A life of bloodshed and incessant warfare was all Ardysseos had ever known. Not yet thirty years of age, the young soldier had nevertheless fought in countless ferocious battles. He should have been relieved when the Nine Tribes of Shor-Dahn appeared on the eastern borders of Sparos to lay waste to his countrymen’s ancestral and bitter enemies, the Lamonites.
And yet the horde of hundreds of thousands of fearsome tribesmen - many of them clad in glittering scale mail and armed with spears, axes, and vicious looking sickle swords - seemed to present a new danger to his beleaguered nation. Save for the elves far to the west, there were no better warriors in all of Cyron than Sparan hoplites. However, decades of never-ending strife with the savage and merciless Lamonites had drained Ardysseos’ people of their resolve and resources.
Thus, it was met with no small amount of suspicion and uncertainty when the leaders of the Nine Tribes sent envoys to meet with the king of Sparos and his officers.
“We thank you for granting us this audience, great king,” the Shor-Dahn ambassador purred mellifluously. His black hair and beard had been freshly oiled, gleaming in the sunlight that streamed through the windows and reflected off the lustrous marble walls of King Theodoros’ throne room. Behind him stood the eight other representatives of the Nine Tribes, each with a pair of dour looking bodyguards. The soldiers - with their burnished mail armor and polished weapons - stood in stark contrast to the emissaries, who were clothed in richly colored robes and boasted expensive jewelry.
Standing at the right hand of his king, Ardysseos stifled a groan at the garishly dressed man’s obsequious words. Like the rest of the hoplites arrayed around the king’s royal chamber, he was clad in nearly full battle kit: a linothorax, intricately reinforced with bronze scales, strapped to his upper body; bronze greaves attached to his shins; a xiphos short sword hanging at his side; and a crimson cloak hooked to his breastplate, its blood red folds cascading from his shoulders. King Theodoros appeared to guess at the annoyed disposition of the captain of his Throneguard, for he gave Ardysseos a brief, disapproving glance before returning attention to his guests.
“I and my people thank you for permanently ridding these lands of the Lamonite scourge. Long have they plagued us, yet we have never been able to accomplish more than fighting them to a standstill. And yet, I wonder why it is you have done this?”
“All of Shor-Dahn does what Jor commands.” The envoy shrugged as if that should have been obvious. Theodoros raised an eyebrow at this.
“Jor Himself instructed you to wipe out the Lamonites? For what purpose?”
“Their existence was an abomination in His sight. Blood drinkers and human sacrificers, the lot of them.”
“Their many sins and atrocities are certainly well known.” The king waved a dismissive hand. “But why does Jor not entrust this sacred duty to us rather than to an itinerant people who have been wandering aimlessly for many decades? Has Sparos fallen into such disfavor with Him?”
The Shor-Dahn ambassador laughed good-naturedly. “Of course not, great king! He is pleased with your people’s countless crusades against the Lamonites these many years.”
“I should hope He is pleased,” interjected Ardysseos with an indignant snort. “Much Sparan blood has been shed against those blasphemers.”
This time Theodoros openly glared at the soldier. “Be silent,” he hissed irritably. “As Captain of my Throneguard, you are dutybound to be present, but you will not speak again unless first spoken to.”
“Yes, my king.” Ardysseos ground his teeth and bowed dutifully. “Forgive me.”
A wizened old man wearing plain, weathered robes - who until then had gone entirely unnoticed - shuffled forward. His hair and beard were snow white, and both tumbled almost all the way down to his sandal clad feet.
Momentarily nonplussed by the unexpected interruption, the envoy recovered quickly. “Er, this is Hashmael, prophet of Jor. The Almighty speaks, and Hashmael hears.”
The prophet leaned on his gnarled staff and fixed Ardysseos with a penetrating stare. “You, my son, are as untamed and noble as the great cats of the desert. The words Jor tells me now are for you, mighty lion:
In the days of your grandson’s grandson’s grandsons
A power in the north will rise
The city on the river will collapse
And the lion of your house shall roar”
“Power in the north?” the king mused. “You speak of the Noverians. They have carved out a modest nation for themselves, but they are hardly a power to be reckoned with. The peoples they have conquered are mostly scattered and remote tribes.”
“We cannot know what will be, but Jor has seen all,” Hashmael intoned solemnly.
“Yes, of course,” Theodoros said impatiently. “Now, herald, let us finally determine why you are here. Have you come to demand tribute, or the same fate will befall us as befell the Lamonites?”
“You misunderstand, great king. None of the Nine Tribes are your enemy. We come to pay respect to you, as a friend and equal. And we come to request a favor of you.”
“A favor? Well, if it is a reasonable one, I shall grant it.”
“In truth, it is more a test of obedience, if you will, from Jor.”
“I have always endeavored to follow His commands, such as I and my priests understand them,” the king growled.
“I have no doubt,” the ambassador said smoothly in his richly accented voice. “But this one you may find rather galling. The true reason we have come all this way, the reason we waged war upon the Lamonites and cleansed their evil from these lands, is because Jor demands you allow us into the Valley of the Old Gods.”
The blood of every Sparan in the throne room ran cold, and they all exchanged uneasy glances with one another.
“Why would you want to go to that accursed place?” King Theodoros’ robust, olive hued complexion had gone ashen.
“It is not about what we want: It is about what the Almighty commands. Long ago, your ancestors defeated the Cult of Golathos and banished them to the Valley. However, their kind were not destroyed. They have flourished in their exile, and their wickedness will once again wash over these lands if we do not slay them once and for all.”
“Is this all that is asked of me? To allow you passage?”
“Not quite, great king. You see, Jor requires that forty men from each tribe of Shor-Dahn make the journey. He also has decreed that forty of the best warriors in Sparos join us: to finish the mighty work your ancestors began.” The ambassador’s solemn gaze fell upon Ardysseos. “Starting with this one.”
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Ardysseos is the true warrior and hard not to admire. Great post.
Nice! I liked how this is a gathering of the questing warriors kind of an opening :D