Children of Terra

~Just before the battle~ ~Disputed Lands~ ~Within the ranks of Korybante Misthophoroi~ ~Vykan, Korybant~ The weeks of Kourete training were harsh. Contrasting -- two or so days ago -- time pieces absenta; the Kourete insisted the Korybante rest well. Vykan knew then. The place was decided.       They marched a league, scuttling camp (we won't be back, Vykan noted) and bore to a fine rolling plain. Soft-round hills marked recess in the terrain; an ellipse 250-300 meters diameter, with an incline just high to conceal approaching army. No flora could be seen save fine grass-ling of brown orange. Above, the cavernous sky was a lighter purple today, almost blue. Another reminder of the underworld. Vykan could almost hear phantom winds in his mind, but the reality was near total silence. The worst part is any information the Kourete didn't give: none; the Korybante had no idea of the composition of the approaching army. Simply a march here to this plain, fight as best you can, and glory to the survivors. Great.       What little discipline instilled in the Korybante held through this contrivance. The formation stayed on one end of the ellipse, about half down an incline. They would at least see approach from anywhere save behind. Some sensed the tensity; a brapping fart loosing in some attempt to lift their spirits. Vykan joined in chuckle fucking, almost forgetting the gallows tone. It wasn't long after a legion crested horizon ahead, cutting the nicety short. So, who are we to fight and die against?       Perhaps 1,200 to 1,500 drew close, the stamping already dread sign. The opposition was dreg legion, even more tattered than the Korybante. Black rags adorned emaciated husks of men, just enough water-flesh to look like street filth, with dulled blades and daggers of arms. Numbers against equipment, eh? It comes to training then. Vykan hoped that weeks would be enough.       The dreg legion arrived opposite the ellipse, staring fixed at the Korybante, signaling hunger was immediate motivation. The legion came from a land of scarcity, seeming. A hell of a different reign.       One of the front, larger dregs raised a sword high, then forward, along a guttural tenor roar. The legion spilled into the ellipse plain, and the Korybante responded with guard, advancing in step.       Vykan felt terror-fatigue in his chest, breathing slow to regain strength. The fellows made it around 50 meters inside the ellipse before the dreg tide crashed on them. Whirls of korybante blade sang against the howls of the feral dead. In the first moment of clash, the momentum favored the Telkhine; dregs being pushed back from the fierce cuttings. Still, the defending korybante lost a handful already, knives and swords sticking at cruel angles from freshly corpses. The dregs lost maybe 15, for a current attrition of 3 to 1.       Not sustainable. Vykan could see his fellows gauge this through the measured breathing of a true clash. They would need to fight harder; and so, began an encircling advance, in the measure brigands do. The dregs weren't mindless, and collapsed back into a strong defense formation. Much as fighters step fast to test range, swing, or see response before a back step; the korybante defenders tested enemy front. Rings of steel here, there, but no break. Before long was half encirclement.       The defenders held, waiting for a mistake on the dreg part, an overreach, an exploit inside. A newer korybant stepped forward, flourishing blade high and around for a swing at dreg neck, but the legionnaire countered with a parry from low upward; a sickening yellow spark and reverse to slaughter the korybant. The man fell back, neck gurgling with blood spurts. Within a half-baited breath of shock, the dregs charged, turning tide.       Clangs rang out, the tempo nearly settled before the next horror: the gurgled dying man was beset by the backline, being consumed alive. His garbled screams broke morale enough for the dregs to sunder the line total. Korybante swung mad; training be damned. The dregs were frenzied, any slice of arm or thigh was incense; and woe betide any who fell within dreg control.       Vykan for his part swung his blade with a lack of grace, figuring to overpower the emaciated husks with a blow or two. He tried to adhere to 'one-at-a-time' philosophy: simply seek to push one back enough to reposition another between. It didn't last; he took cuts about his strong hand, and his defending arm gashed through enough to make him tremble. He chanced a look at the bedlam. A third of the korybante fallen now, and only one to two hundred dregs to balance. A grimace; worse than expected, worse than hoped for. The shouts of bravery slowly formed into pleas or screams for help.       The momentum fully reversed. Dregs began steadily pouncing two to three at-a-time upon korybant, binding resistance enough for the feasting unfettered. Vykan nearly vomited from the smell; shit, piss, blood, fear. Hard to describe, but unmistakable once smelled. The lesser korybant began to turn, morale lost. Many were simply hounded before a chance out, others fallen to a flung dagger in the back, all torn into like carrion. Vykan would have turned here had he not chanced a glimpse past the dregs, opposite the ellipse.       Coming over the hills were spear heads resolving into infantry, peltasts. Behind them archer lines. Ah, realization hit Vykan: the first loosing volley of arrows -- with no flora or fauna around, the periphery made the motion stark. This was some dream, we're in the line of fire . . . He found his strength gone, standing idly as fellow korybant were in a final stand, the ellipse inhibiting retreat too much to chance.       The arrow swarm felled around 100 more dregs, arrow impacts making vicious squelches as they purchased into flesh. Some even hit throat or severed vital arteries. Vykan found himself laughing at the sight; the misery of an enemy just a moment ago on victory. The mere handful of korybante heard this, mistaking it for relief and not the insanity it was. They rallied, and began a steady phalanx into the dreg line. Because ahead of them, pincer-ing the dreg formation: true-blooded Kourete crested hill.       The dregs, sensing a shift, focused their attentions on the new front, a full borne army at their back, cutting escape off from range. But, no rally-reformation: drunk on the victory in the ellipse, lacking command, they charged up the incline, not caring what a handful of korybant behind could do. What they didn't know was the difference between untrained korybant and full-blooded Telkhine Kourete. The new line held just beyond the crest of the ellipse, and this time, kourete blade swung. Dregs found their momentum lost in utter disbelief: their fellows being bifurcated, heads, sword-arms, and even the worst kind of strength-show; near complete vertical severing. Kicks of power pushed the dreg line back into favorable position.       With the first counter complete, the archers readied a new support volley, loosing it just over Kourete head. Insanity! The skill needed, the skill trusted! But, the reality all the same; a full half of dreg swarm slaughtered. Damnable shouting from the korybante scraps signaled a knell for the dreg; in tandem as the legion of kourete descended the ellipse, cutting futile attempt down in horrific tatters.       Vykan, for his part, felt it all unreal. He began a charge into the dreg back line, laughing from some combination of battle-insanity and relief. The relief one feels when truly resigned to death, ready to just give up after facing surety. Then being denied. He wondered passively if this was adrenaline, of how much was natural and how much was his own disposition. All in vain regardless; the dregs were not psychic, they could only see madness, and it rallying the handful korybant behind him. And up the incline, the Kourete advance essentially unstopping: every whirl a severing, every swing a decapitation, even through-pikes had a cruel twist to wrench guts from their flesh cages.       Slaughter would be total, no prisoners. ~After-Battle report~ ~Newly-claimed Territory~ ~Inside command tent~ ~Ephor Mepholon~ Mepholon held paused over a wooden desk, quill over parchment, wondering in what order to put affairs. Ephoroi were priests and leaders first, not generals nor commanders. Meliai traditionally held that place, but the extent of new conflicts drew thin propriety. Ephor could command, if needed. Besides, the council agora would find out all from Kourete anyway, as insurance against lying. It was just a matter of vesting and cross-checking information.       Mepholon hoped bevity would curry favor, and began his report: Of 347 korybante, 13 remain Enemy comprised thrall legion, likely unwanted laborers No survivors among enemy, and no Kourete losses One archer lost from own misfire       Mepholon looked at the brief parchment, wet from fresh manuscript. He knew the true test of this endeavor, and decided a bold addition, inking a new line underneath: Outcome favorable, recommend full conscription of non-Telkhine origin       He contented a sigh reading back the report. The idea of using societal outcasts had been a tizzy, fierce pride at play for both argumentative sides. A cautious approach would be needed to maintain pride in the Telkhine structure. A fine lure was decided, service meant citizenship. The thought personally chafed Mepholon; as if these vagabonds could ever be treated Telkhine! But, the efficacy undeniable. Reports showed a good uptick of volunteerism. They might yet avoid forced drafting.       Pleased, Mepholon sealed the parchment with a wax stamp of satisfaction, handing it to an archer-scout. He got up, walked to his cabinet, and loosed a cork from a fine wine vintage. Smelling the softness of home, he poured a cup of the delicious vineyard blessing, walking out to oversee how well the korybant survivors took the battle. Any treason would need firm pruning, after all.