Part 1: The Summit of Naotik

Part 2: The Second Summit

Part 3: The Leadup to War

Serek swallowed by reflex, moistening his parched mouth. He realised he’d been staring off into space, his mouth open and his mind on his wife and young child at home instead of the matter at hand. He sat in a tent in a camp just a handful of minutes journey north of Konome. With him were five other scarui, each of them eagerly awaiting the return of their vertkash, who had been discussing their planned movements with the Naotik-born artkash for what seemed like hours now, but had infact been perhaps twenty minutes. Why summon us if you didn’t need us, you balu-headed fool? Serek quickly corrected himself, clearly having lost himself to stress and boredom. No, Temut is a good man. He simply needs us to be ready. There must be a good reason for the delay.

Serek had served with Temut in several raids in Diplotian territory and it was the man’s cunning and consideration for limiting the casualties of his men – and maximising their booty - that had lead him to his elected appointment as vertkash. Serek began to reminisce of one such time when the corporeal form of the man in his thoughts entered the tent, slamming his fist on the table and commanding the attention of the suddenly focused scarui.

“Our forward heqosuth didn’t come back, but our screening jauntee did. The Hashas are closer even than our most pessimistic estimates placed them, and thanks to the idiot riders getting themselves killed we don’t know how many there are or how they are armed. Given the circumstances, we’re being ordered to move west of the river.”

The scarui in the tent immediately erupted, venom on their tongues. “We knew this would happen when we let those void-damned Naotik take command. They might be the best kashi we have, but no Konome would ever leave their city without a force to defend it!”

“That Naotik filth wouldn’t be so quick to abandon HIS children, maybe he ought to join the de-“ The scarui stopped mid sentence under the glare of Temut, whose face showed that whilst he wasn’t pleased with the order himself, he wasn’t going to tolerate any insubordination.

Serek looked sadly at the man as he spoke further. “We’re to pack up and head west of the river as soon as we can. Inform your tetmun immediately, sort out any difficulties and then meet me back here.”

The Konome forces were half across the river when the Hashas came, chariots and riders both. The Radeti - having prepared themselves for as rapid a crossing as possible - were woefully unprepared for what came next. Serek’s scar was to board the boat after next, and so when the dustcloud from the east began to approach and the men causing it became clear, he ordered his men to turn to face the enemy, Temut and the other vertiya visible and rapidly barking commands to their Scarui, or whoever else would actually listen.

Panic rose quickly, and disorganisation ruled. Many of the men had known their commander’s names for mere days, and cohesion was limited to the level of tetmuni and scars. The officers lacking any sort of familiarity with the troops had trouble forcing them back into order, and thus what collaboration remained would be easily lost.

Serek was lucky. He’d served with most of the men in his scar on the raids south and so knew most of the men personally, and thus they weren’t as liable to bail on him. When he gave his order to knock arrows, his kashi did so. And when he ordered release, Hashas men died.

His men weren’t the only ones prepared to fight back, yet their odds of victory were no longer than they would have been if they were. The Naotik artkash, where he could make himself be heard, demanded that those spearmen that might give the charging Hashas cavalry pause hold the line while all others prepare to file onto boats as they returned from the western bank of the Radet.

Serek gritted his teeth at the crash of metal, the cries of men and horse, and the snapping of wood and bone as the Hashas cavalry slammed into the unfortunately hole-ridden Radeti lines, the sparse infantry lines immediately buckling under the assault for want of deeper ranks. Rather than bogging down in a melee the cavalry began to retreat at a trot, covered by fire from the Hashas chariots, before preparing to wheel around again for another charge.

Serek knew that the next boat would be theirs, now, the scar ahead of them just having launched. For a moment more, his job was to continue focus on the battle.

Horses crashed to the ground when the his scar loosed, their pitiable whinnies heralding the incapacitation of their riders who were substantially harder to hit, and less worth aiming for. Serek noticed Temut running between parts of the line, patting wavering men on the shoulder and giving them an encouraging word before they met the next charge that would likely herald their final moments. The artkash attempted the same, though his encouragement involved more threats of punitive action than words of hope.

The meeting of lines was no less deafening the second time, but the consequences were more catastrophic as dozens of cavalry simply sheared through the Radeti to continue towards the more vulnerable archers and men boarding vessels, severing appendages and ending lives with curved blades or sharpened points as they sallied through, striking at men again and again as they came into range. Still, Temut rallied what men remained as Serek’s own scar came under assault, the archers offering poor resistance in melee with their short iron apa. What spearmen were unengaged turned around to face away from the Hashas charioteers, leaving their backs vulnerable but spearing down a number of loose cavalry, buying vital safety and seconds for more men to board boats, which arrived moment by moment.

Serek’s scar was done. With the battlefield now a total mess and Radeti units beginning to rout in earnest they could not risk firing anymore arrows and thus they move directly to the river’s edge. There they contended with a few desperate men to board a newly arrived vessel but made it on board after stern threats, and quickly set off from the riverbank.

Serek turned to face the carnage as he floated away from the battle. Of the perhaps 5,000 Konome warriors on the eastern bank at the start of the battle, he expected that fewer than 2,500 had survived the field. All that for what, 100 Hashas? They always were masters of the inequitable trade, and this is among the more heinous bargains they’ve ever extracted from us.

It was a poor start to the war, and Serek hoped that the Hashas would treat his home city kindly.