“True, I have never experienced a calling before, or known anyone who has, as a matter of fact.”
“So you can’t say for certain that it comes to only complete Onas.”
“I cannot,” Hephaestion agreed, although he seemed attempting to resist the urge to do so. He wanted to say that things were wrong and that the calling was false, but he had no way of proving it either, and he would not draw his argument without certainty, not with his nature.
Ganis was concerned. Thoughts about his belonging rang deeply in his mind, echoing through walls of doubt, and of Hephaestion’s acknowledgement of him being one with the Ona. He had never considered that the biggest obstacle to his attunement would be Hephaestion. Always, he thought, it was none other than himself.
“Tell me, captain,” Ganis said, staring at him intently unblinking with his big, black eyes, “am I, by any chance, a cause for your doubt about the calling?”
Silence spread in the room as everyone held their breath to hear Hephaestion’s response, as if it would obstruct their hearing. He paused for a moment which seemed like many moons to the others before saying, “I never had any shred of doubt about your belonging, yet I very much doubted your acceptance to belong to out Ona.” The tension disappeared and liveliness returned, a little more than before.
Ganis, too, was relieved. He did not know what he would have done if Hephaestion responded with any hesitation about his position, and he dared not dwell on the thought any longer lest it tear the little hope he had apart.
“You must be tired, Ganis, we all are,” Rein said, approaching Ganis from behind and resting a soothing palm on his shoulder, just like the old days.
Ganis breathed deeply and looked around, seeing the weariness weighing down on the Parthans, and said, “I will retire to my quarters now. It’s been a long time since I slept without the hindrance of this armor.”
3
As the calling warned, something made Scyldur stir with preparation. All Scyld soldiers were summoned to the capital and the armories were emptied, maces being replaced by blades whenever possible, and pikes by spears, weapons of greater use on the battlefield than in the city.
Hundreds of soldiers swarmed into Scyldur, gathered from all the hinterlands, and no street was left without at least two dozen soldiers roaming it. It would be a difficult battle, should the Southern Dwellers chose to march on to Scyldur, an entirely possible scenario as per Glowleaf’s reports.
At the moment, no orders were given to the Parthans separating them from one another, and Flagrum was unreachable. On many accounts Hephaestion attempted to send word to the quartermaster, trying to position the Ona favorably should a conflict arise, but none of the attempts received any response.
And Naa’tas was present, as Sigurd confirmed, in Scyldur Keep. He dismissed the Turian from his side for a time, and Sigurd was told that he is to remain within the city walls until summoned, a task he had no intention of disobeying.
“It will not be long until we are sent to the front,” Percival said, leaning by a wall. His assignment to the Law Enforcer Corps allowed him to establish a deep network of informants within Scyldur, making the Parthans privy to many secrets and hidden plans.
“There is no front yet,” Rein said. He leaned on the table kept for them in the tavern beneath to Devout Servant, setting his ale aside, a drink that made it difficult for him to resist the now-rare violent outbursts brought about by his transformation.
“But when there will be a front, you can rest assured that we’ll be sent to it,” Percival said, glancing at Sigurd beside him. “Even Sigurd will find himself facing the Southern Alliance forces.”
“Perhaps it is time to consider leaving Scyldur,” Monolos said. Glowleaf sat by his feet, head reaching well above the table, eyeing the Parthans as they spoke left and right.
“Careful, Monolos, we’re not in Pertinax Dwelling.” Drain half-crouched, as much as the table allowed him to, as if trying to make himself less noticeable. He gestured at Monolos to lower his voice, provoking nothing more than a nodding response from him.
“We will not leave,” Hephaestion said commandingly. He looked around him, eyeing each Parthan in turn expressionlessly. “Has anyone felt another calling?” They shook their heads slowly to each side twice, all in unison. “Then we stay.”
Percival tilted his head sideways, staring for a moment at the roof, lifting his attention from Sua as she disappeared through the kitchen door. “What’s this place called?”
“The Devout Servant!” Drain answered with hesitation, eyebrows frowning and eyes shrinking.
Sigurd took a deep breath dismissively and said, “The Drunken Servant.” His response earned him a curious look from the others.
Suddenly two Scylds, clad entirely in iron, entered. They wore a new uniform the Parthans had not seen before. Once the bards and jesters took notice of the two visitors, all music stopped, shifting the patrons’ attention to the ironclad men.
“The time for The Casus is upon us,” one of the two said. He was a taller man entirely covered in a crudely-made iron outfit. Rounded plates covered his shoulders, knees, elbows and wrists, giving him some degree of freedom to move. Other than a small opening in his iron casket revealing a scarred aged face with blue eyes and grey eyebrows, nothing of the man’s skin was bare.
The other ironclad man walked deeper into the cavern, iron boots falling hard on the wooden floor, armor clinging as he moved - it was a burdensome thing, and the man showed it. He pushed the mugs away from the nearest table to him, urging all those who served as soldiers to stand and rush to the exit.
Hephaestion stood, the other Parthans mirroring him, and slowly made for the exit. The older ironclad Scyld rushed him. “Quickly, fool, Naa’tas calls for our immediate presence.” He shoved Hephaestion towards the door, but succeeded in doing nothing other than pushing himself back.
“The Casus can wait for me.” Hephaestion threw a deadly glance at the ironclad Scyld, drawing a single drop of sweat from the ironclad Scyld’s forehead, and added, “Touch me again and I will claim your arm.”
With nothing else to add and no knowledge of where to go, the Parthans left.
While following Hephaestion, Ganis leaned and asked of Percival, whispering, “Where are we going?”
“Wherever the others are.” Percival was in no good mood. He was concerned for how much things would change for his Sua, and he hoped that it would still be possible to come back for her after Naa’tas has been dealt with.
Ganis paused for a moment, trying to conjure any memory of The Casus, but none came. He looked at Percival once more and asked, “What is The Casus?”
“The war to end the world.”
4
The Scylds were rushing towards the armory like ants on a fallen fruit. There was no order to their preparations, simply a few Scyld men handing out weapons and armor to those nearest to the distributing desk by the armory.
None of the Parthans were in need for any Scyld tools, for theirs would carry them further than any Utyirth-made device, and they just continued to follow the readied Scylds, with armor worn and weapons drawn, to where they gathered, just outside the walls of Scyldur.
Thousands of armored Scylds gathered, some ironclad and others leatherclad, indicating the amount of preparation they had undergone – not enough to equip the soldiers as the generals wished them to be. They all bore the deadly iron weapons of the Scyldur soldiers, but some still had the bulky pikes used to guard the inner cities against petty criminals and unarmed violent citizens - weapons more fit for display than for the battlefield, especially since they would not be facing heavily armored soldiers.
It was not difficult for the Parthans to remain together amidst the chaos, until one of Naa’tas’ guards spotted Sigurd, an easy target to find for anyone seeking him. “Sacred Sigurd,” the Scyld called. He was a large man by Scyld standards, just half a shoulder shorter than Sigurd, and his frame was one made for violence.
Whe
n Sigurd turned around to face the man, the Scyld continued, “Naa’tas calls for the Sacred Guard. We are to ride with him in battle.”
“Naa’tas marches with us?” Hephaestion asked in surprise.
Finally the opportunity we were waiting for, Ganis thought. His blood warmed with the encroaching thrill of facing Naa’tas once more in battle.
“Of course he does,” the Scyld replied without a hint of hesitation, glancing at Hephaestion only long enough for him to conclude his response. “Now, Sigurd. We must go now.”
Sigurd looked at the Parthans, nodded slowly in acknowledgement that he will be present when they face Naa’tas, and followed the man.
None of the other Parthans was called away.
After the passage of some time, long after many of the Scylds started fidgeting in boredom from their idleness, a black ironclad figure appeared on a black steed, followed by dozens of his Sacred Guard, Sigurd among them. As he approached Ganis, the man’s identity was revealed, Naa’tas.
The horses trotted to the front of the army. After passing the first soldier, having none other further from the gates of Scyldur than himself, he looked back, raised an iron blade, of crude make still but better than any other Scyld weapon, and thrust it towards the south, where the Southern Alliance gathered.
5
They marched south until an approaching army emerged from the horizon, the Southern Alliance force, Enkashar and Highborn marching side by side. When they reached the top of a distant hill, a good position to receive the Scyld force, the Southern Alliance army stopped, waiting patiently for their adversaries to engage them.
Naa’tas was not intimidated, and his pride led the Scylds blindly towards their readied foes, a force larger than theirs, but perhaps not as well equipped – or so they thought. Suddenly something seemed different in the plain grasslands carrying the Scyld force. The sound of birds and small insects subsided, and absolute silence prevailed, broken only by the occasional gust of wind whistling in the air.
“Ambush!” a voice echoed and a reign of burning arrows fell upon them, drawing the Scylds in an unfitting panic and breaking their formations.
Ganis followed the arrows’ origins to distant pits hidden by the long blades of wild grass. A trap was sprung, one prepared with such mastery that it even escaped the Parthans. Some of the arrows made their way to the Parthans, many bouncing harmlessly off of Hephaestion’s sturdy kite shield, and others ricocheting off Thalus’ masterwork armor. As Scylds fell around them, far fewer ironclad amongst their dead, the Parthans stood unscathed.
Another volley of arrows followed, and another, felling more Scylds but not as many as the first. Naa’tas remained calm throughout the entire endeavor, looking with an expressionless face as his followers died by the hundreds. Then a voice echoed, “Defend the flanks!”
“About time they start giving orders,” Percival said, smiling and suppressing a giggle. Drain joined him momentarily, and quickly withdrew once he noticed Rein’s judgmental eyes fixed on him.
No death was a laughing matter, regardless of affiliation. This was the moment when Ganis noticed that Rein no longer harbored any hatred for the Scylds, and his oath of vengeance was directed only at Naa’tas, Pertinax’s real killer.
“Spread out and find them!” another command echoed - a different voice from before, but the Scylds followed it regardless. The Parthans remained still as they studied the battlefield, acting only to defend themselves from the occasional stray arrow heading towards them.
A group of Scylds approached one of the pits only to find themselves springing yet another trap, one of flames and painful death. “To the east!” another command the Scylds followed with utmost devotion.
Then the sound of clashing steel resonated from a distance and cries of battle erupted. The Scyld force had met with the Southern Alliance. The battle had begun, and the remaining Southern Alliance soldiers standing by the horizon decided to join. The Scylds were at a significant disadvantage, but the Parthans knew that many battles with seemingly determined outcomes ended surprising even to the most experienced strategists.
Naa’tas remained calm, sitting on his steed with his back straight, watching the Scylds die in their futile attempt to confront their crafty enemy, trap springing after trap. Then the tide of battle changed when the slower ironclad Scylds reached the Southern Alliance force. Their armor made them impervious to many of their weapons, but it also encumbered them. They cleaved through the Enkashar brutally, whom their blades fell with far lesser devastation than intended on the Scyld’s iron armor.
A shout erupted from the Enkashar ranks, “Wear them down!” The Enkashar army retreated, their speed making it impossible for the ironclad Scylds to reach them.
“Purge the enemy!” a distant voice barked from within the Scyld ranks, and the leatherclad Scylds charged at the flank of the withdrawing Enkashar.
The battle continued with small victories to each army followed by a reaction by the other army changing its position from defeated to victor. Many small skirmished broke out and subsided, soldiers weaving in and out of combat, resting as much as they could, fighting in each following charge with less vigor but equal determination.
Then Naa’tas commanded the Sacred Guard to join the battle. They were few but their cavalry charge inflicted great damage onto whoever they directed it upon. Sigurd ignored the command and withdrew away from him.
Hephaestion moved, and the Parthans followed. Naa’tas was separated from any notable force, and he was vulnerable to an attack now. Upon noticing the other Parthans approach, weapons drawn and gleaming with murderous intent, he drew his mighty greatsword nearly as long as he was tall.
Naa’tas looked behind him, noticing Sigurd prepared to strike, and calmly asked, “What is the meaning of this, Sigurd of Midland?” His face was still, not a hint of surprise or any other emotion on it.
Sigurd offered no response; he simply stared at him idly waiting for the others to arrive, holding his mighty blade with one hand and the reins of his brown steed with another.
Naa’tas slowly turned his head to his right, noticing the approaching Parthans, and smiled. “So you are the ones sent from Nosgard.” His words were meant only for Sigurd’s ear, but Ganis caught wind of them regardless.
Then the Parthans arrived, and Sigurd commanded his horse to charge, swinging his blade above him. At the height of his charge’s speed, Sigurd slashed at Naa’tas, felling the blade from above his head. Naa’tas dodged the steel easily, but his horse met a grim fate. Naa’tas tumbled on the ground and gracefully stood straight after rolling a few times. When he looked at Sigurd, it was with tremendous contempt.
Percival slashed at his back, cutting his black iron armor clean in a swift slash, revealing the pale skin beneath and provoking a surprised resentful look from Naa’tas.
“My blade doesn’t cut him,” Percival managed to shout before the back of Naa’tas’ armored hand was flung against his chest, throwing him back with impossible force into Drain who attempted to soften his brother’s fall with his own body.
Naa’tas then turned to face Sigurd, revealing his unharmed skin exposed by Percival’s strike to the approaching Parthans. He released a menacing laugh, echoing higher than any other sound on the battlefield, making the clashing of steel seem like a distant fading memory.
Encircled by the Parthans, slowly making their way around in a perfect circle, Naa’tas said, “Your steel cannot cut me and your words cannot convince me. What else do you want to try?”
Ganis took a step closer to Naa’tas, Eos held proudly in his determined grip, and said, “Sing Eos.” The blade rang in a beautiful tune as it glided through the air.
Naa’tas turned to face Ganis and was met by a mighty slash against his chest he arrogantly did not attempt to evade. Eos did indeed sing his way into Naa’tas’ flesh and drew dark blood. A look of disbelief appeared on Naa’tas’ face.
“Impossible,” Naa’tas said shockingly. He quickly punched Gani
s in the chest, an impossible blow to dodge, and he flew into Hephaestion and Ninazu, Eos still firmly gripped.
“Attack!” Hephaestion shouted, commanding an immediate response by the Parthans as the words were uttered and not a moment after it, a feat only possible to the most attuned of Onas.
Naa’tas huddled and the air around him formed a fierce twirl pushing everything away, Parthan and ground alike. After the motion subsided, a mighty black dragon emerged in Naa’tas’ stead. Its hands were sharp claws that dug into the exposed stone beneath it, scratching through the hard rock; its wings were like mighty clouds covering the sky; and its mouth was riddled by many serrated teeth, each as sharp as an Orichalcum Parthan dagger, the finest of metals any could wield.
The dragon released a mighty roar, splitting clouds and grass alike, and commanding all the soldiers, Southern Dweller and Scyld, to pause in fascination of the legendary creature’s appearance. The Scylds, when their shock disappeared, resumed the fighting with renewed vigor and replenished strength, but it was not a sight the Parthans would notice, not with what they faced.
Ganis growled and lunged at the dragon, slashing and evading stronger and faster than ever before. The moroi’s initiative drew the Parthans into the fight. Each strike was made with extreme precision, avoiding the dragon’s fatal tail swings and snapping jaw.
When a Parthan would be in harm’s way, another would push them away, creating an opening for yet another Parthan to attempt injury on their colossal adversary. The weapons were useless except for the purpose of confusion; all save for Eos who scratched at the dragon’s scales, but never inflicted a grievous wound.
Suddenly Naa’tas spread his wings and took to the skies, creating a massive shock that pinned the nine Parthans to the ground. He made for the forest nearby with large black wings violently beating the air beneath it.
In a blink of an eye, Percival readied his bow and Ninazu his crossbow, releasing precise shots at the dragon’s belly, arrows and bolts bouncing off harmlessly.
Book of Kayal: Strength of Unity Page 31