In the wake of Phaeliope's death, I made the Heacharids suffer.
Naeri's Revenge
prowled the waves. Any Heacharid ship sailing without an escort would find its reward at the bottom of the Turquoise Sea. I fed my grief Heacharid lives. It was never sated. It never would be.
During these battled on the water, I realized I had been fighting this war for a full year. I had left so certain that it would be resolved quickly, that I would find glory and save a civilization from being ground to dust. I would return to Zhahllaia and Sarakiel a hero. A year later, and there was no glory. Only seas of blood.
The Heacharids were not idle in the wake of their victory. After the fall of Thessandreia, the Heacharid Empire turned its foul eye upon Paiari. They soon found that the long and narrow bay that leads into Elekidora was an avenue of death. While it was the most reliable place to land upon the island, the terrain forced arriving ships into single file to be chewed apart by catapults upon the shore.
That did not stop the Heacharids from trying. They hurled ships at the port with abandon, losing more ships than any power should be able to absorb. Eventually even the Heacharids decided that the prize could be more easily taken.
Their invasion fleet began to mass off the eastern end of the island. The beaches there were far from an ideal landing, but absent Elekidora, it was the best option. Even without our spies, we knew it. Unfortunately, the fleet was far too big to be preyed upon by the likes of us. I was summoned to take part in the defense of Paiari.
Captain Kucyone docked
Naeri's Revenge
at Elekidora. I went inland with my hetairoi, Einoë and Kallea, as well as the few stormwights that remained from my campaign upon the waves. We were far from the only ones. Lines of troops from other islands, wagons and pack animals laden with supplies, and even disassembled catapults, went east, while noncombatants walked into Elekidora, where they would be safest.
"After so long at sea, fighting on land will be a welcome change," Einoë remarked as we marched through the late afternoon sun. Sweat glistened off her shoulders. Not for the first time was I grateful for the miraculous robes Tara had given me. The elven garment kept me cool even in direct sun.
"We had that battle at Menes Ridge," Kallea pointed out.
"And then back to salt wind and heaving decks."
"You were born on an island," I said. "I thought you were a race of mariners."
"Some more than others, tent brother."
Kallea chuckled. "She is right. Letting the Heacharids break like waves upon our shores...this feels like a proper battle."
"We'll fill the ocean with their dead," I vowed.
Phaeliope's face was in my mind. I found that I already had trouble conjuring her scent or her taste. I was losing her inch by inch. A creature who had existed for untold centuries, and the Heacharids had slaughtered her like an animal. I found my hands twitching, ready to fling lightning. Diotenah's power purred at the back of my mind, begging to be unleashed.
We arrived at the main camp at nightfall. The sentries on the road asked our identities and took us swiftly to General Ysmache, commander of the forces upon Paiari. She was an iron-haired amazon, scarred and powerful, unbowed by age.
"Your reputation is sterling, Belromanazar the Tempest," she said. I'd heard the epithet a few times, far more since my rageful campaign after Phaeliope's murder.
"I am here to break the invasion, General."
"I am pleased to hear it."
We spoke of my capabilities. She bade me summon a storm when the Heacharid invasion started, and build my force of stormwights. She asked not for complex tactics, merely to turn as many of the invaders into ours. I was a feature of the defense, instrumental in crafting a butcher's bill so monstrous even the Heacharids would blanch.
This section of the island bordered pastureland, the grasses grown high as most of the goats who had grazed there had been slaughtered for food. The Quartermaster gave us one of the tents in the endless rows that occupied the pasture.
I lay with my hetairoi, the three of us reasserting our bond before battle. We had been together long enough that I had begun to understand the subtle differences between them. Einoë liked me rough, while Kallea was sweeter and even tender at times. Einoë's sex had the slightest metallic flavor. Kallea had the softest moan when I entered her. It was never precisely romantic with my tent sisters. I loved them as comrades and there were perhaps none I trusted more with my life. These were the source of my passion as the three of us joined. And it is something I will miss.
Three days later, the Heacharids attacked before dawn.
They thought to catch a few Daughters of Axichis asleep in their tents. They must have known a quick victory was impossible, but pride in their skill at warfare demanded they stab for it. The truth was that every Heacharid victory was won the same way: upon a pile of the dead. No hour would be early enough to circumvent that simple fact.
The Axichan horns bellowed their summons after my tent sisters and I had risen and were in the process of donning our armor. We raced to the defenses erected at the edge of the beach.
The defenses were in layers. Amazons had dug a trench past the waterline, forcing a hard barrier for those who had made it up to the sand to take a final push into battle. Above that, the short rise to where the dirt was harder packed and covered in vegetation, they'd built ramparts with sharpened logs pointing out to sea. What they'd accomplished in such a short time was impressive, especially as Paiari was not known for its trees. I would learn later they had been forced to destroy the bulk of the island's olive groves, but it would prove worth it.
We arrived as the first of the Heacharids were reaching the ramparts. Already the sea churned with their bodies, riddled with arrows and bleeding from sling stones. Boats ferried landing parties from the ships anchored well out of arrow range. Sharks slipped through the reddening water, feasting on the dead and wounded.
"What do you say, tent brother?" Einoë asked, her face unreadable through the thin openings in her helm.
"I say this will be the final day they ever feel the warmth of their goddess." I reached with the limbs of magic, calling to my power in a booming voice. A rumble of thunder shook the air and lightning crawled over clouds suddenly pregnant with rain. If the Heacharids owned the waves, I would show them who commanded the skies.
A cheer went up from the amazons. The Heacharids glanced into the sky with superstitious dread. I speared one of their landing boats with a bolt from the gray sky. The battle was joined.
The day was spent in carnage. My storm blocked the sun over the beach, creating a strange twilight about us. The sun shone down on every side, but it was distant, too far to touch. Heacharids landed boat after boat, disgorging numberless hordes of fanatics. The sea turned crimson. By afternoon, the bodies were so thick that a person have walked upon the dead from shore to the Heacharid ships without ever touching water.
They pushed us back from our initial stand to the second line. Another ditch, more ramparts, and soon, more falling bodies. We threw the Heacharids back. That was the way of it, back and forth, fighting over land that was increasingly little more than a slaughterhouse floor. My rain fell, always punishing the Heacharids more than the Axichans, lightning stalking through their ranks. Stormwights rose behind their ranks to fall upon their former comrades.
I saw the witchthrall in the late afternoon. I was already exhausted. My magic was thready, but Diotenah's power was hungry in my ears. I will never truly know how much of Diotenah's consciousness lives on in the ring, but whatever was left delighted in the butchery of that day. Her whispers never formed words, but I knew her desires.
The witchthrall was clad as the first, in red-enameled plate on her arms and legs, the gauntlets tipped in wicked claws. She wore only a small red loincloth, another red cloth over her breasts. Her skin was stark white, her hair white with a touch of silver. Her maddened eyes were red. She was beautiful in the way that slaughter can sometimes be.
Those who know of me will recognize her as Lysethe the Heaven's Fire. I did not learn her name until later, but she would be something of an archenemy for much the war. I could never have predicted what she would become. For now, she was merely a foe to be slain.
Later I would reflect that her late arrival implied the Heacharids had held her in reserve, waiting for me to tire. It was a wise gambit. When she came among us, hurling her shafts of razored sunlight, I was easy prey.
Her assignment was obvious. She was fixed on me. She came up the beach, floating a few scant feet over the sand. I took my Shattered Mirror in hand, grabbing a bit of the light spilling from her pale form. Images of me wobbled into existence across the battlefield. She bared her teeth--I would never call what she did a smile, and cast a shaft of sunlight, spearing the shard of glass in my hand. It burned bright, exploding into a million tiny pieces, the magic gone. My palm was shredded, a scorching pain worming up my arm.
At that moment, Heacharids sprang upon me. The first knocked Spire from my blood-soaked hands, leaving me to scrabble for Ellisyr's sword, belted at my waist. Bloodlust in their eyes, they advanced. My hetairoi descended upon them. I gathered power to slay both men and turn them as stormwights upon the witchthrall.
Then I knew only unimaginable agony.
A light, brighter than any I had ever experienced, sliced into my side. I could not feel where it entered, but all around, it was bright pain, radiating all through my body. I followed the shaft to its source, the same as though it had been a spear of steel and wood. The author was Lysethe, her red eyes alight as she impaled me with her fell power.
The pain fixed me in place, rendering me unable even to cry out. Then, a line of amazons fell on Lysethe. I would never know their names, and I would be surprised if they survived the day or even the immediate aftermath of their rescue. The beam that had been in me was gone. What had been bright sank into a heavy burn. As though it were the only thing holding me up, I collapsed into the mud.
My flank was open, my life pulsing out in great gouts into the puddles of filthy rainwater. I looked up into the faces of Heacharid warriors, advancing to kill me. I hope I spat defiance at them, but I could do nothing more than writhe in futile agony.
I do not remember the rest. Only isolated images come through the pain. Einoë bashing a Heacharid with her shield. Kallea impaling a fallen one with a spear, then hurling her net at a charging group. Bodies falling into the mud.
"Iasos!" Einoë bellowed. Her voice was loud in my ears. Rain tapped my face. My robes were soaked.
Strong hands dragged me back from the fighting. In my path, Kallea dispatched a pursuing Heacharid with shocking brutality. Einoë called again.
Iasos
. Healer.
The black swallowed me up again. A jumble of faces loomed from the burning dark. Fire gnawed at my wound. I heard Einoë's voice, smelled Kallea's sweat. I fell away again. This time I stayed in the dark for a time, the agony far away.
I existed in a restless dream, the only constant the tearing agony in my side. I was lost in the darkness, crying out where none could hear. I thought I heard the voices of those I loved, but they were always far off, and I could never quite tell who the voice belonged to.
The first truly coherent memory I had was a ceiling. White and vaulted, shadows clinging to it like cobwebs. The world was dark, but after my time under, the light was blinding. An Axichan breeze washed over me, carrying distant notes of blood and fire. Closer was a scent of olives.
