And so we begin to learn more about Dasmon and his party, specifically about Dasmon's humble intelligence and how his ideas are very contrary to Cresan tradition.

-----

CHAPTER 6 - AMBUSH

Dasmon glanced down at the women as they snuck up the rise, bent low until the last several feet when they dropped to the ground and slinked along on their bellies, strung bows in their left hands.  Dasmon and Hamon were already atop the rise, hidden in the grasses and watching the Etlaentean scouting party below.  The Etlaentean reconnaissance team was about seventy-five men in strength, lightly armed with longswords and a form of bow Dasmon was not familiar with-an extremely small bow mounted on a club.  Even the weapon's arrows looked unfamiliar to Dasmon, small bolts of metal with none of the fletching he was familiar with.  The unfamiliarity was cause for even more concern to Dasmon.

"We can take them, sir," Hamon whispered.  "The numbers favor us."

Dasmon shook his head, jaw clenching as he tried to control the contents of his stomach.  The Fourth had arrived at the mines after only two days' march.  Calista, the women's Korporale, reported after another day that she'd spotted an Etlaentean force closing in on the mines.  She'd read the reports of how the Etlaentean army was organized and guessed that the approaching unit was accompanied by four wizards, based on their clothing and weaponry.  Looking down at the party below, Dasmon agreed with the woman's assessment.  Whereas most of the men below wore blue-green leather with yellow swirls, four men stood out wearing white leather with gold-embossed geometric shapes and ivory cloaks which lay off their shoulders to their calves.  They also wielded staves with a curved blade on each end.  The weapons looked light, agile, and fast.  Still, Dasmon had seen what Etlaentean wizards were capable of with their magic-watching men's heads pop like gourds was a sickening thing-and the exotic blades were of less concern to the Kurknull.

"What do you make of those bows they carry, Sergueant?" Dasmon asked.  "How much of a threat are they?"

Hamon narrowed and shaded his eyes from the overhead sun.  "I've never met these landsmen before, Kurknull, only the landing parties from their navy.  Still, some friends of mine have said those small bows have the same range as our women's, if not the accuracy.  If the men assembled just below the rise and charged on your command, we could close the distance before they got off more than one volley."

Dasmon nodded and finished Hamon's thought.  "Depending on their shields to deflect anything that did achieve air."  The Kurknull thought for a moment before continuing.  "Have the men trained the close charge formation?"

"Not recently, sir, though it's in our basic drills.  Still, there's very little cause for it, sir.  Our shields suffice well enough for any arrow."

"Unless men are extremely well-trained and practiced," Dasmon began, almost to himself, "gaps will form in the line during a charge, causing openings where the shields separate and cease protecting the next man over.  If those Etlaentean bows have any accuracy whatsoever our men could expose themselves dangerously."

Hamon shrugged.  "Perhaps, but I've known many a man who could continue running with an arrow in his shoulder."

"What about his leg or gut, Sergueant?" Dasmon challenged.  "We do not need a man falling during a charge.  In such close formation he'd become an obstacle for the men behind him and suddenly we'd have even greater holes in the line."

Hamon grunted.  "I think you are underestimating the men's skill, sir.  We know how to sidestep a fallen comrade without breaking the line."

"But why take the risk?" Dasmon asked, his mind racing.

In war, men died.  Dasmon knew this, but refused to face it if he could avoid it.  If he had his way, he would never see another of his countrymen die again.  He'd seen enough of it.

The troll charged the rank, over ten feet of pure muscle and ferocity barreling down impossibly fast.  Dasmon ordered his men to set for the charge, spears shifting until they were held underarm.  Shoulder to shoulder, Dasmon's men faced the monstrosity, grim determination in their faces.  Fifteen feet before the spears the troll raised its gigantic spiked club over its head.  Dasmon could smell the stink of the creature and it made him gag.  Dasmon commanded the rank to stand fast, the men bending their knees and gripping their spears furiously, left shoulders tightening in anticipation of the force the troll would bring.  Mere feet in front of the spears the troll swung its club.  Men were swatted aside effortlessly, beautiful round shields suddenly bent inward into crumpled, useless masses.  Only one spear found its mark, but the troll continued on as if it felt nothing.  Another swing of the club and more men were flung aside, their bodies broken and shattered, no more than bloody sacks of meat.  Dasmon and one other flung themselves clear of the slaughter, although Dasmon was the only one still conscious when he regained his equilibrium.  Sergueant Dasmon looked around him, watching in horror as three other trolls rampaged through the Fourth, only one appearing the worse for wear, that particular rank successfully goring the troll with more than one spear.  Dasmon looked back at his own decimated rank, tears coming to his eyes as he saw his two brothers staring up at the sky, their eyes lifeless.  The troll turned and snarled at Dasmon, crushing the unconscious survivor's skull with a simple step.  Gripping his spear overhand, shield forward, Dasmon rose and cried out in rage, throwing himself at his family's killer.

Kurknull Dasmon narrowed his eyes, an idea forming.  He motioned for Calista and the woman hustled over, being careful to keep her head down and below the lip of the rise.  A head of fiery red hair, Calista was strong and beautiful, with more than a touch of masculine strength about her.  Though attractive, only a man who could handle a strong woman would fall for her.  Her legs were longer than Dasmon's own, bare beneath her tunic, but what caught his attention were her green, vibrant eyes.  They practically sparkled.  Beyond her beauty, however, was a predatory presence-the way she was always scanning her environment, her fingers lightly gripping her bow, and her rolling cat-like stride-which made Dasmon want to trust her.  He hoped he could.

"Korporale," Dasmon began, "form your rank up just below this rise and prepare to attack on my command.  Tell your people to aim only for the wizards-just the wizards, mind-and cease fire after the second volley.  Have your ladies make as much noise as possible for the count of fifteen after your second volley and fall back to the bottom of this hill, behind the men.  Make sure the Etlaenteans follow you."

Calista frowned in confusion.  "Just fire at the wizards, sir?"

Dasmon nodded affirmatively.  "Trust me, Korporale.  Hamon, split the rest of the file in half, bringing one rank up here but to the left two-hundred feet and the other to the right also two hundred feet away, both crouching down in the grasses.  Leave the remaining ranks down at the bottom of the hill."

"Sir?" Hamon asked, not comprehending the plan.

Dasmon swallowed hard.  His plan did not fit the standard Aktenan form, which was why both Calista and Hamon were confused.  Dasmon prayed he was right about the Etlaentean's lack of experience, especially with female warriors.  He prayed to the gods they would consider the women easy kills and come charging over the hills.  Once there...

"Make sure the topmost ranks crouch, Hamon."

The Sergueant gave his Kurknull a skeptical look.  "Only a blind man will miss the men, sir.  The grasses won't do much to hide us."

Dasmon nodded.  "They don't need to be invisible, Sergueant.  If all goes the way I'm planning, the enemy will be too distracted by our men below to pay the others much attention."

"But if you don't really mean to hide them..." Hamon started, then paused.  Slowly Hamon began to comprehend what the Kurknull's plan was.  "Aye, sir," the Sergueant replied finally.  "We'll be ready."  But he didn't look happy about it.

The plan in place, Dasmon waited until Calista and Hamon could inform their people, strode down the hill toward the rear two ranks.  Already the left and right ranks were ascending the rise, being careful to make as little noise as possible.  Dasmon took his place of command to the rear rightmost corner of the two ranks and surveyed the men.  Everyone appeared ready, although he caught a few furtive glances and a couple confused looks directed at him.  Still, the men were professionals.  They would just have to trust him.

He was about to give the attack order to Calista when he caught movement out the corner of his eye to the left.

"Archers!" he shouted as loudly as he dared-please let it be only loud enough for the women to hear-and gestured to the figure atop the hill behind them.

The intruder was an Etlaentean scout who'd had the fortune enough to stumble across Dasmon's file.  The scout put a horn to his lips and blew, a low blat sounding across the hills, followed by a short echo.  Calista raised her bow and strung an arrow in one smooth motion.  Before the scout had made ten paces he was stopped short by Calista's arrow, immediately crumpling to the ground and rolling down the hill.

Calista looked to Dasmon, concern on her face.  Dasmon nodded and mouthed the order to attack.

"Archers, rise!" Calista shouted, unworried about how far her voice would carry.  There was no point any longer in the women remaining quiet.

Dasmon watched as the twenty-five archers rose from their crouched positions, strung their arrows, took aim, and let fire.  Within five seconds of the first volley they released their second and began screaming at the top of their lungs, warbling cries that reminded Dasmon of the stories of Amazons from when he was a child.  The second volley gone, Calista ordered the withdrawal of her rank.  The women raced down the hill toward Dasmon's men, still yelling.

Catching Calista's eyes, Dasmon asked, "Did you get the wizards?"

"I don't know, sir.  The air turned milky and solid around them just as the arrows descended.  I think two of the...shields?...collapsed before the second volley."

Dasmon nodded, turning his attention back to the top of the rise.  "Steady, men.  Be ready."  If there is even one wizard left alive this could be a disaster, he thought to himself.  "Look sharp."

Steadily the sound of enraged men flowed over the rise, becoming louder and louder as the ground trembled slightly with the stomping of their feet.  A moment later Dasmon saw the distinctive turquoise of their pointed leather helms.  Seventy-five Etlaentean soldiers paused for a moment at the top of the hill then descended, their war cries beginning anew.  Dasmon thanked the gods for his luck.  The enemy saw that they outnumbered their foe.  They did not use their odd bows, but descended en mass, the middle of their formation extending forward to form a spearhead.  As the last man topped the rise and ran toward Dasmon's ranks, the Kurknull shouted to Calista to split her archers to either side of the men and keep the Etlaenteans from spilling around the men.  At the same time, Hamon rose from his position in the grasses, bringing his rank with him-the other across from Hamon followed after a moment.  The two ranks atop the hill ran toward each other to form one unit, shields overlapping to form a solid wall of bronze identical to Dasmon's, then turned to face the battle below.

The Etlaenteans charged down the hill and crashed into Dasmon's men.  Some of the Etlaenteans dodged the nine-foot spears, others tried to hack the spears out of the way.  Many simply used their last breath to cry out in pain as spears pierced their chests.  The front row of Dasmon's ranks stood firm against the weight of the Etlaentean rush, shoulder to shoulder support from the back rows giving them strength.

"Now!"  Dasmon yelled above the battle, lifting his spear high for Hamon to see it.

Without warning, the second-half of Dasmon's file descended and hit the Etlaenteans from the rear, crushing them between the two spear-wielding forces.  Calista's archers picked off the few men who managed to escape the vice as it closed-they didn't get more than twenty feet.  The battle didn't last more than a minute more; the Etalenteans were caught and could not escape.  Dasmon refused to ease up, ordering his men to finish the brutal job.

The carrion birds fed well that evening.

* * *

"Only two injured, sir," Hamon reported, the final tally a pleasant one.  "Sprained shoulders, both.  Nothing serious."

Dasmon sat in front of the camp fire, staring into the flames.  He was very grateful for the report-or, rather, he was grateful for the contents of the report.  No one died.  Brothers still had each other; families were still whole.  He'd been lucky today.

"They won't fall for that again," Dasmon said quietly.  "Once they discover the battle scene and piece together what happened, they'll know better."

Hamon cleared his throat.  "That was a particularly innovative strategy, Kurknull.  Where did you learn that from?"

Dasmon shrugged.  "Nowhere, really.  It just seemed the best way to keep the men safe-the best way to minimize the danger."

"Hmm..." Hamon replied, wetting his lips.  "Warfare is not generally a safe business, sir."

"Perhaps," Dasmon answered, "but I don't see a need for suicide runs, either."

"A straight run at the enemy isn't exactly suicide, sir.  Especially with the way these Etlaenteans fight.  It's as if they've never fought on land before."  Hamon paused, scratching his jaw thoughtfully.  "Of course, with their clear power on the sea, perhaps they've never had need to combat over land."

"Be that as it may, Sergueant, no one died today.  I consider that a win."

Dasmon could see the disagreement in Hamon's eyes.  The Sergueant probably thought him weak, unwilling to shed blood if the need arose.  Couldn't he understand that Dasmon wanted these men to return home and be fathers-the women to have the opportunity to become mothers?

Hamon cleared his throat again.  "Sir, I'd just advise against letting the men get the impression you think they're feeble.  They know what war costs, and all here are willing to accept the consequences so long as they die heroes-so long as their families can sing of their glory."

Dasmon nodded, eyes drifting to the fire.  But wouldn't they prefer to be with their families, and not just remembered as someone who died lonely on the battlefield?

A long moment of silence passed, neither speaking.  The sap in the fire expanded and burst, the wood snapping every so often, sparks rising suddenly then fading just as fast in the moonlight.  Dasmon soaked in the fire's warmth, the Kurknull feeling very cold despite the victory that day.  He thought of home and his workshop, the half-finished vase he'd been forced to leave behind when the Etlaenteans began their assault.  Dasmon's servants had covered everything in white cloths before he'd left for Akte, but he knew there would much to clean when he returned.  He flexed his hands then as he stared into the fire.  They ached for the feel of wet clay, for the tedium of molding fragile curves and joints.  He missed the apron he always wore over his day's clothing, though more often than not he wiped his hands on his tunic rather than his apron.  Still, he felt bare without the white potter's coverings.

"Sergueant," Dasmon asked suddenly, "what were you before the army?  I mean, what did you do?"

Hamon grunted and blew air through his nose.  "I can't rightly say, sir.  I joined the army shortly after becoming a man.  I've never really known anything else."

Dasmon looked up at the Sergueant.  "But you must have had dreams as a boy, wanted something other than the military for your life."

"Well," Hamon answered, running his fingers through his steely hair.  "I suppose I once fantasized about woodworking, my father's trade.  He was a great carpenter, you know.  Made a chair once for Akte's governor.  A great carpenter..."

"Why did you join the army?" Dasmon asked, suddenly very curious-carpentry was similar to potting.  He'd had no idea the Sergueant might have an artistic side to him.

"What else?" Hamon answered with a chuckle.  "Doesn't it always involve a woman?  Ephrode, now there was a beautiful girl.  Ah, I haven't seen her in oh, over twenty years.  She wanted me to prove my heroics, you see.  Boys do silly things to prove themselves, I suppose, and I was no different.  So, I joined up and trained hard.  I was the best in my day.  I won thirty duels my first year in."  He outright laughed then.  "Of course, I didn't really make any friends, either.  Confidence is a good thing...having an overinflated ego...not so good."

The two men shared a laugh at that.

"When I felt I'd reached my peak I returned to Ephrode.  Any guess as to what I found?"

Dasmon gave Hamon a bemused look and shrugged.  "She was married?"

The Kurknull almost swallowed his tongue when Hamon snorted and chuckled dryly.  "To a poet, of all things.  Apparently she wanted to hear about heroes more than she wanted to be with one.  Ah, youth."

"I'm sorry, Sergueant.  I didn't mean to pry," Dasmon offered.

Hamon full-bellied laughed then, slapping both knees.  "No need, Kurknull.  I went back to the army after that and discovered I'd found my true love without even realizing it.  I haven't looked back since.  In fact, I'm grateful to Ephrode.  A man should always find his true love and stick with her, to Haides with anything else.  If it wasn't for that two-faced harlot, I'd never have ended up where I am now.  And I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

Dasmon smiled and lowered his head.  "I'm glad to hear that, Sergueant, but you're married now, aren't you?  Rinledger Stavros mentioned your boy..."

Hamon's face clouded.  "Adrastos, yes.  His mother died in childbirth.  I was married once.  The boy stays with his aunt."  Hamon smiled then.  "He dreams of following in his father's footsteps someday."

Sergueant and Kurknull shared a silent moment by the fire and Dasmon thought about his own past.  Was he happy in the army?  Well, not as a commander, to be sure, what about before?  He was a lauded hero.  Didn't he enjoy the glory?  It would be easy to convince himself that he enjoyed the recognition and praise, and they were gratifying for at least a short while, but they weren't what drove him.  He was a good soldier and a great fighter-one of the best-however what drove him was the challenge, not the praise.  And like Hamon, Dasmon felt like he'd hit his peak.  He wanted to go home and back to his clay.

A woman's voice interrupted Dasmon's thoughts.  "Excuse me, sir?"

"Korporale," Dasmon responded after looking up at the woman.  Damn, but those legs are long!  "What can I do for you?"  The Kurknull gestured for her to take a seat with him and the Sergueant.

"Thank you, sir," Calista said, sitting down smoothly, legs crossed.  "I've been thinking about that scout who almost ruined your battle plan-an inspired plan, if I do say so myself."

She ignored Hamon as he rolled his eyes.  Dasmon understood very well Hamon's opinion on the matter.  He hoped the Sergueant would come to accept his style.

Dasmon nodded to Calista.  "Go on."

"I examined the scout's body and equipment.  He was geared up to travel for days on end away from his main party, not merely an hour or so away like we do.  His appearance was so unexpected it nearly did us in.  I think maybe we can learn a lesson here."

Dasmon thought about that while Hamon guffawed loudly.  "Let's just disperse the entire file, while we're at it.  These Etlaenteans really piss me off.  Cresa has had its wars, but we've always been civilized about it.  Two cities have an argument, they send out their men, and the opposing Genurals meet in the center of the battlefield to negotiate.  When they can't come to an agreement, the two armies fight-simple, straight forward, and honorable.  And they call us barbarians!  The only reason to send a scout out days in advance is to set up an ambush, and what honor is there in that?"

Suddenly the Sergueant realized what he'd said and went pale.  He lowered his eyes, muttering.  "I mean, I wasn't trying to imply..."

"It's fine, Sergueant," Dasmon assured the Sergueant.  He wasn't really insulted by the Sergueant's words or implication.  Turning back to Korporale, Dasmon asked, "You think we should have our own scouts?"

Calista nodded confidently.  "The women can cover the ground fast enough..."

"No," Dasmon interrupted.  "I'm not going to send a woman.  We can send one of the men out."  He missed the dark look that came across Calista's face.  "That is if any of the men are capable of it.  What do you think Sergueant?"

Not liking the subject, but honor bound to serve, Hamon worked his jaw for a moment, apparently considering the options.  "Lykaos," Hamon said suddenly.  "If anyone can do it, he can, sir."

"Are you sure?" the Kurknull asked warily.

Hamon nodded casually.  "If you knew where he came from, you wouldn't be asking."

"What do you mean?" Dasmon asked, his brows furrowing.

Hamon leaned back for a moment, stretching, before answering.  "Sir, Lykaos was a draftee.  It was either the army or prison and hard labor.  He chose the army."

"So, how does a criminal make a good scout?"

"Well, let's just say in his profession he was very good at finding the secret things."

Calista leaned forward and gave Hamon a stern look.  "He's changed."

Hamon shrugged.  "Maybe.  But the Kurknull wanted to know.  He's a thief, sir, and certainly capable of scouting while remaining invisible.  The only question is:  is he trustworthy?"

"I'll vouch for him," Calista answered with a tone of authority, her back straightening.

"Girl," Hamon replied, shaking his head.  "Just because the two of you wrestle in the night doesn't mean the Kurknull can trust him."  Calista opened her mouth to protest, her face flushing.  "Give over, woman.  Everyone knows and no one cares.  If anything, your relationship gives us a sort of leverage over him, and gives him a reason to not run away."

Dasmon was speechless for a moment.  One of his men was involved with the women, and their Korporale of all the choices?  He was flabbergasted at the breach of protocol.  Still, Hamon appeared fine with the situation and the old soldier seemed well-grounded.  Dasmon decided to follow the Sergueant's lead for the moment and let the matter drop.

"I want to talk to him," Dasmon said, looking Hamon in the eye.

Nodding, the Sergueant rose and walked off toward the rest of the men.

Calista chewed on her lip as the silence grew deeper, Dasmon lost in his thoughts again.  "Sir," she said after a moment, "Thank you for letting the women carry such an important role today.  Not many commanders would take the risk."

"The risk?" Dasmon asked, confused.

The moment felt awkward to him, the way he often felt around women.  He tried not to let it show and hoped his position as her commander would keep her from reading too much into his manner.  She was a beautiful woman.  And as much as he could tell himself that he had no interest in anyone, especially one of his own subordinates, it was hard not to admire beauty when it presented itself.  And she certainly wasn't shy about being a woman.

Calista grinned, somewhat embarrassed.  "You're my third commander, Kurknull, and none of the others has trusted my rank to do anything more than fire from the rear.  We women are too squeamish to face bloodshed, I suppose, or to show bravery when faced with an enemy."

"Well," Dasmon began, understanding her thanks now.  "I figure you are risking your lives every bit as much as we men are.  You could say you are risking even more than we are."  He looked her intently with that last-men sometimes did things to women in war that was far from glorious or noble.  "That makes us equal in my thinking."

Calista nodded then, struggling to say what she was really thinking, Dasmon could tell.

"Korporale, speak freely."

The archer sighed then and squeezed her eyes just for a moment.  "Then why can't one of us be your scout?  We already go forward a couple hours ahead of the file.  What is a day compared to that?"

Dasmon frowned, not quite understanding her lack of comprehension.  It was obvious to him.  "Korporale, being a woman, you have certain disadvantages compared to men.  You are not as strong nor do you have our endurance.  But, more importantly, you have the ability to put us men at a serious disadvantage.  Most of my men see you and your rank as potential wives-maybe not their wives, but someone's someday.  If something happened to you while you were a day away, the men would start to wonder if you were hurt.  Oh, it wouldn't be many a first, but the number would grow daily.  Call it a failing in the male gender, but we would soon become so consumed with fear for you that we would start failing at our jobs.  I can't have that.  If this Lykaos goes missing, I am sure some would worry, but it would not be the distracting sort of concern."

"Have no fear of me going missing," a surly voice said from the darkness, startling the Kurknull.

Two figures appeared from the shadows, stepping into the firelight.  Hamon strode over to his seat and sat.  The other man was thin, almost unhealthily so.  His black hair hung thinly, thick with oil and perspiration, around his shoulders and his face held patches of black whiskers, none long enough to make a respectable beard.  The man's eyes were such a light shade of blue they appeared almost ghostly in the firelight, and his sharp nose gave him a very predatory look.  Dasmon looked the man up and down, appraising him and assessing his capabilities.  He looked agile and fast, if a bit thin.  Dasmon could easily see how this man would make a successful prowler.

"You're Lykaos?" Dasmon asked, not really needing a reply-it was just an easy way to start a conversation.  The other man nodded.  "I assume Sergueant Hamon explained what I need you for?  Good, then I will add this:  we know the Etlaenteans have a good idea where the Lauream Mines are, though not specifically.  Today we encountered a search party, not an invading force.  It only makes sense that they have other similar parties out there.  I need to know where they are so we can strike at them preemptively.  Can you find them for me?"

Lykaos sneered.  "It's not like I have much of a choice, now do I?"

Hamon stood, face heating.  Dasmon waved the Sergueant back.  "Of course you have a choice, Korporale.  You could take the opportunity to run, or even betray us and join the Etlaenteans.  I hear their wealth is beyond anything any of us could imagine."  The man spit off to the side, a sign of distaste Dasmon assumed.  "I am betting, however, you have more loyalty than that to your fellows, your country, and even to your woman."  Calista made a choking sound at that, not intending it to be quite so audible.  "Am I right?"

Lykaos stood before the campfire for a long time, thinking through his options.  Dasmon hoped he hadn't made a mistake with the man.  Still, he trusted his gut.

"I'm a thief," Lykaos answered.  "You know this, yet you're still trusting me.  In the past I would have suspected you were setting a trap for me.  Maybe you are, but I somehow don't think so."  Lykaos paused them, his eyes drilling into Dasmon's own.  "No, I don't think you are," he said almost to himself, barely loud enough for the Kurknull to hear.  "It's an odd task you're assigning me to-not very Cresan at all.  Fine, then.  I'll do it."  He smiled wickedly, then.  "These Etlaenteans seem like they could be fun to toy with."

Dasmon looked up at Hamon, their eyes locking for a moment.

Dasmon counted to five then stood.  "You'll head out in the morning."

So, the story now takes a tangent as we start to explore the other side of the war.

-----

CHAPTER 5 - A NEW BEGINNING

The Tlenaic Ocean separated Etlaentes from the Eastern Lands by a span of nearly one-thousand miles, a distance Etlaentean warships could cover in three days' time while others would take a much longer nine days, Etlaentean naval technology proving far superior to that of the eastern barbarians'.  From Etlaentes, the Eastern Lands were announced by the Pillars of Herakleos, two mountains separating the northern and southern continents by a span of merely nine miles.  Legend had it that when the great warrior, Herakleos, returned from adventures in the Unknown Lands he was faced with the great mountain, Titan, which separated the Tlenaic Ocean in the west from the Wendel-Sae Sea in the east.  Arriving at the base of the colossal mountain, in truth the motionless form of a creature even older than the gods that was defeated in battle and made to forever hold up the heavens, Herakleos was given one final test in his long and trying adventure: climb over the impassable Titan or turn around and never again walk the fields of his home.  Herakleos knew the trek over Titan would kill him, but he refused to go back.  Stronger than any ten men alive, according to legend, Herakleos made for himself a third option.  Summoning all his strength the warrior smashed his way through the mountain, creating a narrow channel between ocean and sea.  In so doing, Herakleos became a god himself and joined the pantheon at Olympikos.  The remains of the hero's test stand to this day as the Pillars of Herakleos.

Past the Pillars lay the Wendel-Sae, a narrow sea that stretched a long path between the northern continent of Erebu and her sister continent to the south, Terra.  The Etlaentean Empire, when first discovering the Wendel-Sae, sought out orichalcum mines along the northern border of Terra, a stretch of desert that oddly enough supported life in abundance.  Terra's people were harsh and rugged, especially those of Punicus, whose judicial system demanded the severing of a hand for the first transgression against the law and another limb for each offense after the first.  Still, these ruthless peoples benefited greatly from the trade Etlaentes offered for access to their surprisingly numerous orichalcum deposits.  To the Punicians, Tarabulans, and Aigyptians the odd metal was nearly worthless.  Though at a glance it resembled gold, it was nearly impossible to work with their limited knowledge of smithing and so was no more to them than worthless hunks of rock.  The Etlaenteans gave them gold and silver for access to the ore, and even assisted them with military power against aggressor nations further south.  Yet, as Etlaentes' need for orichalcum grew, the empire started looking north along Erebu's coastal border.

In contrast to Terra, Erebu was lush and vibrant, supporting a people softer in the body, but more intelligent and "enlightened."  Erebu did not provide as much orichalcum as Terra, but it provided Etlaentes with something of nearly equal value:  a large body of potential dasyu.  The governments of Espayne, Gironde, and Viteliu were greatly enamored of Etlaentes' technological marvels and of her quality of life.  They were easily seduced by Etlaentes' beauty and high-minded ways, playing on these more primitive people's need for order in the universe, for logic and reason in every small thing.  Erebu's religious practices were varied and  many, but a common theme was that there was a pantheon of jealous and selfish gods, each god controlling one aspect of nature-everything from love to war, from the sun rising to the sea's rage during a severe storm-while starting wars with the others and making fools of themselves.  The religious dogma of the day insisted that the gods' errors were an effort to teach their worshipers how to live their lives-what mistakes not to make.  The Etlaenteans capitalized on these insecurities, claiming to be children of the sea.  The Erebuans took this to mean the Etlaenteans were the chosen ones of their god of the sea, Nebhtunus, which suited Priestess Shlaesa and the Ruling Council perfectly.

Though the Etlaentean Empire did not conquer or claim any of either Erebu or Terra as official territory, the reality of the situation was one of complete domination.  Even if one region felt the Etlaenteans were too involved in local government, there was little that could be done.  The western foreigners from the Unknown Lands were entirely too interwoven in the day-to-day lives of the Eastern Lands to be removed.  One people, however, recently discovered by the Etalenteans, refused to allow the taint of these Children of Nebhtunus to enter their lands.  These people were not so easily awed by technological superiority or philosophical insight, and they were impossible to seduce or bribe.  They were the Aktenans of the assembled city-states known as Cresa, a peaceful people with a surprisingly strong navy and robust knowledge of war.  To the rest of the continent, the Aktenans were a holy people, pure of mind and body, the favored of the gods.  The Etlaenteans, saw, however a land amazingly rich in orichalcum unfortunately settled by a selfish and backward people.

Sailing directly from the Pillars of Herakleos, an Etlaentean warship took over six days to traverse the winding Wendel-Sae toward Cresa, still much faster than any contemporary counterpart.  Etlaentes' warships blockaded the Cresan peninsula, placing a vice-like grip on all trade by sea to and from the city-states.  Aktenan biremes, vessels eighty feet long with a square sail and two rows of oarsmen, though the mightiest of warships in the Wendel-Sae region, were no match for Etlaentes' superior fleet.  Prociere, cannon-like projectors mounted to the decks of the Etlaentean warships, caught water in their powerful fields of magical energy and pounded any opposing vessel with the weight and might of an ocean.  If the Aktenan biremes were fortunate enough to escape being splintered by the force of a tidal wave, they were overturned as mighty ocean swells snapped oars in twain and lifted the vessels skyward before dropping them hull up.  A very lucky few were able to escape the Etlaentean onslaught, but not enough remained to tip the balance of naval power in the Wendel-Sae.

Curiously, however, the Aktenans were far from facing defeat.  The Etlaenteans had powerful wizards at their disposal and capable soldiers, but they were inexperienced with combat on land.  Though a people of peace and true enlightenment, Cresa had a very skilled army, each man and the second daughter of every family required to train and serve in the army for a minimum five-year tour.  And now with their freedom threatened, all active militia and reserve-those who had served before and were still of age-mobilized and stood ready.

Cresa was a block of iron that would not be swept away.

* * *

The city of Akte sat on a small rise overlooking the Cresan plains, an army covering the southern slope.  Miles away from the sea, the command protecting Akte was not worried about naval bombardments, however the army stood ready for deployment.  One file, four ranks of twenty-five men and one rank of women archers, stood separate from the rest of the army.  Aktenan warriors were physical specimens of human excellence, lightly-armored for mobility.  Each wore a length of heavy beige fabric folded in half lengthwise and draped over their shoulders, cinched at their waist with a simple belt.  The fabric descended to just above each man's knees and exposed their arms to the shoulder.  Atop the fabric each man wore a bronze breastplate sculpted in an idealized approximation of a man's musculature, fitted to their torsos and held strapped in place by leather bands and buckles across their backs.  Also bronze were the greaves covering each man's shins, as well as their helmets with cheekplates, faces open and unprotected for visibility.  Strapped to their left hips were shortswords, designed for close-quarters encounters.  But perhaps the most visually imposing pieces of equipment were each warrior's shield and spear.

A perfect circle of bronze, the shield protected its owner from the chin to the knees.  It was carried on the left arm and was concave on the inside, allowing a warrior to rest the thirty-pound shield on his shoulder.  Pounded into the face of each shield were the symbols of each family represented, an important part of morale since these shields were handed down father to son over the generations.

Standing upright in each warrior's right hand stood a nine-foot long spear, the head a curved-leaf shape and the other end mounted with a short spike warriors often referred to as a "lizard killer."

The twenty-five women standing at attention behind had similar armor, with the exception of the large shield.  Also, instead of spears, the women carried longbows.

"So, what do you think?" Rinledger Stavros asked, walking proudly along the men's front line.

Stavros was the military commander of Akte, responsible for the city's defenses as well as coordinating the rest of the region's military actions in defense against the Etlaenteans.  His was over fifty years of age and balding, though the latter was hidden by his white-plumed helmet.  Deep lines marked his forehead and his round face, although there was still a hint of the square jaw from his youth.  He wore his short sword on his hip like every other soldier, though the grip didn't show many signs of use.

Beside the Rinledger walked a younger man in his early thirties with a smooth face, almost too smooth to be real.  His was a face one would find in a painting, it was so perfect.  The rest of his body displayed well-honed muscle, though he was slim of build, and deeply tanned skin.  His sword's grip was smoother than the Rinledger's, the cording used on the hilt having seen much more use.

"I still say this is a mistake, sir."

Stavros shook his head and waved his hand over the formation before them, disregarding what he assumed was the younger man's false modesty.  "The Fourth has been rebuilt, Kurknull, and I can think of no man more deserving to command her.  As her only survivor, you deserve no less than to witness her resurrection."  Stavros beamed with pride and didn't see the shadow of doubt cross Kurknull Dasmon 's eyes.  "Sergueant!"

A single man in front of the newly re-commissioned Fourth Wing snapped to attention and barked an order to the warriors behind him.  With the command of "Present honors!" the Fourth beat their spears twice against their shields, raised their weapons, and together drove them into the ground, spiked end down.

Sergueant Hamon saluted the Rinledger, right fist to breast then outstretched before him, until Stavros returned the salute and held out his hand.  Hamon grinned and accepted the Rinledger's grip, pumping it enthusiastically.

"It's good to see you, Sergueant," Stavros began.  "How is little Adrastos these days?  Still threatening to be the next Herakleos?"

Hamon smiled in answer.  "He's grown like a weed since the last time you saw him, sir.  Pretty soon he'll have more height than his old man.  He's already more popular with the ladies than I ever was."

"Ah, youth," Stavros replied, "would that we were all so immortal.  That is good to hear, Hamon.  Sergueant, I would like to introduce you to Kurknull Artreartes Dasmon."

The Sergueant saluted Dasmon exuberantly and grinned eagerly.  "No need for introductions, Rinledger.  All the men have heard of the Kurknull.  His heroics at the Eleusnian Fields are told around campfires and in tavern halls.  I must say, one man against four trolls, that would have been a sight to see!"

Dasmon returned the Sergueant's salute crisply and gave the man a tight-lipped smile.  "Good to meet you, too, Sergueant.  I trust the Fourth is ready?"

"We are indeed, sir, and itching to kick some Etlaentean butt all the way back to Tlenaic Ocean, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Off Cresan lands will be suitable, Sergueant," Dasmon replied, unintentionally spoiling the Sergueant's enthusiasm.  To recover, Dasmon looked to the Rinledger.  "Permission to inspect the men, sir?"  When Stavros nodded his approval, Dasmon gave the order to Hamon.

"Rank and file!" Hamon thundered, facing the men.  "Inspection formation, hut!"

Built upon the military formation known as the phalanx, the Fourth began sidestepping in tandem to their right until there was one shoulder's width between one man's shoulder and another's shield.  The leftmost column of men, five deep, never moved, and Dasmon watched as the more experienced men to the right moved into position.  In a phalanx, the leftmost column was the strongest and most-protected of the formation.  It was where a rank of twenty-five men, or so, focused their might.  But the left was defenseless without the more experienced right columns, manned with soldiers of increasing experience.  Each rank was commanded by a Sergueant, or at least a Korporale, responsible for keeping the formation from drifting to the right during battle as they tended to do as a matter of pure instinct-a man would disregard protocol and even the wellbeing of his friends to protect himself unless the Sergueant was there to remind him of his duty.

The rightmost column moved into position with a final thud, a slight breeze rustling the grasses around Akte the only sound.  Dasmon let his breath go slowly through his nose, not even aware he'd been holding it until the formation was complete.  The Kurknull, a new officer in the Aktenan army, looked over his men briefly, recognizing in them the same zeal for battle he'd once had.  Some of these men had never seen a battle, but had been pumped full of glorious stories and tales of heroism.  Their eyes gleamed with the promise of fame to come.  Some of the men were veterans, having seen several battles, and were of the type who thought they were invincible because they had survived to this point.  Dasmon scanned the eyes of his men and could not find a one with a hint of fear or wariness.  What kind of men was he being given?

Rinledger Stavros clapped Dasmon on the shoulder.  "You remind me of when I had my first command, son.  I had the same look of dread that you do.  Don't worry, trust in your men and they'll trust in you.  Sergueant Hamon, join us?"

Dasmon's brows raised at the request, a sign of respect and familiarity that was contrary to protocol, although not explicitly forbidden.

"At your pleasure, sir," the Sergueant responded, falling in behind.

The three soldiers walked through the file, commenting here and there on the appearance, cleanliness, and bearing of the men of the Fourth, Stavros complimenting Hamon on a job well done, assembling a fit fighting force in record time.  The Fourth Wing, after being decimated at the Battle of the Eleusnian Fields, would normally have been decommissioned formally and replaced with a new wing.  However, the Aktenan command had been so impressed with Dasmon's survival and defeat of the four Etlaentean war trolls that it had been decided to resurrect the wing.  The re-commissioning was not only meant as a reward for Dasmon, but as a rallying point for the Aktenan army-something for them to be proud of.  In truth, though the Aktenans manned a sturdy army, command was afraid that it was only a matter of time until the Etlaentean forces overwhelmed Cresa.  Still, morale was a powerful motivator in an army, and so any little hope was clung to and taken advantage of.  The resurrection of the Fourth was for the whole of Cresa, one more straw on the cart that would hopefully break Etlaentes' axle.

"Hamon," Rinledger Stavros began after allowing Kurknull Dasmon to inspect the third rank.  "This is the third unit you've stood up, is it not?"

Sergueant Hamon nodded.  "I was thinking the exact same thing, sir.  Let's see, there was the Eighth, the Eleventh, and the Twenty-Second.  I believe the Eleventh was your first command, wasn't it, sir?"

"Dasmon, boy, do yourself a favor and never think you actually run the file," Stavros said in way of answer, though obliquely to the new Kurknull.  "Hamon, here, was with me when we stood up the Eleventh, and he very quickly showed me that it takes a Sergueant to run a file.  You try to manage every little thing and the men will get away from you.  Let Hamon, here, run your file.  You just tell him what you want accomplished-it'll be his job to see that it gets done."

Dasmon tapped his teeth together thoughtfully.  "Yes, sir, I think I understand.  It was like that when I was under Kurknull Dalapitas.  The men appreciated his trust."

"Exactly," Stavros responded.  "Sergueant, how long did it take me to learn that lesson with the Eleventh?"

Hamon tried to hide his smile.  "Oh, it wasn't as bad as all that, sir.  You were a quick study."

The Rinledger snorted.  "My ass, I was.  The Sergueant, here, taught me quickly not to over-manage him or the file.  My first assignment was to escort a prince and his family from Punicus to Akte for a trade summit.  The prince had a rebellious daughter who ended up running away... how many times, Sergueant?"

"Five, sir."

"Ah, yes, five times.  That impetuous young woman made life hell for us during that three week journey.  And every time she'd run away the prince would blame me. Well, after her second escape attempt I decided to take a personal hand in things.  I started riding the men, barking at every little detail, berating them for everything that, in my view, they were failing at in keeping the prince's daughter safe and secure.  After the fourth escape I was so angry that I ordered the men to tie her to one of the prince's camels if she tried to escape again.  I said it in a rage and didn't mean it, however I had pushed the men so hard that that was exactly what they did.  One morning the prince asked me where his daughter was.  I immediately turned to Hamon, here, who evenly replied that she was exactly where I'd ordered for her to be.  The prince and I found her tied up between the hump and neck of one of those filthy beasts, a blanket over her.  Imagine that, will you?  It damn near ruined the summit before it even began."

Dasmon looked incredulously as Hamon, who only shrugged, responding with, "She only tried to escape once more, sir."

Stavros snorted.  "After I finally allowed you to handle the situation with her on your own.  She never tried to escape again after you spoke to her.  I never did find out what it was you said to her, Sergueant."

The Sergueant's gaze suddenly drifted away from the Rinledger.  "Just about the ways of life, sir, and how dangerous it could be for a lone woman amongst the...elements."

The way the Sergueant said "elements" convinced Dasmon the truth was something different.

"See how it is, son?" Stavros said, turning back to the Kurknull.  "Tell your men what it is you want, and let them be guided by your intent.  You don't need to know the details.  Sergueants work better that way."

Hamon strode along behind them quietly, this time not bothering to hide his smile.

The trio continued on the inspection tour, rounding the fourth rank and turning toward the archers, all women, who stood at attention.  Dasmon looked hard at the women, a lump forming in his throat.  They looked every bit as determined as their male counterparts, full of pride and seeming invincible.  Dasmon could have wept.

Rinledger Stavros cleared his throat and looked sternly at the Kurknull, whispering, "I assume you are aware of the inherent dangers of fraternizing with your subordinates?"

"What?" Dasmon replied, simultaneously alarmed and confused.  "No, sir... I mean, yes, sir!  I wasn't think that."

Stavros nodded slowly, his face relaxing.  He then looked the women over as well.  "Not that you could be blamed for being tempted..." he whispered again.

"Sir," Dasmon interrupted hastily.  "I was just considering a tactic I've been developing, and was simply wishing I had more women... more archers, I mean!"

The Rinledger chuckled then and continued forward.  "Not many women enlist, young Dasmon.  Besides, the bow is only effective during the first moments of battle.  These women, brave as they might be, are useful only for covering retreats once the battle has gone sour.  Your new tactics don't include retreating, do they?"

A flush coming to his face, Dasmon shook his head.  This conversation was not going the way he wanted  at all!  "No, sir, like I said I was simply developing a new idea around the use of the bow.  An offensive tactic."

"I see..." Stavros said doubtfully.  "War is a male act, Dasmon, not a feminine one.  You aren't thinking of assembling an entire file of women, are you?"

The Kurknull sighed and shook his head.  He couldn't tell the Rinledger the truth of what he was thinking.  Archery was considered a feminine sport, and the army had only recently admitted its limited usefulness in war.  Still, no man would pick up a bow, which left only women.  Dasmon's mind flashed briefly to the battles he'd participated in.  He remembered those men who'd died on the end of a spear or sword.  He knew that if the bow was used effectively, it could actually save lives-and that meant more to Dasmon than preconceptions of femininity or masculinity.  But then, convincing old soldiers to try something new was asking too much, especially from a newly promoted Kurknull, celebrated hero or not.

Dasmon forced a laugh.  "Of course not, Rinledger.  Forget what I said, please, sir."

Stavros laughed then, an explosive sound as he clapped the Kurknull's shoulder.  "No harm done, Dasmon.  So, what do you think of your file?"

Dasmon raised his head then and retreated back to cold military protocol.  "I am most impressed, sir," he stated loudly as the three walked back to the front of the file.  "I can think of no finer men to lead than these.  We shall meet the Etlaentean forces and brush them away like so much chaff!"

The men raised their spears as one and shouted a hearty, "Hoo-ah!"

"And what are our orders, sir?" Sergueant Hamon asked of the Kurknell, who in turn looked to the Rinledger.

Stavros stopped in front of the file and clasped his hands behind his back, legs spread.  "Kurknull Dasmon, the Fourth Wing of the Aktenan command is hereby ordered to proceed with all due haste to the Lauream Mines.  Our analysis of Etlaentean movements indicates the foreigners are targeting certain resources within our lands.  You will move to protect the Lauream Mines and at your discretion attack any Etlaentean force that threatens your perimeter.  At all costs the mines must not fall to the Etlaenteans."

Dasmon only paused briefly, his stomach becoming a fist in the middle of his gut.  "Yes, sir.  We will not allow the enemy victory, sir."

Stavros nodded with a satisfied grin.  "I am sure you won't, Kurknull.  This is your first command, File Commander Dasmon.  I would normally keep you closer to home to break you in, however I have complete trust in your abilities.  Make us proud, Kurknull."

Dasmon saluted the Rinledger.  "On my honor, sir."

"Hoo-ah!" the Fourth shouted again, spears thudding against the ground.

It was a moment to be proud of, one of promise and glory.  Still, Dasmon shivered slightly as the echo of the Fourth shout dissipated.  To him, the shout was not one of victory, but of thunder rolling in the distance.