Chronicle of Ionnia - Battle of Burning Sands

The dunes shimmered like gold, dancing under the high sun. An azure sky blazed clear and wide; a good day for history. It is a strange custom, for a Prince to be challenged and that challenge be accepted. Not that it happens often, for tradition is a strong virtue, but every challenge is one for the history books.   Crowned Prince Malik stood upon a platform framed by the milky towers of Mahd Alhadra and the glittering rivers beyond. In the river, barges lined the shore, each one overflowing with citizens eager to witness the fate of their kingdom play out. Most of them sported flags of green but here and there were scarves of purple.   Across the rocky field, the challengers stood. The purple robes of the Dream Singers billowed around them as they amassed around Prince Zubayr, the youngest brother of Malik. Behind their lines, a clan of Munkhgerel mercenaries fanned out, forming a crescent.   The Lost Sons were ranked up with all our new bloods, proudly stood beneath the black banner as it whipped in the wind. The Old Man, as always, took his place at the front.   Prince Zubayr stepped forward, his young face concealed behind a silver djinn mask. He gestured to the large group of sorcerers as he spoke. "Think, brother, of all the lives you may yet save if you would simply step aside. Your excursion into Gehnnia was a disaster. Your policies have led to weakness and corruption! Your judgment is clouded." Many of the sorcerers nodded as Zubayr continued. "Step aside, spare your ego, and let wiser minds prevail."   All eyes turned to Crowned Prince Malik, awaiting his response. Though still a young man himself, the stress of rule showed upon his face. The lines of worry were more pronounced than just a year before and there were the beginnings of silver traced in his immaculate beard. Yet his gaze was steady as he addressed his brother.   "I have made mistakes, it is true. Chief among them has been putting my trust in the wrong people." Malik leveled his gaze at the leaders of the cabals, his voice clear and strong. "I have learned from these mistakes and will not make them again. And I have done more in recent days for the good of Sitaar than you could possibly know. If only I had the cooperation of the lords, I could do even more. I refuse to step aside and I hope you will reconsider this challenge. Renounce these pretenders and I will forgive your trespasses."   It was impossible to see the reaction on Prince Zubayr's face but his answer was clear enough. Without a word, he withdrew behind the lines of sorcerers. In the tradition of the challenge, the prince's chosen champions came forward.   The cabals of the Dream Singers brought forth the masters of their schools. Their robes glistened with silks and gems, each containing the wealth of a small kingdom. Some wore glittering veils that sparkled like stars in the night sky. One man, frail and thin, looked as if he might blow away on the breeze if not for the enormous purple turban on his head.   In the universal spirit of ego, the sorcerer champions put on a show. Illusory dancers drifted up from the sands as cyclones of fire and lighting swirled around them. Impressive magic meant to intimidate. See how we control reality, they said.   After this expansive display of power, the Crowned Prince ordered the first champion of the Lost Sons forward. A chorus of jeers and laughter bubbled up from the enemy lines as little Marcia marched forward. She held her head high, brilliant red hair shining like fire in the midday sun. Still, her small hands trembled as she set down a row of braziers. With all the poise and grace a terrified child could muster, Marcia pulled the fire from the braziers and made it dance like ribbons around her. The enemy was not impressed.   "Is this all the great Malik can muster?" The Master shouted. His deep, rich voice burned like boiling honey on Marcia's shoulders. The sorcerers all laughed, a chorus of mockery. The laughter swiftly died, however, when the Links walked forward.   Expressions of doubt rippled through the ranks of purple. Andronicus marched forward with sure purpose, sun glistening off his shaved head and tattooed skin. Behind him, Aetheria kept a watchful distance. The silver threads that bound her brother glittered around Aetheria's wrists.   With little pomp or drama, Andronicus took a position in the middle of the battlefield and simply glared at the sorcerers. "Come," was all he said.   The Beast Lord thundered from the enemy lines. He was a massive slab of muscle, a contrast to most of the other sorcerers. Across his back he wore a golden chimera pelt; the same beast involuntarily gave one of its eyes which the Beast Lord now turned, burning with rage, upon Andronicus.   Flanking the Beast Lord were his 'creations.' Sorcerers and slaves infused with arcane mutations. Some had the heads of lions, venomous snakes in place of arms, and others still were so twisted that they were no longer recognizably human.   The creatures rushed in, moving swiftly to surround Andronicus. He didn't flinch or even move. A fanged, lion-headed monster leapt in first. Andronicus brought his knee up with shocking speed at the same time he struck down with his fists, like a hammer meeting an anvil with the beast's head in between. Lightening danced along his arms, setting fire to the mutant's fur.   Shrieking rage filled the air as the other creatures rushed at the linked mage as one. Andronicus flowed like water around his enemies. The sand flew up into the air, forming blades of glass. They flashed into the soft flesh of the monster's limbs. Blood and sand pooled under the fighter's feet where grasping hands erupted up and clawed at the beasts.   It seemed Andronicus was on the verge of killing all the Beast Lord's minions when their master stepped forward.   With a roar that shook the sands, the chimera head animated. A simulacrum of what the creature once was leapt from the Beast Lord's shoulders and the pair moved as one.   Honor and tradition seemed less of a virtue for some of the sorcerers, as the man with the giant turban stepped off the line. He drifted over the sand like his headwrap might be full of air. My stomach lurched as he removed the gem on his forehead revealing a bulging, pulsating third eye that protruded like an overripe fruit. A burning ray of energy burst from this eye and struck Andronicus.   Aetheria raced forward then, whipping her arms forward. The chains on her wrists sprang to life like vipers. The silver links bit into the throat of the turban sorcerer as the Itanish warrior slid under him. Aetheria slammed her blade into the sorcerer's soft gut once. Twice. Thrice. Faster than the eye could follow, blood up to her elbows.   The siblings moved to stand back to back. The other sorcerer masters abandoned all pretense of order. The Necromancer sent his eerily flawless servants forward, their movements smooth and perfect yet notably synthetic. They moved in unison to surround Aetheria and Andronicus as they fought against the Beast Lord and his chimera.   Despite the odds against them, the Links held against the enemies with precision and grace. For each minion that Andronicus felled with stone, or fire, or acid, Aetheria matched with blade and chain. It seemed they could hear each other's thoughts, for they moved as one. The chimera simulacrum was pulled to the ground with grasping hands of mud and stone. Aetheria leapt above the beast, blades flashing, and when she landed so did the chimera in several pieces on the sand.   Andronicus screamed as the Beast lord raked his back with ethereal claws. Aetheria struck for the sorcerer's chimera eye, but he blocked with his arm, steel feathers sprouting from his skin. He battered the siblings away.   With great effort, Andronicus pushed to his feet. Growling in pain, he summoned an orb of energy around him and his sister. The Beast Lord rushed in, roaring like a lion, ghostly creatures running beside him. Just before they collided, the siblings dashed to the sides, silver chains strung between them. The chains moved like living things, wrapping around the Beast Lord's limbs and throat.   The Beast Lord's skin burned and cracked as he fell to the dirt screaming.   The brilliant blue sky grew dark as uncharacteristic storm clouds manifested above the battlefield. Shade stepped forward and my stomach dropped. I still knew, of course, that our sorceress would die to protect me and my sisters, but I still felt the twinge of fear when I saw her face. Her eyes were black, like bottomless wells. Her skin cracked like old clay and there was something nameless beneath the surface.   The Dancer and her yellow-robed servants bravely faced Shade first. They didn't even reach her. Shade marched forward and as the enemies closed in they crashed into the shield around her. They unraveled into smoke, screams of agony torn from their throats and tossed into the wind.   When she reached the Dancer herself, Shade sprang like lightning and grasped the sorceress's head in both hands. Though the Dancer twisted, fire churning the air around the women, Shade moved with her like smoke. Shade set her fingers into the eyes of the Dancer. Gouts of fire burst from the enemy sorceress's sockets then traveled through her skull and down to her limbs, leaving a husk of ash that simply drifted away on the breeze.   Two more of the Masters began to cast spells. In desperation, The Crystal Lord inhaled a handful of arcane dust. Blue fire wreathed his armored body. Spectral beasts rose from the sands and raced towards Shade, while the Head Master summoned multiple djinn.   Shade stood still, reaching to the heavens. The day turned to night. Clouds were swept away to reveal a deeper sky than I had ever seen. Stars upon stars, none of which I recognized. As Shade closed her fingers into fists, each of the stars was snuffed out. And the bodies of the sorcerers collapsed like empty dolls.   But I could see Shade tiring. Her body shook, blood poured from her nose and eyes. At that point, when the remaining Masters, Dream Singers, and Prince Zubayr began to panic, the Old Man marched forward.   The horn of the Veteran Corps sounded, and the few guards and even the Crowned Prince looked about in confusion. This was not how these things go, it would seem. But the Sons were tired of games.   Fire and lightning flew through the air, aimed at the Lost Sons. But they had not seen little Marcia lighting the small braziers at each belt. The smoke formed a shield as she whispered the incantations over and over.   The line of the Lost Sons crashed into the first line of Sorcerers while Shade and the Itanish siblings were brought back to our lines to be treated. The New Bloods fanned out, flanking the enemy from the sides.   The horse clan mercenaries thundered forward, firing arrows into the new bloods. Several fell but still, they unleashed a barrage of javelins. Each javelin split into two, striking down a swath of riders. The mercenaries rode out of range, yelling amongst themselves in their native tongue.   Our heavy infantry pushed forward with the Old Man at the forefront. It seemed to matter little what spells the sorcerers threw, they bounced from our warded shields all the same. Our infantry line lowered pikes and charged while our wings of new bloods closed the gaps on either side, surrounding the rebels.   The arrogant surety of the Dream Singers quickly fled, replaced by panicked confusion. They screamed for the aid of their mercenaries, but the Munkhgerel clans watched from a safe distance away. We could not hear their words, but their faces spoke loudly enough. They were not being paid enough for this. Slowly, the horse clans rode away, taking with them any hope of the battle tide turning.   The remaining Masters and Prince Zubayr fled before our wings could fully close. What lower sorcerers and rebel infantry were left in the killing field were swiftly dealt with. No mercy.   With practiced efficiency, the Lost Sons gathered our wounded and dead, and moved back to our line, watching the few survivors fleeing into the desert. Shade's storm clouds faded away, leaving the sun blazing once more. A few thousand rebel corpses littered the field. Among them were half of the cabal Masters.   It felt like hours at the time, but the battle really only lasted minutes. A small skirmish. "A good dust-up," a few of the veterans called it. But history happened on that field, and the start of something bigger, I am certain.