Full Metal Tunic (1150) [semi-open]

15 August anno Domini 1150
Around high noon
On Týr's Day
Shravasti, the Godless lands of the Heathen Syrixian Emperor

Ragi Hardradeætta held a gloved hand up to block the blasted sun that beat down on the port of Shravasti in Northern Syrixia.

"No wonder they call this the Empire of the Sun," Ragi muttered. The white barbed cross on red fluttered alongside the white and black banners of the King, emblazoned with oak leaves and the royal stag. The latter included the quartered cross- a symbol of their King's dedication to Kristur*. Indeed, King Rikard of the House of Loðbrók had been eager to answer the Holy Father's call for Crusade against the Syrixians for the death of simple men who only wished to spread the word of God.

Ragi was nervous. He was the second son of a Hersir*, and the Crusade was a way to prove his metal. As a warrior and a Messianist. He knew little of Syrixia as a country, but from what he could see...it was hot, bright, and the greenery thick, like a raging vermilion inferno. He left the ship, the lead to his horse in hand as he made his way down the docks. Priests were performing baptisms of Syrixians who had decided to aid the invaders, stragglers who were left behind when the fortress at Shravasti was taken. More priests could be seen saying blessings and sprinkling holy water to purify the land they now stood on. Vultures, still flying nearby to feast on the remnants of the slaughter, circled overhead.

"Not fucking likely," Ragi muttered. He needed to find Thane Gunnar of Eiderwig, Lord Marshal of the Knights of the Storm. He had his papers. He was a recently blessed heilagurriddari*, a paladin. And he'd come to Syrixia to not just join the Crusade but to join the Knights of the Storm!

The docks were flooded with people though. Knights, foot soldiers, priests, merchants and traders. A bard was playing his lute, and singing a tune...

Some folk are born made to fly the banners
Oh the red, white, and gold
And when the bard plays "Hail to the King," they point a trebuchet at ye, Lord.

'Tisn't me, 'tisn't me, I ain't no Thane's kin, nay
'Tisn't me, 'tisn't me, fortunate I ain't been, nay...

It seemed to be popular among the footmen and the archers, but the knights paid it all little mind. Ragi shrugged. It was catchy if nothing else.
"What do you say, Lauf?" Ragi asked his horse as they made their way through the encampments that had taken over the heathen fortress of Shravasti.
"A Holy Knight and Storm Knight? Not bad for an annarsonur*."

The building that flew the red, white, and gold flag of the Knights of the Storm was evident upon entering the settlement proper from the gates. Ragi tied Lauf to a hitch and made his way to the beginnings of his destiny. Unfortunately that destiny had a gatekeeper of sorts.

"Halt, knight! Where are you going?" A guardsman in a Knights of the Storm tabbard barked.

"To see Thane Eiderwig," Ragi said with a nod.
"I have here, documents signed and sealed from the Bishop of Erkiengill, affirming I am a paladin in joint cause with the Holy Father and His Majesty! I seek to join the Knights of the Storm. To serve both."

The guardsman looked it over and then looked at Ragi, mumbling to himself before a deep voice bellowed from the building.

"Damnit Natríum! Let the lad in! It's too fucking hot to be standing out there!"

Natríum grumbled, not the least of which because he HAD to stand out there in the heat, but he complied. The room Ragi walked into was wide, but sparce. Debris covered parts of the floor, and pikes with the Knights of the Storm's banner and the banner of the Thane of Eiderwig hung at the far end of the room, underneath a brilliant Syrixian painting.

There was a man pacing behind the desk. A lean but powerful fellow, with long hair pulled back into knot, cropped on each side, and a beard that wasn't wild yet, but seemed like it wanted to be.

"You're the bastard Natríum was holding up?" he growled before he poured a cup of water and gulped it down.

"Yes, I'm....I'm here to see Thane Eiderwig? I need to see the Lord Marshal..."

"You're looking at him," Thane Gunnar chuckled.
"Were the banners not obvious?"

Ragi chuckled but composed himself.
"I'm sorry my Lord, but...I've come to join the Knights of the Storm on Crusade."

Gunnar gulped down more water, catching a look from Ragi. Aye, it was true. A Prydanian opting for water over mead or beer was odd.
"Trust me, you don't want to be drinking too much alcohol in this heat, lad. Give me."

Ragi nodded and handed over his papers.

"The seal of the Bishop of Erkiengill and...." Gunnar's eyes went wide.
"This is a Royal seal, boy."

"Ye...yes, my Lord," Ragi nodded.
"My father, Hersir Hardradeætta was..." but he stopped as Gunnar put up his hand.

"Do you know what Lord Marshal of the Storm Knights means?"

"It means you're duty bound to the King and..."

"It means I'm the Royal Executor. I'm the only man aside from the King himself who can issue the Royal seal. I didn't issue this seal, meaning the King himself must have."

"The King," Ragi began, thinking of a new way to frame what he'd been saying just now when Gunnar cut him off, "is my father's liege lord. He knighted me, on the word of the Bishop."

"Hardradeætta...you're from the Crownlands, ja?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"The King is your liege lord, it would seem. So tell me Ragi of Hersir Hardradeætta, knighted by the King and made holy by the Bishop of Erkiengill, how old are you?"

"Eighteen, my Lord," Ragi said truthfully.

"Have you killed a man before?"

"NNnno," Ragi admitted.

"That's all well and good," Gunnar shrugged. "Most men here haven't. What matters is, are you willing to?"

"I...yes, my Lord. Of course."

"Good," Gunnar replied as Ragi's heart began to race and his body tensed up with nerves.
"We face Godless heathens here. Waves of them. They will not stop coming for us. You must be vicious, because we ride for our King, and God. Already the heathens call us 'axe wielders." Are you ready then, Ragi Hardradeætta, to make them fear the axe of a Godly man?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Are you ready to fight, and earn yourself honour for faith, in the name of God?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"And are you ready to stand by your brothers, united in that faith?"

Ragi felt like his heart was going to burst through his throat, but he nodded.
"Yes...yes my Lord."

"And do you swear to serve your King, in all things? Even if it means your death?"

Ragi nodded, for a moment longer, before managing to say "yes, my Lord" once more.

"Kneel," Gunnar grunted. Ragi felt his heart leap into his throat again, but he realized what was happening and quickly knelt.

"In the name of Richard of House Loðbrók, by the Grace of God, King of Prydania, Lord Protector of Austurland, Marshal of Býkonsviði, Lord Uniter, Defender of the Faith...I name you, Knight Paladin Ragi of House Hardradeætta of the Crownlands, a Knight of the Storm."
He tapped a sword on each of Ragi's shoulders before sheathing it once again.
"Stand."

Ragi stood, nodding, unsure what he should say. Gunnar helped him with that.

"Welcome to the jungles of Syrixia."

---

*Kristur- Christ
*Hersir- minor noble
*heilagurriddari- holy knight
*annarsonur- second son

---

The March of the Varangian Guard by Turasis, 3:51

Shravasti, the Godless lands of the Heathen Syrixian Emperor

Hella Rugen strode down the dirt paths of the Prydanian stronghold and savoured the feeling of once again being on solid ground. Her companion, an odd little man in a monk's habit, stumbled along behind her as he struggled to keep up. The crusaders had claimed this region mere weeks earlier, there was still plenty of evidence of the siege lining the grounds in the form of rubble and battered arms.

She was a tall woman with a stern face that rarely smiled, a trait common amongst the ascetics of the Rugen tribe. She had a certain austere beauty about her with her deep blue eyes and narrow well-boned face. Her dark hair was tightly braided in warriors' rings and she wore a snow leopard fur cloak about her shoulders marking her as an accomplished hunter. She moved through the crowded paths of Shravasti with the confidant stride of a huntress and the long blade resting on her back served as a warning to any would-be obstacles.

Soldiers milled about grumbling about the heat and shading themselves from the accursed Syrixian sun. Hella considered the unhorsed to be a soft people, they had not been hardened by the rigours of life on the steppe but one thing she agreed entirely with was how wretched the Syrixian climate was. If Essalanea was the cradle of Ziu’s world, clearly Syrixia was its oven.

They journeyed past crowds of priests who busied themselves with proselytizing and baptismal rites, the unhorsed had come to bring their one god to the Suchari and they cared not what the locals thought about this. Her companion grinned eagerly as he saw the priests doing their god's work, he looked at her with an expression of proud astonishment.

“Truly I am blessed to see the day that my lords' word is carried to the heathens,” the little monk said in an excited voice

“I could care less about your nailed god; I am here for the coin!” Hella snapped as she rolled her eyes in disgust

The unhorsed were strange people, obsessed with their nailed deity and spreading his worship wherever they journeyed. Hella had always found this “Kristur” an odd choice for reverence, after all, he was no glorious warrior or mighty beast, instead, the god of the unhorsed was a dying man who had been bound to a cross. Ziu seemed a far more logical deity, he was strong and had demonstrated his worth through feats of arms and cunning.

Her companion had spent the entire voyage incessantly praising the god of the Courantists, so much so that Hella had been forced to silence him with a well-placed knock to the skull. Henry of Dinsmark was like that, utterly infused about all things and all too happy to tell everyone he met about it. She often wondered how she had ended up with such an unlikely travelling companion.

The monk had been travelling across the steppe when he had run afoul of the Rugen, his attempts to convert the locals being met with a mix of laughter and light violence. The clan had happily enslaved the oblivious man who did not seem to mind the whacks to the head and daily chores, eventually, the Rugen began to wonder if the poor man was simple.

Hella had been gifted the monk as a servant to aid her in interacting with the crusaders, the small man had jumped at the chance to return to his people. Sometimes Hella wished the clan had simple sacrificed the poor wretch and been done with it, he lingered around her like a bad smell and his habit of scribbling everything he saw in a large leather-bound tome was nothing short of infuriating.

“So, are we off to meet the commanders?” Henry asked in a curious voice

“No, we are off to find ale and women” Hella muttered before cuffing the monk about the head

The two soon found the first item that Hella sought in the form of a merchant stall, an improvised tavern having been set up for the countless new arrivals. Walking under the shade of linen tents they took a seat at the far back of the stall and ordered food and beer from a pudgy Gotic merchant in a grease-covered apron.

The unhorsed soon began to stare, they always did, a woman at arms was a rare sight amongst the unhorsed and the crusaders regarded her with a mixture of fascination and bemusement. Hella could have cared less, let them stare so long as they didn’t get in her way. A serving wench soon handed them two plates of steaming stew and bread and wooden cups filled with ale, Hella downed her ale in a single motion and then set about devouring her stew.

Henry seemed genuinely uncomfortable as he pecked at his food, he was clearly not used to the uninhibited manner of a plain's woman. Hella had seen unhorsed women before, pitiful and demure creatures who scraped and toiled before men they should have been equal too. If the unhorsed were expecting Hella to eat in a “ladylike” manner then they would be disappointed, she more resembled a she-wolf.

After they had eaten Hella set about polishing her blade, the long-curved sabre glittering in her hands as she worked the metal with a whetstone. It was a beautiful thing; the steel had been hacked from the snow-crested mountains of the pale wastes by Rugen bondsmen and then shaped into an edge that seemed almost blue in colour. The hilt and pommel too were things of almost unusual delicacy shaped as they were from polished mammoth ivory. Knochentöter* had served her well in its years of service, she had killed men from one end of Craviter to the other with its honed edge.

“The capture of Shravasti is merely the beginning, soon we will begin moving inland, the crusade will bring light to the whole island!” Henry said enthusiastically

“I'm sure the Syrixian’s will be overjoyed...” Hella replied disinterestedly not looking up from her blade

“do your people not preach the word of Ziu to outsiders?” Henry asked in a sincerely curious voice

“Ziu is a god of the strong, the faithful come to him not the other way around, I will never understand your people's incessant need to go cap in hand to every non-believer, is your god a deity or a beggar?” Hella replied firmly

“We merely wish to spread the good word to all peoples.” Henry shot back his tone suddenly becoming defensive

“Well as long as that word ensures a steady supply of gold and worthy enemies, I have no cause to oppose your strange god” Hella replied ending the conversation

The clans had come from across the steppe to work as mercenaries both for and against the Syrixians. War in the isles meant the potential for names to be made and immense wealth to be won, it was an opportunity no son or daughter of Essalan would ever pass up. To her knowledge Hella knew that most warriors fighting on the side of the empire were Volkmann, the Karg and Rugen meanwhile had eagerly joined the crusader armies seeking to anoint their swords with Suchari blood. Either way, the slaughter was coming and with that the possibility for immortality.

*Warriors rings forged from the shattered blades of defeated enemies, a mark of martial prowess in Essalanean culture
*"Bone Slayer"

16th of Late Summer, the Year 3027 of the Sixth Mortal Age
Ports of Pataliputra, Syrixian Empire

The air was cool as the sky slowly began to brighten up from a deep black to a dark blue. There were still some hours yet left before the infamous heat of the Syrixian day kicked in. Afonasei Dmitriev climbed up to the top deck of the dragon ship he was sailing upon. There were already many others up on the top deck looking out towards the docks of Pataliputra as the ships pulled in. The fleet of Arcanstotskan sail ships was of decent size, carrying a small army of mercenaries and Drakonist holy warriors, as well as their weapons and some supplies.

Afonasei’s father, Oleg, followed him up to the deck, dressed in a deep red tunic. His belt stretched across his waist and to his belt were fastened his sword and battle-axe. His dirty-blonde beard was braided at the end and his once long hair was cut almost to bald. Afonasei had the same dirty blonde hair. He had no beard, though he was eager to grow one.

“Reign in your eagerness, my son,” Oleg placed a hand on his teenage son’s shoulder. Afonasei was excited to finally get ashore. The sooner they disembarked, the sooner they would march off to war.

“Sorry, father,” Afonasei replied. “Just a little excited is all.”

“Excited to disembark this vessel,” Oleg looked down to meet his son in the eyes. “Or excited to see war?”

Afonasei looked down, knowing his father would likely not be pleased with his answer. “Both, I guess. We are here to spill Messianist blood for the Gods, aren’t we?”

“Aye, that we are,” Oleg began. “But only a fool eagerly rushes into battle.”

“But father, I’ve waited my whole life for this - an opportunity to prove that I am a man!”

Oleg chuckled at his son’s impatience. “You’ve waited eighteen years, Afonasei. I think you can wait a little longer to fight the Messianists.”

Afonasei sighed. He knew his father was right. Perhaps he was being too eager after all. But still, this was his chance to prove that he was a man.

“Don’t worry, Afonasei,” another voice spoke up from behind the two. Afonasei recognized the voice and turned to meet eyes with the speaker. The voice was feminine, yet old and strong. A voice that did not demand respect, but rather commanded it. It was that kind of firm older voice that you knew carried wisdom with it. A strong hand fell on Afonasei’s shoulder once again, but this time it was the hand of a woman.

Afonasei and Oleg bowed their heads when they realized who it was. “Battlesister Avdotia,” Oleg smiled, embracing his friend and sister-in-arms. Avdotia embraced back, a smile on her face as well.

“I see we have finally arrived in Syrixia,” Avdotia’s eyes shifted towards the port.

“Yes,” Oleg confirmed. “Soon we shall disembark. I cannot wait to step upon sturdy land again if you know what I mean. I never received Nora’s blessing to have a taste for sailing.”

Avdotia chuckled. “I don’t think any of us received it, Oleg, save the crews of our ships.” Oleg smiled.

Avdotia was dressed in a red tunic, much like Oleg, but she had a wolf pelt draped around her back and over her head and shoulders. A mark of a skilled huntress and a warrior spirit. Afonasei greatly admired her. Many nights he dreamed of achieving glory on the battlefield as she had, not only for the Tsar back home but for the Dragon Gods themselves. He dreamed of commanding the same respect that Avdotia did, in all her experience in life and war.

“The godsdamned Messianists,” Afonasei began, looking out to the port and imagining himself standing triumphant and invincible before broken and defeated crusaders. “They think they can just show up wherever they please and demand that all submit to their nailed man-god.” Avdotia and Oleg looked at each other briefly before Avdotia broke the awkward silence.

“Have you ever even killed a man before, Afonasei?”

“No,” Afonasei admitted, a little embarrassed. “But I’m ready and willing!” Avdotia just laughed, to Afonasei’s offense.

“You speak of glory in battle but with how you seem to be thinking of things the only thing you’ll find in war is an axe dug into your skull, boy! You have never taken the life of a human and yet you dream of standing tall before broken men? The battlefield will mature you yet, Afonasei.”

Afonasei’s face turned red, he could feel the attention of others falling upon him and he didn’t like it. “I am no weakling!” He swung his arm and slapped Avdotia across her face. “I will be a great and powerful holy warrior! The Gods will favor me! You’ll see!”

Avdotia recovered quickly from the slap. She drove her fist across Afonasei’s face, knocking him to the ground. She picked him up and pinned him against the mast.

“Strike me again boy and the only thing you will be is blood upon my blade.” She growled. Afonasei was wide-eyed with fear, shedding tears from the pain. His sense of strength and fearlessness were all gone now, beaten out of him in an instant. Now he knew only shame and fear.

Oleg stepped in and placed a hand on Avdotia’s shoulder. “Let him go,” he told her. She complied and released the boy, who dropped to his knees sobbing. Oleg bent down and pulled up Afonasei’s bent-over head so their eyes met. His stern, angry eyes and Afonasei’s crying eyes that pleaded forgiveness and screamed of shame. “From now on, boy, you will keep your mouth shut and show respect. Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes, father.” Afonasei whimpered.

“Good. Now stand up and do not look at me. You have invited enough embarrassment for one day.”

Afonasei climbed to his feet, his face down toward the ground. Their ship was fastened to the docks of Pataliputra, capital of the Syrixian Empire. Gathered on the docks before the ship was a group of Syrixian soldiers surrounding a man who looked to be of great wealth and political importance. Some court official to the Syrixian Emperor, Afonasei assumed. Avdotia stepped forward, moving past the other soldiers standing along the edge of the ship. She stepped down to the docks to meet the Syrixian official face-to-face.

“Greetings, Arcanstotskan,” the Syrixian spoke warmly. “Welcome to Pataliputra. We have been expecting your arrival and are thankful for your assistance in our Empire’s time of need.”

“And we are glad to be of help, Syrixian. It has been a long voyage and the goddess Nora has not blessed my men with sea legs. We are eager to stand upon solid ground once more.”

The Syrixian chuckled. “If you and your companions will come with me, we shall inform you as to the current state of the war. Then you and your band shall ride north and meet up with a reinforcement army we have assembled to attack the crusaders.”

“Of course.” Avdotia turned and motioned for everyone to disembark. Oleg went, and Afonasei followed behind.

The Syrixian and his soldiers led the Arcanstotskans through the sleeping streets and into a lavish building. Perhaps it was the workplace of this Syrixian? Where he managed his duties to his Emperor? There were similar buildings back in Siloyev, where the Tsar’s palace was kept separate from the buildings where Siloyev itself was governed. Though the designs were noticeably different.

Most of the Arcanstotskans waited outside, while Oleg, Avdotia, and Afonasei followed the Syrixian into the building. They were led into a room with assembled military leaders all standing around a battle map that looked to detail the northern coast of Syrixia.

“Ah, the Arcanstotskans have finally arrived,” one commander remarked upon seeing Avdotia and Oleg.

“Aye, that we have,” Avdotia responded.

“I am Bhanabatta Thanesara, the lead commander here,” a Syrixian man spoke up, dressed in armor. “Are we to receive more reinforcements from your Tsar, Arcanstotskan?” He asked, standing opposite the map from Avdotia.

“We do not fight on the Tsar’s behalf. Among our number are both mercenaries and Drakonist holy warriors looking to spill Courantist blood. So long as we are properly paid for our assistance, we will ensure that no crusader sword falls upon your people’s god-emperor.”

“If we win this war, Arcanstotskan, I will ensure that you and your band of dragon-servants will be handsomely rewarded.”

Avdotia smiled, as too did Oleg. Afonasei didn’t care for monetary payment. He only wanted to prove himself and win a great religious victory for Drakonism over Messianism.

Avdotia and Oleg conversed with the Syrixian commanders for some time, discussing strategies and tactics. It dragged on for some hours. The infamous Syrixian heat was finally beginning to kick in. Afonasei could feel it, and he didn’t like it at all. He wasn’t even moving around and he was already sweating like a pig. He dreaded the thought of fighting the crusaders in this heat.

“How many forces have you, Arcanstotskan?”

“One hundred fifty archers, two hundred footmen, seventy horse-riders with need of horses, twenty of whom are horse archers. My men and women are battle-hardened veterans of the Tsar’s own military campaigns at home. Shock combat, hit-and-run, whatever you need. So long as we’re in the fight.”

“Very well,” Thanesara nodded. “You and your force shall ride north with my army, Arcanstotskan. We shall sweep the Courantists from Syrixia and back out to sea. Follow me.”

The three Arcanstotskans followed Thanesara outside to mount some horses. More horses were brought in as well for the rest of the Arcanstotskan soldiers. The small army began to mount up, and they set off to meet up with Thanesara’s northbound army. Horses were even provided for the small group of Drakonist priests and shamans who had tagged along.

Afonasei looked down at his necklace dangling around his neck - it was a small carved-out wooden dragon, a small prayer item to give a prayer to the Gods. He brought it up to his mouth and whispered a prayer.

“Oh great Dragon Gods above, winged masters of all there ever was and all there ever shall be, grant me the strength to see this war through and win glory in Your Names against the nailed man-god. If I am to die, may I return to the Allmother, oh divine First Dragon, Carrier of the Worlds, Great Lifegiver, and be Made One with You. Hail to the Dragons, most divine of all beings.” He kissed the wooden dragon and rested it against his chest.

Shravasti

The sun. Unforgiving. The smell. Rotting corpses and fresh fish. The lands. Foreign. The people. Complicated.

A man sat upon a horse, one of many, hitched to a cart. Men bustled around him slowly loading it with supplies and equipment. Provisions, water, swords, shields, armor, everything necessary for a long campaign. The man had an air of self importance about him. His gaze fell only forward as if transfixed onto some point that only he could see. Some would call it seeing one’s destiny. Kiefer, however, called it being nuts. The man was Friedrich von Hacke. Sorry. Sir Friedrich Von Hacke as he was always quick to state and correct. The son of some minor noble from Hochstabt. A man who’s quest for greatness was inexorable. And Kiefer was along for the ride.

Friedrich sniffed in a huge sum of air before exhaling. “Reminds you of home doesn’t it Kiefer!” he exclaimed without breaking from his staring contest with destiny.

“Forgive me for when I say, the hell it does,” Kieffer rebutted, whilst trying to load another crate onto the cart. He was quickly assisted by one his esteemed compatriots Rembert. Rembert was a jolly fellow. Always found trying to raise the spirits of his comrades in arms. Or at least that’s how he saw himself. The truth of the matter was up for debate.

“Now, now Kieffer, it is all about perspective,” Rembert commented as he gestured to all the locals in the nearby makeshift bazaar. “We were poor back in the reik, they are all poor here. We don’t bathe, they don’t bathe. It’s practically the same.”

They both grunted, shoving the crate of spare weaponry into place. Kiefer stopped for a moment as if pondering the statement. “What do you mean we’re poor? You’re poor! You keep spending all your hard-earned coin! And...And I bathe!”

“Not often enough,” quipped a man sitting ready at the reins of the cart. The cart driver, though he would claim that was not his profession, was Wigand. No one had more of a mysterious past than Wigand. And by mysterious, it was well known he was a pickpocket. Friedrich wouldn’t shut up about how noble he was by sparing his life much to Wigand’s dismay.

“Hush you kotzbrocken*,” Kiefer quipped back.

“Are you done loading yet?”

“Almost, Dietger’s coming with the last of it,” Kiefer replied, pointing to a large man carrying more supplies that seemed humanly possible in his arms and on his back. The man towered over the crowd he was maneuvering through. Many quickly made way lest they be crushed under foot.

Rembert went to help his towering comrade grabbing the smallest item off of his body. “Dietger, friend, you know I was thinking, your handsome, quiet composure will be a hit with the locals. Not that they could understand us anyways. But you! You are not burdened with language. You’ll be a hit!”

Dietger merely unloaded the rest of their supplies into the already packed cart. He turned to Rembert, who was still beaming with pride at his own joke. Dietger couldn’t help but smirk a little.

“Whatever you say little man,” he said, giving Rembert a little too rough of a smack on the back.

“Are you done loading yet!” Wigand whined louder this time. All the men tried to shuffle onto the cart and squeezed in. It was a bit of a tight fit.

“Yes! Yes... we’re done. We can go now. You’re worse than my late mother. God rest her soul.” Kiefer replied.

Sir Friedrich, who still sat upon one of the horses, his vision still locked onto some unknown point, exclaimed, "Onwards brothers! We take what is ours and leave the rest to God!”

The men sitting in the cart gave a half hearted cheer. The knight, clearly not pleased with the amount of enthusiasm, slowly turned his vision back to his brothers in arms with a deadly stare. The four men cheered louder and louder. Friedrich nodded, clearly satisfied, before kicking his heels into the horse. Wigand took that as the queue to rustle the reins to get the horses moving.

“Kiefer?”, Wigand asked.

“Yes Wigand,” he replied.

“Does he know where we’re going?”

“If he knew that, we wouldn’t have ended up here,” Kiefer chuckled.


*pile of puke

On the path to Kala Kheta

A sliver of road cutting through the dense jungle forests stretched far beyond the gaze of the noble knight leading his merry band. Not that he was really paying attention to his surroundings anyways. He merely heeled his horse every once in a while to keep up the pace. The cart bounced and rolled on the poorly maintained road. The group had opted for walking alongside, lest they break a wheel and find themselves stuck in the middle of a strange and unforgiving jungle. Kiefer stared at his savior as he walked along, thinking back to when he actually had become his savior. Now Kiefer had to admit he did not like using the word ‘savior’. Sure he was bleeding his guts out in the courtyard of castle Altengamme. Yes there were a couple of ‘unsavory’ types about to perform a ‘coup de grace’. But even then Kiefer felt that was not his end. And he was proven right! Though at what cost has always been the question that has followed Kiefer. That was some time ago. Ten years.

“Damn. It’s been ten years…,” Kiefer muttered to himself.

“That attitude will not do Kiefer! It has only been a handful of hours, we have at least a day's ride ahead of us yet,” Friedrich said without so much as looking back.

“Aye, Sir, Sorry Sir,” Kiefer replied. The heat and humidity was getting to him. It was making him introspective. He did his best to try and shake the feeling. He had a job, nay, they all had a job to do.

For a man so hellbent on acquiring destiny, Friedrich von Hacke. Sorry. Sir Friedrich von Hacke was very forthcoming when it came to hiring his services. Payment first, services later. Kiefer did not mind this one bit. For all his faults their auspicious commander did find them work regularly and Kiefer and company in turn delivered on the promises of their leader. Though how this landed them across a sea and in a jungle was yet to be seen.

Rembert must have noticed Kiefer’s somber mood because he immediately clasped him by the shoulder. “What ales you my dear Kiefer, you haven't said nary a word since we set off. This isn’t like you friend,” he said with his usual chipper tune.

“Nothing ales me, I’m uh...appreciating the climate is all,” Kiefer replied. Rembert’s expression told Kiefer all he needed to know. That he was not buying Kiefer’s white lie and that he would have none of that.

Rembert exclaimed rather loudly “Freddy! Kiefer’s bein’ mysterious again!”

Wigand chuckled from behind the reins whilst giving a knowing look to Dietger as if to say ‘here we go again’.

“Kiefer! What have I told you about lying to your friends? Heavy is a soul filled with secrets,” Friedrich commented from up on his horse.

“I was uh… merely ruminatin’ on the fact that we've been at this business quite a while now… and I was thinking on how it would all end up for our lot,” Kiefer said solemnly.

Wigand piped up and commented, ”Well I always thought it was gonna be a beheadin’ for sure... or starvin’... or the Warnow Walkin’ Plague...or fallin’ into a ditch…”

Rembert nodded along with most of the suggestions before looking at his friend on the cart. “Falling into a ditch? That’s how you think you’ll die?”

Wigand looked a bit rebuffed at Rembert’s question. “W-Well I always thought it was a bad way to go. Bein' stuck and all.”

“Well sure it’s not the most pleasant experience I am sure, but why do you think that’s gonna be the one to get you,” Rembert prodded. Kiefer sighed in relief, their focus had shifted to someone else, he thanked the almighty for the enigma that was Wigand. Always there to run distraction. Even if it wasn't on purpose. It was one of his better qualities. Diegter, however, fell into walking right next to Kiefer quietly and without him noticing.

“Thinking of home, eh?” he said, keeping his eyes forward as if he was embarrassed to face him while he asked. Kiefer looked at Diegter with a bit of surprise. Perhaps this was the big man’s way of admitting he felt the same way as Kiefer. Missing home. Questioning one's life. He never took Diegter to be a thinking man, but perhaps he too was ruminating. If that was the case, then who was Kiefer to judge?

“Aye, that and just how all this was nothing like the life I thought I was going to live”

Diegter nodded slowly, gave a bit of a cough and walked toward the front of the rolling cart. “Alright little man, it's my turn!” With little effort Deiget picked up Wigand off the cart, despite his loud verbal complaints and cursing, and placed him on the ground before climbing up to take the reins himself.

“Damned werewolf of a man!” Wigand complained again, whilst muttering to himself and smacking a thumb sized mosquito off his neck. Remebert started to sing the song ‘The Pale Ladies of Waldenhafen', his voice the only one for miles in the dense jungle. Kiefer thought he could hear Friedrich humming along. The man’s never changed. He smiled to himself, happy to return to the monotonous march.

Shravasti, the Godless lands of the Heathen Syrixian Emperor


No man's land

The air was cool, a herald of a coming rainstorm, providing a brief respite from the cursed humidity. Henry cowered behind the wall of a nearby hut, from his hiding place he watched as Hella cut through the natives like a scythe. He kept telling himself that he should look away, that it was perverse to watch other men die, but his body would not respond, he was transfixed by the bloody hex of battle.

The village had long since been abandoned by its original inhabitants, instead, it had served as a makeshift camp for a collection of Syrixian scouts. The lords of the crusade had marked these men for destruction, not wanting their advance to be witnessed by prying eyes. It had been a week's long game of cat and mouse tracking them, they knew the jungle like the back of their hands and they covered their tracks well.

Eventually, though mistakes had been made, the Syrixian’s had thought their trail lost and chosen to rest in this dilapidated village for a night. The scent of woodsmoke and the noise of men at rest had been all Hella had needed to find the enemy, and she had brought fury with her when she finally met them face to face. A squad of mercenaries had followed, brutish men all too familiar with the ugly business of murder.

They had fallen upon the scouts just before dawn, most had died in their beds or bleary-eyed and half-naked as they reached for weapons. Some though had fought; those ones had met the bloodiest ends. The scout's leader, a stocky man in mail, had brandished a Tulwar as he squared off against Hella, compared with the plains woman he seemed utterly diminutive, and yet he stood his ground. With a steady grip, the warrior had readied himself to swing at the Rugen warrior.

Hella had remained utterly impassive as the man had advanced with his sword arm raised, her hands resting on the hilt of her blade as he did so. At first, Henry had thought her lack of urgency a sign of bravado or arrogance, then the bloody revelation had dawned on him as she made her true intent clear. With one practised movement, Hella had raised Knochtentoter at a cutting arc and brought the blade upward with a metallic hum.

The Essalanean steel clashed with the iron of the Tulwar, it was a short engagement as the steppe blade cut through the inferior metal with contemptible ease and sliced the man's head clean from his shoulders. The head flew clear of its body and rolled into a nearby ditch with a sickening thump, the body crumpled and fell back as thick gouts of arterial blood flowed onto the earth. Hella nodded at the slain warrior in a gesture of respect and then raised her blade and in a series of swinging motions began to shake free some of the gore that was slick on the edge of the sword.

She turned and regarded henry with an expression that was a mix of disgust and oddly enough, pity as well. She nodded to the warriors who had accompanied her and they wordlessly began to loot and scavenge anything they could find. Henry didn’t move, his legs were a quivering mass unable to hold him up, he just knelt against the wall and watched.

Clothing was stripped from broken bodies, soldiers grinned from mouths filled with rotting teeth as they methodically picked the massacred remains clean of everything of value. Henry watched as an archer knelt next to the arrow punctured body of a slain warrior and began to smash his teeth in with the handle of his dagger before prizing free a set of gold caps. Henry felt his stomach churn and fell to the ground his body weak as a stream of vomit flowed from his lips.

He raised his head dizzily to see Hella towering over him, she had a quizzical look upon her stern features, like a wolf regarding wounded prey. She reached for a rag that had been stuffed in her belt and tossed it to the monk before wordlessly taking a seat on a nearby bench. Once he had wiped most of the mess from his front, he sat back exhausted.

“Not as glorious as your church claimed aye?” she said her voice oddly sympathetic

“I've never seen a real battle before” he admitted his face red with shame

“And yet you praised this war when we arrived as “bringing light to the whole island” did you not?” she said in an accusing tone

That he had, naively he had imagined the crusade as a war between noble knights and devil-worshipping heretics, the reality seemed less clear cut. Almost as in response to his previous naivete a mercenary relieved himself against a nearby hut while his comrades busied themselves piling the bodies a ditch.

“Come give us a hand Rutger, you lazy shit!” someone yelled out as another body was hurled onto the pile

It began to rain, a sudden and fierce deluge that roared into life from seemingly nowhere, all efforts to clear the village were abandoned as men rushed into the huts for shelter. Hella, already under the cover of a roof simply regarded her companion with a knowing look.

“I had hoped to see gods work done,” Henry said sadly as he moved shakily toward the bench

Hella moved slightly to give the monk space, Henry slumped next to her, he was tiny next to the Essalanean’s tall figure. He watched as the rain pounded the earth turning everything it touched into a single damp mass, blood, vomit and mud intermingling in a sickening mélange.

“Look around you priest, this is god's work,” Hella said bluntly

“How could something like this be of god!” Henry protested shocked by the anger in his voice

Hella chuckled, it was the first time she had made such a noise and it was scarier than any scream, it was a mirthless sound like a blade scraping against leather. She clapped the priest on the back, a gesture that nearly knocked the cleric from his seat. Then without a pause, she proceeded to clean her blade with a dirty linen rag.

“Ziu gives men needs and the means to satisfy them, is it such a surprise when those needs conflict? These men wanted to live, I wanted coin, the stronger party got what it wanted and the weaker didn’t, God makes the world simple, it's you unhorsed with all your talk of love and salvation that never tire of complicating things” she explained coldly never looking up from her work

That was Essalanean theology, direct and grimly practical, it was much like the people who subscribed to it. Henry still believed his own faith and God were the first and only truth, but he couldn’t help but feel oddly hypocritical when the reality of this holy war was laid bare before his eyes.

“The church fathers...they teach that it is the duty of all the faithful to bring Kristur’s salvation to the non-believers," he said desperately, more to himself than Hella

“You think the men in that ditch care about salvation?” Hella asked dryly as she motioned toward the body pile

“What other justification could there be for all of this!” Henry replied his voice filled with despair

“A group of fat and greedy men with metal upon their heads decided that they wanted more, there's your justification, don’t confuse the acts of god with the wants of men,” Hella said bluntly

Henry sighed and lay back; he closed his eyes and tried to smother the images of death and cruelty that flashed in his mind. Perhaps Hella was right, perhaps like so many others, he had been all too eager to conflate the acts of men with the will of God, whatever the truth he was convinced that no god was present in the red-stained downpour.

Kala Kheta

“I count two on the palisades,” whispered Kiefer. He was crouched behind a fallen tree that was half sunk into the mud. The jungle hid them well. Though the Suchari had cleared much between them and the Kernburg*. Well what looked like a Kernburg. It had more intricate designs, and the stonework was different, almost art with its embossment, but the principle was the same. A big stone tower on a hill overlooking a nearby bridge and town. Kiefer glanced at his comrade in arms desperately trying to fight off the mosquitos without causing a racket. A loud slap echoed in the night. Got one. Thousand more to go. Kiefer stifled a laugh and shook his head in resignation.

“Aye, there’s one way up on top of the tower as well. Guessing at least a handful more inside. At least,” Diegter said, pointing up at the man in the distance slightly illuminated by the moonlight. A glint coming off his spear in the darkness.

“Better head back and get ready then,” Kiefer replied as he tapped Diegter on the shoulder to join him in retreating back into the darkness of the jungle. After a bit of stumbling in the dark and silent cursing as the mosquito threat kept up its assault, Kiefer and Diegter finally managed to return to their small camp that they had made a ways off the road. No fire was lit, so it was still dark even in the camp. The only give away was the heavy breathing of the horses hitched nearby. The rustling of leaves and branches alerted the rest of the merry band to their presence.

“Who goes there? A scoundrel?” Friedrich von Hacke harshly whispered in the dark. Sorry, Sir Friedrich von Hacke. His hand firmly on the pommel of his sword. A Sword passed down generations he would say. Kiefer, not wanting to be killed by his own friends, responded the only way he knew.

“Who are you calling a scoundrel, you melon!” Kiefer rebuffed as he ripped away some leaves so he could stand better in their small camp. Diegter bumped into him slightly as he too entered the camp.

“Ah it is only you, Kiefer, for a moment I thought perhaps our ruse was already discovered,” Friedrich replied, breathing a sigh of relief. Just past him Kiefer saw Wigand sitting on rock struggling to strap on climbing spikes around his boots. Diegter moved past them to go help his smaller friend. Behind them Rembert was gathering arrows in bunches and putting them in a satchel he was carrying. He was on the verge of whistling a tune, but made due with a low humming.

“We saw three that we know of, probably a handful more inside the keep,” Kiefer reported to his sire. Friedrich nodded along as he opened one of the boxes in the back of their wagon. The chainmail shined slightly in the moonlight that pierced the canopy above. “Give us a hand, would you, good Kiefer?” Friedrich asked as a friend, but it was more of a command. Kiefer quickly moved to help his charge heft the heavy chainmail over him so he could slip into it without any problems. While the man struggled with his surcoat, Kiefer lifted his own chainmail onto himself with great effort. He immediately returned to help Friedrich tie down all the necessary loops and straps to keep it firmly on him. He leaned in while doing so, ”Are you sure about this Friedrich? Head on? Four through the front?”

“Would you have us all sneaking in from the rear? I am not yet ready to sour myself in such a manner!” he replied, as he allowed Kiefer to strap on the knight’s sword belt and latching it to his scabbard.

“I heard that…” grumbled Wigand as he stood to gather his rope and daggers.

Even in the dark Kiefer could see Friedrich beaming with a smile. “Remember Kiefer, No dying this time. God has a purpose for you yet,” he said as he put on his iron helm. He marched away back to his horse.

So you keep reminding me thought Kiefer. He received a pat on the back from Wigand. “Heading out, see you boys on the flip side.” The man faded into the darkness that was this jungle as he walked past Kiefer. Kiefer sighed as he made his way to the horses. All of his comrades were already mounted and waiting. He too got up on a horse taking the reins in one hand. Rembert tossed him his own sword in scabbard. And then...they waited. In the dark. The only sound keeping them company, their soft breathing. Kiefer didn’t know how Friedrich handled wearing his helm already. It was suffocating and obscuring. As if the jungle around them wasn’t doing that already. He looked over to Diegter, he leaned against his spear as he sat on his horse, trying to rest a bit. Rembert was quiet, his usual chipper demeanor had vanished. Time to earn his pay, Kiefer supposed. Each moment that passed felt like an eternity. And after what felt like a lifetime waiting in the dark, his liege made a gesture for them to depart. Kiefer sucked in a big gulp of air before donning his own helmet and then they were off. Into the dark of the night.


*Kernburg is a the stone “castle” part of a defense.

22 August 1150
Northern Syrixia

Damir tightened his grip about the hilt of his sword, listening for the sounds of marching and men speaking in foreign, unknowable tongues. He and the rest of his band of nayemniki had assumed positions on opposite sides of a small path cutting through the brush and greenery. It was raining. Hard.
It was a Messianist scouting party that they were waiting for. The trap was set. The men were in place. All that was left was for the prey to wander into the killing ground.

Shiny coins and calls for holy war had compelled these veteran men from the land of the dragon worshippers to subject themselves to this Syrixian misery. How any people could grow up in such a hell-ridden land was beyond Damir, much less some self-proclaimed empire of the sun. He could barely tolerate this land. Three times he’d spewed out food he’d eaten since arriving.

But the sun-men were paying him and his company to kill crusaders, so he and his company were determined to send them into the embrace of death. To Iisus and Deva Mariya and all of their other weird Messianist gods. He and the others had already consulted their own war god, Rokhyuta—that he may see them to victory or grant them good deaths.

But he could hear them coming. The Messianists. The enemy.

Closer. Closer.

The crusaders too traveled light. Their heavy equipment was probably back at Shravasti with their comrades. Damir could see them growing closer. He could see them through openings between the leaves and grass, coming down the path. Damir and his men had hidden in the thick brush, crouched in the mud on both sides of the trail which ran through a narrow trench along this portion. Once the Messianists were in place, they’d leap from hiding and jump on top of the crusaders.

Closer. Closer.

The crusaders were about upon them now. Just a few more steps…
The man leading the patrol party stepped on a twig with a snap.

With a cry of fury, Damir jumped up to his feet and charged. He leaped down from the brush, bashing a man in the face with his small shield before thrashing his throat. The others jumped in with him, catching the crusaders by complete surprise. Damir charged into another crusader, catching the man’s sword with his shield and pushing the blade aside before thrusting into the foe’s torso with his own.

The crusaders’ longer, clumsier swords weren’t good for the tight passage. Another crusader tried to swing for Damir’s neck. Caught just in time by his sword. The crusader pulled his sword back and tried to bring it down on top of Damir. Again it was caught—Damir brought his shield above his head and impaled the man’s stomach with his shorter sword. The crusader dropped his sword and collapsed onto his knees. Damir swung his head off.

Damir looked over to see that his men were finishing off the small scouting party. The last of the crusaders tried to make a break for it, only to get stuck through the chest by a fallen crusader’s spear.

This foe had little spirit that he’d seen. Rokhyuta had smiled upon him today.

“What happens when they don’t see their scouts again?” One of the others asked before digging his axe into a wounded crusader’s skull. It had the same wet smack sound to it as a log drenched in rain. Another one of Damir’s men was about to finish off a younger crusader cowering in the mud and gunk of the jungle floor. Damir put a hand on his soldier’s shoulder and grapped the young crusading boy, pulling him up to his feet.

There was a look of fear in the boy’s eyes. His eyes darting, his breathing frantic, his limbs squirming. Damir brought his face in close.
“Take their heads back to Shravasti, boy.”

He threw the kid back down into the muck. “Lob all their heads off and stuff them in a sack!” Damir barked to his troops. They’d send the Messianists a welcome gift.

Picking up the child again, Damir gripped his head and leaned into his ear.
“Listen boy, you will give these heads to your leaders in Shravasti and give them this message for me: dobro pozhalovat v dzhungli.”

---

Nayemniki = sellswords
Dobro pozhalovat v dzhungli = welcome to the jungle