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.

A while back I wrote a post in the forum about writing a scene that make you personally uncomfortable.  I received some pretty good feedback.  Essentially, the advice was to let go and just write from the character's point of view.

So, here's that effort:

-----

The Academy's walls rebounded with the sound of many students rushing down along its halls, laughter and shouting echoing above the conversations of gossip and the planning the evening's activities.  Youth of both human and aelfin descent, with the occasional dweorh scratching her chin happily as her facial hair finally began to come in-it was embarrassing to have boys finally of the age to admire your stoutness when you didn't even have decent whiskers!-crowded the free spaces between classrooms, pushing against each other as some stood still in a small cluster of friends while others moved through toward their next lesson.  The hall was well lit with ever-burning lamps, magical sticks mounted to the walls surrounded by a warm and ghostly fire that only ever extinguished when the dasyu retired the building for the night.  White-gold walls with ivory doors made the Academy feel welcoming and brilliant, the latter effect seemingly giving the students a sense of clarity and focus.  Embossed into the walls above the level of the doorways, lining the hallways, were the effigies of distinguished alumni and faculty of the past.  Perhaps it was with the help of magic, but each face was sculpted with a proud smile as they looked on toward the future of Etlaentes:  the children below.

Typically, however, none of the children ever paid their predecessors much mind, content to go on about their days with the worries of the world far outside the Academy's walls.  This day, however, saw an adult also ignoring them.

Nikol moved through the halls without much difficulty, children parting for him without so much as an excuse or an irritated look.  He was deep in thought, mulling over what he'd seen in the Arena earlier that day.  He was very proud of Vivnienne, her talent with water having come a long way since her first foolhardy attempts.  He chuckled as he remembered her getting excited over successfully causing a ringed ripple in a small pool, her hands clapping as her exuberance spilled over.  Of course, it was even funnier when her loss of focus caused the water to rebound on itself and geyser up into her unexpecting face.  What he'd witnessed today, however, was strides above her childhood experiments.  She'd truly commanded the water.  Oh, he knew he'd probably been a little hard on her about her control of it, but children needed those reminders now and again since it seemed memory was as fleeting in the very young as it was in the very old.  He knew she wouldn't have seriously harmed the boy-magic responded to the intent of the wielder, and hers was not malicious-but she could have done more damage than she'd forgive herself for.  And though Nikol called her "Princess," he truly thought of her as a daughter, and no father easily bears watching his child wrack themselves with guilt.  Vivnienne was a loving soul who understood the need for nurturing as well as discipline.

That was a very rare sign of maturity in a girl her age, Nikol knew.  Vivnienne, someday, would make an excellent mother.  He remembered watching her with Delphi, the boy who'd practically collapsed from exhaustion during class that day.  Nikol saw her need to ensure the boy was fit and not embarrassed by his slip, but also recognizing the need to remain firm with him in her decision to dismiss him from class and see the Healer.

Nikol glanced up as he looked at the room sigils above the doorways he passed, then looked down again and continued his trek.
Delphi's incident bothered Nikol.  Truth to tell, it wasn't the boy singly that bothered him, but rather a pattern the Saent had started seeing recently.  Many of the youth he interacted with were showing signs of tiredness-and the younger the child the worse the symptoms were.  At first he had discounted what he saw, not concerning himself with private matters of family.  Those few whose fatigue had caught his eye he simply assumed to be the innocent victims of a late evening playing games or other such joviality.  But as the months progressed, he saw the fatigue more and more frequently and he grew increasingly concerned until, like today, he watched as it began affecting their actions.

The Captain-General turned down a quieter hallway, the lamps a little dimmer in this section of the Academy.  Nikol came to the end of the hall, turned toward a door with "Nichealle'as Splenidor, Pathways of the Mind" calligraphied onto its face, and knocked.

"Come in," a muffled voice responded, and so Nikol entered.

Nichealle'as' room was swathed in panels of mahogany with deep maroon drapes.  The carpet-a sure sign of her seniority at the Academy, considering standard accoutrements included bare floors-was a rich sandy color.  As Nikol closed the door, the light dimmed and flickered.  He realized there were no ever-burning lamps present, Nichealle'as instead using traditional candles.

The office's occupant was an old woman with stark white hair curled tightly and cut away from her shoulders to form a virtual ball around her head.  She stood facing the window, thin white sheets beneath the curtains obscuring her view but only by a little.  She held her hands clasped in front of her as she leaned against the frame, the wood rumpling the sleeve of her dress ever so slightly.  She smiled warmly at Nikol and gestured for him to take a seat in front of her desk, but then turned her attention back to the window.

Her eyes unfocussed, she nodded.  "No, Rhubert, it's no hassle at all.  I would love to speak to your children.  They should understand how the emotions they feel are translated through their voices and to their audience."  She paused for a moment.  "Oh, no, no.  That won't be necessary.  I'm sure they'll take the lecture seriously enough without enforcing a curriculum around it.  Besides, I'm just a guest speaker."  She smiled and nodded again.  "That sounds, wonderful.  I'll see you then.  Bless you."

Turning from the window, Nichealle'as strode over to her desk and tapped the feorrcurrere lightly, ending her conversation.

"Nikol'don, this is an unexpected surprise," she began, extending her hand to him.  The Saent clasped her hand gently and she took the opportunity to cover his grip with her other hand momentarily.  "It's not often I see you wandering the Halls of Sorcery.  What can I do for you?"

As they both sat, Nikol's chair a plush but small one lined with a woven fabric that was soft and warm to the touch, the Captain-General ignored her question for a moment, still trying to decide how to broach his real topic.

"Was that Rhubert Totania?"

Nichealle'as smiled and reached over to stroke a quill.  "The music director, yes.  He invited me to guest lecture next month.  Apparently he is tired of a nasty rumor that the members of his choir take his class simply to get out of some of the more boring ones.  He is now designing a more rigorous course."

Nikol nodded at that.  He'd heard some of the same rumors, although he also felt Totania was incredibly hard on himself.  Even if the rumors had no basis the director would take them to heart.  He simply did not understand that his passion for music was instilled in his pupils, no matter their original reason for attending, and his concerts were therefore exceptional.  Nikol'don felt the Academy's choir was perhaps better than many of the professional Etlaentean ones he'd attended concerts of.

"I suppose that's his prerogative," Nikol responded, "though he should take care to not put too much pressure on the children."

Nikol frowned as his point for seeking Nichealle'as out suddenly came to the fore unintentionally.

The older woman smiled knowingly, stood from her chair and turned toward a cabinet with a kettle atop it.  An iron stovetop with flame burners was mounted to the top of the cabinet and fire sticks rested in a box on a shelf above that.

"It's a bit late for tea, but I believe you wouldn't mind some caf and chokoc, am I right?"

Nikol laughed and tapped the side of his nose.  "Right you are, sweet woman."

"Of course, this means I'll need to..." she began, lifting her hand over the kettle.  Her palm glowed fiery red for a long moment as she heated the kettle.  "I prefer to do things the way nature intended, but every so often I suppose it doesn't hurt to cheat."  Within moments the kettle whistled, the water inside boiling.  "There we go."  She opened a cupboard and withdrew two mugs, then opened two tins containing brown powders, the caf darker than the chokoc, and put of scoop of each into both mugs.

Nikol gratefully took his cup from Nichealle'as' hand and inhaled the aroma deeply.  "My thanks," he told her, then tipped the mug back and swallowed.

Nichealle'as sipped her drink for a moment, cupping it with one hand while the other gripped the handle delicately, then leaned back in her chair.  It was a high-backed seat that looked throne-like, though the woman who occupied it hardly seemed arrogant enough to demand such a thing.

"You didn't come here to talk about Rhubert," she said softly.  "But your comment about the children...something rings true in that.  What is your concern, Nikol'don?"

Nikol took another large swallow before answering.  He thought for a moment that he'd better slow down-only one more swallow and the mug would be empty, and that would be considered rude by some.

"Your area of expertise is in how the mind generates arcane power, yes?" he began slowly, not really expecting an answer.

Nikol unhurriedly formulated his words, knowing Nichealle'as would be patient with him.  The affix of 'don to his name was a gift from the aelfin people.  It meant "of the people," or perhaps more accurately, "citizen servant."  With his membership as a Saent, a Warder of the Law, it could be said his full name was Nikol Klus, Custodian of the People's Law.  Aelfs only awarded an affix to a human they felt truly embodied its meaning.  Only a couple handfuls of humans currently carried the honor of this aelfin naming convention, and many of them served at the Academy.  Nichealle'as was one of these honored few, only the 'as attachment to her name indicated she was "of the children."

Nikol chewed on his mustache for a moment, brows furrowed, then continued.  "Have you noticed anything odd with the behavior of our youth lately?"

Laughing during mid sip, Nichealle'as hurriedly put her cup down and dried her lips with a cloth.  Still laughing mildly she gave Nikol a wry look.  "This is an academy, Nikol'don.  Every year brings new trends and strange behavior.  Could you be a bit more specific?"

"You have a point," Nikol answered, chuckling himself.  "But I meant something odder than the occasional unkempt head of hair or a near-scandalous wardrobe.  Although, I must say the concoction of part aelfin, human, and trollish language the student body was trying to implement as a new dialect last year certainly fits the bill.  Still, that isn't what I mean at all.  No, during my class today little Delphi almost fainted from exhaustion."

Nichealle'as tsked.  "I never did like the thought of our children beating each other silly.  Are you pushing them too hard, Nikol'don?"

"The first day?  Hardly!  No, Delphi's spell had nothing to do with me or my curriculum.  He's not the first child, nor was today the first time, in which I've noticed this fatigue.  There's also been mention of disturbing dreams."

Nichealle'as nodded and tapped her finger on her desk.  "It's probably just nerves.  With the war and the coming Ascension, tension has been rather higher than normal, and children can sense such things.  Children are a lot more perceptive than we adults give them credit for.  Their minds are open to a lot more stimulus than yours or mine is due to their youth."

Nikol nodded in agreement and scratched his beard.  "But the amount of fatigue and how often these dreams are occurring..."

"Do you remember the trouble with the trolls of the Onyx Mountains some fifty years ago?" Nichealle'as asked, interrupting.  "Although the Saents had the situation well in hand, quelling the rebellion took time."

The Captain-General shrugged and grimaced.  "It wasn't a rebellion so much as simple posturing."

"Either way," Nichealle'as continued, "the possibility of those monsters rushing down out of the mountains to ransack farms and kill citizens made a lot of people very frightened.  Parents changed their families' habits to remain more indoors ones.  Fewer vacations were taken out in the countryside, away from the protection of the Saents.  Though we tried to hide our worry from our children, they still sensed it.  And that worry caused at least one nightmare per household per week, on average."

Nikol bit his mustache again.  "This seems a little more widespread than that."

Nichealle'as smiled reassuringly.  "Current events are more serious, Nikol'don.  There's bound to be more anxiety."  She paused then, and brought her hands together, palms flat, index fingers tapping one another.  "Of course, you already knew all this.  You came to me because you were entertaining the possibility of some sort of arcane problem, am I right?"

Chuckling nervously, Nikol gave her a guilty look.  "You are an expert of the mind in magical applications."

"An expert," she responded wryly.  "Why, Nikol'don, I've never seen you put so much faith in human magical practices before!  Should I be flattered?"

"I don't doubt its power, Nichealle'as, just the methods humans use to capture and wield it.  We aelfs find the human way...brutal, is all."  Not caring about rudeness, he swallowed the last of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  "Still, it is human children who are showing the fatigue, so I figured it would make sense if it were a human magical problem."

"Logical," Nichealle'as agreed, "though I would hesitate to use the word 'problem' to describe the matter."  Nikol grunted.  "I can tell you I have seen no deviations in the patterns of arcane energies of late.  Of course, there are always small fluctuations, but they have not been outside the norm.  Still, let me explain something to you, Nikol'don, since you are not a student of sorcery."

Nichealle'as rose from her desk and strode to a bookcase behind Nikol.  Removing a book entitled, Astral Energies and Emotion, she opened the volume and laid it before the Saent.  The chapter she'd opened to showed a collage of children sleeping, playing, being disciplined, and listening to a story.  As Nichealle'as moved back to her chair, the picture became alive above the desk, moving with her words.  "The Supernal, as the Queen calls it, is a place that reflects the physical world around us.  The physical, in turn, is influenced by the Supernal's energies which fluctuate in response to our needs and desires-a self-sustaining circle."  The image displayed above her desk showed children at play.  Energy swirled around them in light pinks and whites and pale blues.  Nikol understood what he saw to be an amalgamation of the physical and the magical together.  "Left to themselves, children tend to feed positive energies into the astral, but these energies are weak and easily dispersed by the more adult emotions of depression and anxiety."  Nikol watched as the image became one of two men arguing.  The air around them swirled with dark reds and purples, growing darker as the exchange became more heated.  "Now, adults have the ability to deflect some of the effects of these negative energies, but children don't.  Think of a child as a polished silver pitcher.  Any air that touches it for long begins tarnishing the pitcher, changing its appearance.  Children, like the silver, are easily influenced by energies, both positive and negative.  We adults are like the tarnished pitcher-more air does little to affect us."  The image shifted to one a child sleeping.  "We are all more susceptible to influences of the astral realm when we sleep, since we are not generating any, or at least very little, emotions.  It is during sleep, then, that these energies can have the greatest impact, usually manifesting in our dreams."  She reached across and closed the book, the images floating in the air evaporating.  "I trust I've made my point?"

Blowing air through his teeth, cheeks puffing out, Nikol raised his eyebrows and patted the arms of his chair, palms down.  "I suppose you're right.  Perhaps I'm worrying about nothing."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Captain-General.  Your love of children does you justice."

"Of course," he replied, unconvinced.  Standing, Nikol turned to leave, and then paused.  "Would you keep your eye out anyway, madam?"

"I would be hurt if you hadn't asked," she answered with a warm and motherly smile.  "Do not worry yourself, Nikol'don.  We will watch the children.  If there is something to be concerned about, I'm sure together we will discover it.  Until then, I suggest you enjoy your day."

* * *

The Council had adjourned for the day, each of the members retiring to their private abodes on the second tier.  Shlaesa's home, however, was on the same tier as the Temple, a short relaxing walk through the garden away where attendants cared for the lawn and plants.  Shlaesa loved watching the aelfs tend her garden, and was absolutely fascinated by the giant trolls and the grace of their clumsy-looking hands.  Standing in excess of ten feet in height, the trolls were a peaceful lot and amazingly gentle, though admittedly rough and homely in appearance.  Their huge, coarse fingers could dig a hole in the ground with one poke, then deposit a sapling and cover its roots with loose soil, all with the tenderness of an angel.  It was interesting to note that often new vegetation actually weathered better when cared for by trolls rather than aelfs.

Shlaesa stood by a wide window, admiring the beauty of her garden, a diaphanous robe covering her nakedness to her toes, although what it left to the imagination was little.  Minya, an older man who'd served Shlaesa for the better of forty years, offered her a glass of fruit juice, his hands slightly shaking with age beneath the silver platter that held her drink.  He was olive-skinned, someone who'd lived his life under the sun, and originally from the desert country of Aigypt.  As a dasyu, he had few outright freedoms, yet Shlaesa was generous with her people if they had served her well.  And Minya was the very best and most loyal of her dasyu, able to read her moods to such a degree that it seemed as if he could read Shlaesa's mind.  More and more often of late Shlaesa allowed the older man, as a reward, to rest in the garden where he'd shown a small talent for groundskeeping.

"Thank you, Minya," she said over her shoulder, taking the slender glass of juice off the platter.

The dasyu bowed and slowly stood straight again.  His old eyes glancing past her shoulder, Minya spied movement in the garden.  "The King approaches," he informed Shlaesa in a quiet, rough voice.  "Should I prepare more refreshments?"

Shlaesa searched the garden for her son, not finding him at first amongst all the colors.  Sometimes she was amazed at how perceptive the old dasyu could be.  "No, I do not think he will be in the mood.  Better clear the house and draw the curtains, Minya.  He will need calming again, I believe."

The dasyu bowed again and withdrew, although Shlaesa thought she caught of brief look of disapproval from him.  That was, of course, nonsense.  Minya had been with her too long to be shocked by her habits and activities.  Besides, it wasn't his right to judge her.  He knew his place.  No, it was probably just old age twisting his face that she saw from the corner of her eye.

Turning away from the window, she engulfed her drink and glass within a small orange flame, immediately disintegrating it and burning away any remaining residue.  She looked around her chambers and nodded to herself.  Everything was in order, except for the lack of tabbaq scent in the air.  Tlenai liked the spicy aroma and it usually worked to calm his nerves, which was useful for when Shlaesa determined the need to persuade him to one thing or another.  At least, the smell of tabbaq helped start the process of relaxing him.  With a flick of a wrist, gold sparkles quickly dissipated around the room, leaving behind the intended scent.

"Mother!" the King announced without ceremony, bursting through the doorway as if the building were his home.  Pulling off his crimson cloak, he threw it haphazardly across an armchair with a quick snap.

Shlaesa glanced at her son, and then the cloak.  Oh, he is in a mood, she thought to herself.  She knew then that she would need to handle him carefully.

"Yes, my King?" she answered demurely, bending a slight knee to him, not bothering to hold her robe tight against her.

He gave her an irritated look, though his eyes did not immediately meet hers.  "Do not start that with me.  We both know just how humble you truly are."

Shlaesa smiled playfully and approached her son, entwining her arm in his as she led him toward the lounge.  "I am as humble as the situation calls for, Tlenai.  No more.  No less."

"I would have preferred more with the dragon," Tlenai muttered.  "You gave us all a fright with how you spoke to that beast.  For a moment, we all thought he would eat you out of spite."

"I can take care of myself," she assured her son.  "The dragon does not intimidate me."  She hoped her son could not sense the lie.

Tlenai coughed at that.  "I'm not sure anything does, mother."

The King allowed his mother to lead him to a chair in the lounge which supported his back, yet stopped short of his shoulders.  He rested his arms on the chair's supports and breathed deeply.  A slight smile came to his face as he recognized the aroma which filled the estate and he closed his eyes.  Shlaesa kneaded his shoulders and bent low behind him, bringing her lips to the side of his ear, her warm breath on his neck relaxing him further.

"What is it that has you so tense, Tlenai?  Tell me."

The King's breath slowed as he allowed the pleasure from Shlaesa's massage to penetrate.  "To be honest, mother, it is you."  Shlaesa nodded, though Tlenai couldn't see her.  "You are pushing too hard.  If you're not careful, you will ruin everything you have worked for."

"And what is it I am doing, my King?"

Tlenai blew out through his lips.  "Not every one of your sons has faith in your plan, mother.  Gaining power they understand, but your Ascension is something most of them only pay lip service to.  You are fortunate that you have Falkos' support and not just mine, otherwise the Council would have denounced your ideas as reckless and dangerous months past.  And this insistence of yours to seize the people's orichalcum is coming dangerously close to marking you as mad, in their eyes anyway."

Shlaesa moved around in front of Tlenai, her hands working his neck.  Tlenai leaned forward slightly at her pressure, his face lightly brushing the fabric of her robe.  His eyes opened partway at the feel of her robe and Shlaesa knew he was mesmerized.  Breathing more deeply, she moved ever so slightly to position a breast directly in front of his face.  She could practically sense his struggle to not open his mouth.

She smiled at her son's weakness.  The world thought of Tlenai as a powerful man, one of decisive authority.  And, in truth, he was a brilliant leader with innovative ideas.  His concept of the dasyu was genius.  The dasyu were people from the Eastern Lands who were allowed to reside on Etlaentes without the responsibilities of citizenship.  They could leave any time they wished, but to remain on Etlaentes they were required to serve an Etlaentean family.  They could own no property but they had access to the world's finest education, healers, and the assurance of safety and a life of peace-no man not born of Etlaentes could find the island empire by his own power, therefore no man could start a war on Etlaentean soil.  These things were attractive to the eastern barbarians, and if occasionally a family took advantage their dasyu, well there ways to hide such things.

Yes, Tlenai was strong, but in his mother's hand he was but a whimpering babe.

"And what, my King," Shlaesa began, her breath hot again asher fingers loosened the knots in his neck, "would you have me do?  I can only act as my heart tells me, and I know for certain that we are meant to transcend the physical."  Her breast brushed Tlenai's lips.  "Can you tell me any other way to gain the orichalcum we need?"

For a moment Tlenai couldn't speak, and when he could his voice was husky.  "Support the war," he whispered fiercely.  Both his hands gripped the chair's arms so tightly his knuckles showed white.

Shlaesa frowned at his demand.  She did not like the idea of Etlaenteans dying.  After all, she was trying to save her people.  But if the Council was resistant to orichalcum seizures, what choice was left to her?  Would a small amount of blood stain her soul?  Could she live with causing those deaths?  Shlaesa thought of the Ascension and remembered the vision of her people's future.  In her long experience with sorcery, and the aid of a trusted assistant, Shlaesa knew the feeling of allowing the astral realm to completely engulf her.  The feeling of pure magic was intoxicating and beyond anything she had ever experienced.  That euphoria is what she wanted for her children, constant and unending.  Yes, a small amount of bloodshed was worth that.

Lowering her mouth to his, she kissed Tlenai at first the way a mother would a son.  But the kiss became increasingly passionate as she cupped his face in her hands.  She could feel his tension rise momentarily, but then his will collapsed and he gave in.  A hand on her back and the other tightly gripping her buttocks, Tlenai dipped his face into her chest.

"If that is what it will take, my King, then so be it.  But be bold about it.  Recall the guard from all our outposts in the east and send them to Cresa.  Let us walk over the Aktenans like so much rubbish.  Let us finish this quickly!  Do not hold back!"

Tlenai, drunk with desire, agreed without argument.  Lifting her roughly, the King took his mother to bed.

Now, I am not a fan of politics, but I realize that politics drive a plot forward.  Besides, politics allow for cool poisonous dialogue.  With that in mind, here's my thrid chapter:

-----

"It is time to stop delaying and commit."

Shlaesa Sedes, wife of the demigod, Belal, mother of the Ruling Council, stood circling the Column of Law inside the Temple of Belal which had been her home for countless years.  It was the place Belal constructed for her, to show his power and thereby impress a young girl a long, long time ago.  She hadn't needed displays of his power to fall in love with him, though she certainly didn't dissuade him from his impressive works-they were flattering, after all.  In truth, as a young girl, she would have left with Belal simply to be away from her family and the legacy of her brothers, the Murderer and the Martyr.  Shlaesa was born to Hanutiri, the first woman born from the earth and expelled from the paradise of Edhen for her lack of patience and unrestrained ambition.  These faults were borne in her eldest brother, Qayin, who sought to rise above himself as well and killed his brother, Hebhel, out of jealousy of the younger man's accomplishments.  Shlaesa learned much from her family, mostly how to stay humble and not rise to the attention of fate, for fate was not kind to her family.  This was why it came as a great shock to her when Belal came to her one evening and offered to spirit her away, promising riches and comfort forevermore.  Belal took Shlaesa on a journey of the world that night, showing her things she had never dreamt of, let alone believed in:  magnificent creatures, ancient secrets, the Hand of God upon the Face of Creation.  And then he brought her to Etlaentes, a great island in the middle of an even greater ocean.  He showed her the wondrous and beautiful aelfs and the other faerie folk.  He showed her the riches Etlaentes hid which he promised could be hers.  Before the evening was complete, Belal brought her to the mountain where the Temple now stood and carved out three half-rings in the mountainside with his bare hands, each higher up the mountain than the one before.  He then piled rock and dirt upon the top level and breathed onto the pile, creating the most beautiful structure she had ever seen:  the Temple.  From the Temple sprang a flow of water that filled the outer edges of each descending ring and Belal offered the mountain retreat as her home and the home of her descendants, an offer to which she agreed with great affection.

Shlaesa never returned home.  She sometimes wondered if her mother ever missed her, but then her mother was so busy birthing a race that she probably had little time to worry herself over one wayward girl.

The Queen of Etlaentes, Shlaesa had no true power, except as Belal's chief priestess.  The real power lay with Belal's sons, to whom he had bequeathed the rule of the empire.  Tlenai, Shlaesa's eldest son, was granted sovereignty over all Etlaentes while his brothers were granted authority over their own personal domains, each quite sizeable, and seats on the Ruling Council as advisors to the king.

Shlaesa turned and gazed over her sons who ruled the Empire.  Ten of them sat on their thrones, all glorious to look upon, and each with a mind of his own.  Belal would be proud that each of his sons were strong, although Shlaesa herself sometimes wished they would not all be quite so stubborn.

"You have all agreed that this is the next step for us.  Already the Empire knows the Ascension is coming.  Why delay now?"

Kinkoll, her fifth son, a man with a broad chest and strong limbs, though as short as his mother, rubbed his jaw with a meaty hand and avoided her gaze.  "Mother, it's not as simple as that.  Yes, we've agreed, and I, for one, look forward to the Ascension, however these things must be handled properly.  You have given us the exact amounts of orichalcum you need to perform the Ascension.  We do not have it currently, which is why we've expanded our interests into Cresa."

Shlaesa looked away from her son and toward the Column of Law, a pillar only four feet in height made of orichalcum and engraved with the Law as set down by Belal.  On its surface were the rules stating how the Empire would be run, including the extent of power Tlenai himself had and how often the Council would meet and for how long.  It was Belal's will that his children and their Empire would live in peace.  Shlaesa did not know much of her husband's history, but she knew he had chosen sides unwisely in a war amongst the demigods, betraying someone he loved dearly.  His party lost the war, and Belal had lived in grief ever since.  The Column of Law was his way of ensuring his children would never know hostilities between each other-a way to ensure that the Empire would stand strong on moral ground as well as on the power of its blood.

"And started a war I advised against, 'Koll, so do not think to lay its blame at my feet," Shlaesa answered.  "Etlaentes currently has in its possession all the orichalcum required.  We have no need to seek out mines in the eastern lands-or, at least, any more of them.  Our collections from Gironde and Aigypt, in combination with our own mines within Etlaentes, are more than sufficient for my task.  Belal never wished for us to sacrifice our own blood in war.  Look to the Column if you doubt me."

"We all know about father's compassion, mother, and have no need to read again his Law," Akle responded from beside Kinkoll, a healthy hint of irritation in his voice.  A fair-haired youthful-looking man with a child-like face, Akle had the gift of seeming trustworthiness-most people liked him.  His eyes, however, betrayed a hunger for power only few could compete with.  He spoke to his mother, though he avoided her eye by sweeping his gaze over his brothers.  "The war was our decision, mother.  We do not blame you, although you should accept your part as a catalyst for it.  We needed the fresh influx orichalcum because we believed in your plan.  However, to be fair, mother, this Ascension of yours might not work.  You've never tested it on anyone, and though we do not doubt your arcane prowess, even you cannot say what side effects there might be.  Think of the orichalcum from Cresa as...insurance."

Shlaesa turned, holding out a pleading hand.  "I have seen..."

"Yes, yes, mother," Akle responded.  "We know all about the gifts father granted you.  Your vision showed you how our people could rise above our meat and into a form of godhood.  But visions are a matter of interpretation, are they not?"

Shlaesa frowned and nodded.  They just did not understand.  She'd received a message from the ether, from the realm of Belal.  He had called out to her and shown her the way.  She could not have mistaken his intent.  He loved her even now, after so many years apart.  He would not lead her wrong.  "Does my experience with the visions not count for anything?"

Kinkoll held out his hand, motioning his brother to silence.  "You misunderstand, mother.  Of course your experience with the visions carries weight.  If we didn't trust you we wouldn't have all agreed to the Ascension.  Please, have patience with us-we are just being cautious.  If we stripped the people of their orichalcum to the degree you are advising, and the Ascension does not work as you say, what will become of us then?  We rely on orichalcum, mother.  If we seize it without careful planning, it will not be long before the sick and elderly start dying.  It would not belong before the accidents of every day life became lethal.  For example, what would happen if a corral-line of oliphants broke in the middle of a busy street while being transferred from one job location to another because the tethers failed without orichalcum to strengthen them and keep the beasts from startling?  The animals spook enough as it is without our people in the mix getting crushed to death.  Also, many of our medicines are beneficial when stored cold, but turn to poison if allowed to warm!  The people have grown accustomed to the benefits of orichalcum.  We would be an irresponsible Council if we deprived them of their way of life so suddenly.  I'm certain you do not wish to cause harm, mother."

He refused to look at her as he said this.

Shlaesa clenched her jaw and smoothed down her gown, sheer white cloth which barely clung to her shoulders by thin threads.  Shlaesa was perhaps the most beautiful woman on Etlaentes, a mother of an empire, and she was proud of the fact a demigod had chosen her.  Most of her sons did not understand her pride or her insistence on displaying her beauty for all to see-every curve and smooth line.  Men enjoyed looking upon women, and the gown she wore would be pleasant on these men's wives, revealing much without revealing anything, but most of her sons found it uncomfortable to look upon their mother in such a way.  Instead, they looked away from her or made it a point to look her directly in the eye, oftentimes agreeing with her simply to get away from her and how uncomfortable she made them.  Yet again she wished they would grow up.  She was a woman long before she was a mother.

"Of course she doesn't," a new voice said.

King Tlenai Sedes, firstborn of Belal, stood from his throne on the north side of the Temple auditorium.  He was a beautiful man over six feet in height with the perfect physique, well-sculpted muscles and bronzed skin.  Golden bracers protected his forearms, his symbol of sovereignty.  Shlaesa lowered her head demurely as Tlenai placed his hands on her shoulder and pulled her to him.  She touched his hand with hers and melted ever so slightly.

Most sons enjoyed embracing their mother.  But there was something in the way Tlenai held his mother that...

The rest of the council shifted uncomfortably in their seats as significant glances were passed.

"You are right, Tlenai, I do not wish my children harm.  No mother would.  Forgive me, my sons, if I seem...impatient.  I simply see a future for you-for us-and I cannot help but run to embrace."

Tlenai smiled down at his mother, kissed the top of her head, then looked out at his kin.  "And embrace it we will, brothers.  I agree with you that we will not move forward with the Ascension tomorrow, but I disapprove of your delaying tactics.  The war with Cresa has begun, and so we will continue it.  That insignificant collection of city-states will not defy the might of Etlaentes.  Cresa will cede to our authority in the same manner as her neighbors, though the worse for wear the harder she defies us, and we will collect her supply of orichalcum.  My word on it!"

Each of the nine brothers still sitting nodded reluctantly and pounded their fists on the arms of their chairs in support of the king.

Akle rose then, arms spread wide as he stepped down from his seat and approached Slaesa and his brother.  The king moved aside as Akle drew nearer.  Shlaesa blushed as Akle embraced her, though not in modesty as she knew Akle supposed.  The color that came to her face was due to her quiet fury.  Akle was very adept at manipulating the Council.  Lately, he'd been manipulating the Council against her interests, all the while smiles and sweet words.  She despised the boy.

"My honor to serve, mother," Akle whispered smugly and held her at arm's length.  "My house supports the Priestess, if the Ascension works or not."

Through an act of sheer will Shlaesa kept herself from slapping him soundly.

Two dull claps of thunder rolled into the auditorium then, followed by the clack of talons on the marble floor.

"Oh, it will work, of that I am certain!"  A'aronomyst announced as he entered the Temple, wings folding against his sides.  "You mentioned running, Priestess, but do you not recall that a babe must crawl before he can walk, let alone run?"

Tlenai came around his mother and brother and glared at the dragon.  "Manners, A'aronomyst.  You are a guest here, at my suffering."

The dragon looked at the king for a moment, blinked, then looked around the Council.  "It's the same with most species, from what I understand, even dragons.  As wyrmlings, we learn to crawl around the lair then quickly build enough strength in our limbs to walk.  Admittedly we dragons do not practice running as much as humans do, instead moving straight from walking to flight, but I believe my point is still valid."

Shlaesa jerked free of Akle's grip, eyes narrowing.  She despised the dragon and his kind.  They meddled in everything without a care, it seemed, to what damage they caused.  They claimed to have humanity's interests at heart, but Shlaesa was privately convinced they instead wished to leash humanity and keep mankind low in respect to the wyrms.

"We are not children," she stated heatedly, not even trying to hide her displeasure.  Why Belal ever advised respect for the creatures was beyond her!  They were infuriating.

A'aronomyst walked casually around to the opposite side of the Temple, as graceful and as light on his feet as a cat, barely making a sound as he padded over the floor.

"In this world, anyway," he agreed.  "But what of the next:  the Supernal?  I have tried to advise you before, Priestess, about the dangers you will face after the Ascension.  It will be a new world to you, one you will be ill-equipped to handle at your current stage of development."

"Current stage of..."  Shlaesa shook with rage.  "How dare you talk down to me, dragon!  My husband was Belal, a demigod with deific powers.  He bestowed upon my bloodline the gift of immortality and the inherent knowledge of working magic.  He personally instructed me in its use. We are..."

"Only human," the dragon interrupted, now looking directly at Shlaesa.
For a moment-a brief moment-Shlaesa contemplated giving A'aronomyst an example of all Belal had taught her, and all she had discovered herself over the years.  But Belal had not only instructed her to respect the wyrms, but also to fear them.  Shlaesa could not remember any story of his where he had ever fought a dragon, and Belal was a renowned warrior, but when he spoke of them he spoke with a deep reverence.  He always referred to them as equals, and that is what gave Shlaesa pause.  She knew Belal was infinitely more powerful than her.  If he spoke of dragons in such high regard, could she match their might?

Still, that was no reason to back down.

"A'aronomyst, you and I have spoken at length on this in private," Shlaesa began, visibly calming herself.  "Perhaps you would do the Council the favor of repeating your argument here?"

The dragon narrowed his eyes dangerously for a moment, a gesture Shlaesa could not help but recoil from.  "Very well."

A'aronomyst looked up toward the roof of the Temple, specifically at the markings along the edges, just below the crystal ceiling.  Etched into the walls were a story told only in a language Belal and his kind understood.  Even A'aronomyst, a dragon, could not interpret the words.  Still, he knew the story.

"Before humans were born, the Earth was a volatile and violent place.  Great wars were waged over who would rule and who would serve, or else die.  We dragons fought in the last of these wars against the single race that had beaten all the others.  In your language, I can only call them demons.  What made them so powerful, so strong, was that they had not come from this world, but from the universe before the Earth.  They came from the astral realm you are so foolishly looking to jump into.  We won that war, saving the Earth for its rightful inhabitants according to will of the Word:  the fae, the beasts of the mountains and forests and seas, and, yes, even humans.  We banished the demons back to the ether and have always since guarded your reality from their presence.  But though we won, do not think the demons were a weak foe.  Remember, they had beaten all other contenders for the rule of the Earth.  We fought no skirmish with them, but a full scale war.  If our task was difficult, think how much harder mere survival would be for you!"

The auditorium was silent for a long moment, no one daring to speak, but the brothers passed among themselves looks of skepticism.  Shlaesa knew this would be Council's reaction.  As one of her servants, Fulcier, had advised her, dragons were so full of themselves, so full of their own self-worth and assumed dignity that they expected all living creatures to hear them and heed their every word.  It never occurred to dragons that the other races might have a mind of their own and be able to think for themselves-and recognize bluster when they heard it.  Case in point was the Council's current reaction.  The men sitting around the Column of Law were polite but hardly believing of such events.  There were no records of such a time or a battle.  The only thing that somewhat supported the dragon's story was aelfin folklore which spoke of a time before humanity.  But never did the aelfs speak of a cataclysmic war.  Still, Shlaesa was not about to discount something simply because she had no knowledge of it.  Therefore, she had done her own investigation into the matter.

"Falkos, my son," she began.  "This is not the first time you have heard this tale."

Shlaesa's seventh son, a man who appeared prematurely bald and aged in the face, stroked his beard and nodded.  "Indeed, Priestess, it is not.  You told me something similar some time ago.  And though I found it hard to believe, I-like you-saw a responsibility in researching the truth of the matter from a second source."

"And what did your delvings tell you?" Shlaesa asked.

Shifting in his seat, Falkos furrowed his brow, composing his thoughts before speaking.  "As you know, my House has always delved the mysteries of magic, more so than most anyway.  House Sinys wizards have a knack for traveling outside our bodies, projecting ourselves into the ether of the astral realm.  We have long studied the ether's attributes and its denizens, scarce as they are.  We have run afoul of terribly wicked creatures form time to time with malevolent intelligences.  These beings seem to have an overwhelming hatred for mankind and lash out at us the way a scorpion strikes prey-it seems to be in their nature, not necessarily a conscious thing.  Still, with as terrible and terrifying as these creatures are, they have only very rarely caused any harm to one of my wizards.  If hate could be a weapon, they would certainly kill us all, but fortunately their emotions lend them little strength.  It is my opinion that we can easily handle any aggression from them."

A'aronomyst snorted.  "You are blind."

Falkos' eyes widened and his cheeks flushed.  "My good dragon, I am certainly willing to admit to error if you would but show me your evidence."

The dragon sat there silent and unmoving.

Shlaesa, pleased with the discourse, smiled magnanimously.  "Kind A'aronomyst, is it possible that in your war you slew all the truly great demonic threats?  Is it possible the only ones left are weak and pitiful as Falkos has witnessed?"

"No," the dragon responded, his voice cold.  "I do not know how House Sinys could have missed them.  I can only assume the demons have a plan which involves hiding from you, although why I cannot imagine."  A'aronomyst rose then, and turned toward the entrance.  "Do not ignore my warning, Ruling Council.  You are in more danger than you know."

So, I could not sleep at all last night.  And I don't know about you, but when I am tired the last thing I should be doing is writing.  Still, my mind was racing and I wanted to do something, so I broke out my Google SketchUp program and started doodling.  I decided to try and create a rough sketch of the warships used in the novel I am writing.  Here's the attempt:

sketchup.google.com/3dwarehouse/details?...