fought horrifically. The horse archers were a real problem, especially the ones that got around the back and began hitting the lancers. The elephants, however, would be a real problem for both sides. The massive amount of energy poured into annihilating them was almost not worth it, unless they meant mainly to kill archers and crew. The armor sported by the elephants, coupled with their already thick skin, took a major beating. It was hits to the underside of the legs or, if lucky, into the mouth itself that really scored.

Elephants with catapults on their backs got several boulders launched into the Doomani cavalry before the crews were depleted. The trouble came when suddenly one of the elephants was thrown into a rage. This spread like wildfire to the others and within minutes both sides felt the wrath of some 20 angry elephants charging through their lines.

Zukariaan artillery was not doing so well. Greek fire roasted several of them in minutes, and everywhere those caught on fire rolled also began roasting horrifically. Still, those that did not fall continued firing flaming boulders into the camp. Magonels aimed so that they would explode directly over the far side of the palisade, hopefully igniting Doomani lines. The archers finally got to work, firing flaming arrows by the hundreds into the camp; the main focus of the ranged attacks was to burn the camp from the inside out. Once the gates opened, the captains of the artillery noticed something that they had stupidly overlooked, and focused heavy fire onto them. This would be the main breach that the men would head for while crews cleared the paths once more through the trench.

Galthunnar, on his horse, spotted his prey marching out of the camp like a defiant dog being beaten (at least that’s what Galthunnar thought, some might say his old brain didn’t notice his attempts at breaching the walls had been thwarted almost immediately). He threw away now all that he had held back and charged his horse right into the Doomani testudo, ignoring the fact that he was completely unbacked by the peasantry he was leading.

His horse slammed hard, its aging body crashing like a wrecking ball into the formation. Doomani men were sent backwards in all directions, on their feet or dead. But it came at a cost for the old man, sending him flying from his saddle and killing his beloved horse. He coughed up a bit of blood and stood, ignoring for the moment the loss of a horse that had carried him to battle for a good portion of his life. He brought himself to his feet and unsheathed his sword, looking Vorenus directly in the eye.

His old, deep voice cracked through the silence that had arisen in the area as men surrounded them to watch, “You have insulted my people with your treacherous wrong doing for a decade now. Your insolent campaigning had been but a joke until only recently, I took you as a rather unserious crier for whatever pitiful honor or glory your pathetic Caesar could hand you in your wasteland of a nation. However, for the second humiliating time you have come into my city, the greatest city on this Earth, and horrified the people. You have slaughtered priests and priestesses, you have destroyed temples, and you have brought my people to their collective knees! I hear stories of you having desecrated holy relics! This is unacceptable!”

Galthunnar lifted his shield now and spit into the wind, “My people will stand once more, as we have always done. We will stand and with the strength in our sword arm we will cut you down like the heathens you are. Ready yourself, Vorenus,” he said the name bitingly, “For you are about to meet your end.”

Vorenus smiled almost childishly in response, sarcastically saying, “Oh, is that right?”

Galthunnar, now at the end of his self-control, charged his old body right at Vorenus, slamming his shield into him, putting his weight into a part of the shield that jutted out sharply. However, Vorenus in turn blocked the attack with his own shield, shoving Galthunnar backwards. The old man kept his footing, shoving his sword into the now more open chest of his foe. Vorenus turned his body just in time for Galthunnar’s sword to scrape across his armor.

Vorenus’ reaction was that of a clearly much younger man; he slammed Galthunnar’s shield arm downwards, crouched, and flipped the old man entirely over him and onto his back, causing Doomani who were watching to cheer wildly. The thud almost took the wind out of him, but he too reacted swiftly; from his back he swiped his sword at Vorenus’ calves. Again it was a futile act. Vorenus dodged this as well, and put his full force into his sword as he dropped to one knee with his sword going right at Galthunnar.

However, the sword slammed into the very top end of the Emperor’s shield, piercing through and stopping within inches of its target’s face, lodged within the shield. Galthunnar used this chance to disarm Vorenus, twisting the shield and pulling it away. Once it was pulled away he once more swung at Vorenus, having dropped his shield on the ground. Vorenus, now disarmed, swiftly swung his tower shield onto the oncoming sword; this knocked both the sword back and the elder Galthunnar's body to the side. Vorenus then used this opening to drive a swift armored elbow into the old man's head.

Galthunnar fell to his knees for a moment as a cut opened on the side of his head, but now did what Zukariaans all do best; resorted to brute force. He charged right into the Doomani, tackling him backwards and shoving his sword at the Doomani’s face. Vorenus, falling backwards with the Emperor atop him, seized the sword in one gauntlet, and forced it away from his face. He let out a ferocious roar and brought his free arm, with the shield, crashing down onto the old man's ribs.

Galthunnar fell to the side and rolled several times; it hurt, but the blunt of the damage was absorbed by his armor. It didn’t matter either way; the old man was intent on killing Vorenus. For a moment they stared each other down, they were both trying to find a way to breach each other’s defenses. Galthunnar had it. He now threw his sword like a knife, lodging it in Vorenus’ inevitable block with his shield. But he immediately tackled Vorenus once more putting all his force into the now lodged sword; his hope was to shove it right into Vorenus’ chest.

Vorenus, seeing what was about to happen, shot a fist out straight into the old man's face, keeping him from forcing the blade completely through his armor. With his opponent momentarily stunned, he threw another punch, knocking Galthunnar off of him, and tore the sword out of his shield, turning the old man's sword against him. Now Galthunnar was completely unarmed. As Vorenus swung at him, he jumped out of the way and at his shield, still with Vorenus’ sword in it. He pulled it out and brought up the shield in time to block another of Vorenus’ attacks.

It was now looking as if the fight would go on forever in a circle; Galthunnar’s face had been visibly beaten; the cut on the side of his face was bleeding still and his lips showed signs of bleeding. The bruises on his ribs were causing heavy breathing. Meanwhile, the place where Vorenus had been cut across the chest was seeping blood, and the force of being tackled by Galthunnar repeatedly was causing visible strains on his body.

“Back at it, coward!” Galthunnar screamed and the two went at it once more. It was the first time their swords actually met, and it went on for several minutes with various punches to the face or shield slams. At this point the two of them were losing energy, fast.

It was now that a war horn blared in the distance. Neither of them recognized it. They stopped dead and turned their attention to the north, along with the men in both of their armies. Around the corner of the palisade, an elephant with several men (Doomani or otherwise) pierced onto its tusks came rushing out with a mass of arrows within its back. Several men on horses came around as well, and all but one of them was cut down by a flurry of arrows coming from an unknown source.

“By the Gods..”

The only man to survive was a Doomani, who stopped and saluted in front of Vorenus, “Something is attacking us! They aren’t pagans, sir. They’re something else. I’ve never seen so many horses.”

Galthunnar looked from the Doomani soldier and Vorenus towards the end of the palisade, “We’re pulling back Vorenus. We’ll finish this another day.”

Galthunnar looked at Vorenus coarsely, “Assuming we survive what is about to come for us.”

Galthunnar whistled at a captain, and the Zukariaans began to pull back slowly. Whether or not the Doomani intended to fight more was interrupted abruptly, as was the retreat on the Zukariaan’s part. As Galthunnar and his men began to reach the hill they had come over earlier, they saw the source of the slaughter of the cavalry.

Horses as far as the eye could see.

“Caligulans.”