It was a battle of wills at this point.Irakles could almost see the way his nephew's muscles ticked under is skin with each dig the elder male did at him, yet it was a lie that the prince himself was not affected. As Gavriil drew Stephanos away, Irakles himself turned, his eyes sliding to the arrival of both his sons. It pleased him to see Achilleas with Theodora, and that his second son was at a healthy distance away. Fotios had informed him of the exchange between himself and Emilios, and Irakles had wholeheartedly agreed with his friend's advice for his son. Why would he not? He had married Myrto out of responsibility for the crown, and kept Meena by his side along with his two daughters. He did not see why it was not a possible thing.
Was Irakles worried for his son? Not the slightest. So long as they kept their focus, the man was not doubtful at all that they would be successful. He had spent hours ensuring the training of both sons, Achilleas especially, was groomed to be a decorated general, for no son of his would be any beneath him in skills or prowess. Emilios was of no exception, but of course being the younger, he had lesser experience then that of his older brother.
But as he watched the younger of his offspring fiddling with his arrows, Irakles narrowed his eyes. With a whispered word at the hoplite to get ready, he directed his heavy boots across a few chariots, stopping just in earshot of Emilios, before he spoke.
"Do not be distracted. You cannot afford it here." for a brief moment, his eyes wandered over to Theodora and Achilleas exchanging goodbyes, before he returned his eyes to Emilios. Not explicitly spoken, but by now it was clear Irakles knew whats transpired between the two. "I do not think any woman is worth your life, or at least that is what I've taught you. Do not disappoint me, boy."
Without waiting for a response, Irakles turned just as Stephanos signalled for the guard to sound the salpinx trumpet.
With the gait of a man well worn to such situations, a clear sign that Irakles was just as at home in the midst of war chariots and trained war horses, as he was in his sitting room back at the Mikaelidas manor, the prince made his way back to the chariots, getting on just as the women left the area. Settling in, his hands gripped the sides as he driver moved the chariot to be situated next to Stephanos. Did he know where he was going? No, and that was what made Irakles antsy. After many years of heading into battles where he was the one who planned and strategized, it went against his every nature to be going into one with no prior knowledge. But Irakles refused to give Stephanos the satisfaction, and instead gritted his teeth as the chariots rolled out with the entire company of seasoned warriors through the gates of the Taengean capital.
Kicking up dust and stone as they lurched along the pathway, through the cities and lower levels. Feeling the eyes on them, Irakles forced an easy smile on his face as he greeted the commoners who shouted, waving at them, some even wishing them well wishes. It was who Irakles was as a Prince - charismatic, charming, a nature that easily won the hearts of many, on top of his many accolades as a general of the Taengean army back in his day. But as the city gave way to flat grassy lands, and they neared the gorge, his face turned serious, more hardened as Stephanos stopped the company and laid out the plan.
As he listened, his lips thinned, his eyes rolled an uneasy storm. He knew the gorge had two entrances - one on either side. Stephanos's plan to block them off on both sides proved sound, for that would trap the Creed like rats in a bottleneck, leaving them with no escape as their cavalry rode in. Yet when he brought up the vats of hot liquid, the elder male's face scrunched up. As the people ran in - the vats of liquid would almost assuredly harm some of their own people. It wasn't as if one could aim where the liquid went.
Foolish. he thought. Yet outwardly, Irakles said nothing. In the company and audience of others, instead the Prince merely nodded. "The aim is to annihilate them? Understood." he murmured. Annihilate some of our own people as well, it seems. Irakles thought to himself, even as he turned his chariots to head to wherever Stephanos would. In an audience, Irakles was the picture of a helpful uncle, ad the King had asked for him to stay with him - so stay with him he would. Whatever problems that would arise out of his plan... well that, Irakles would let him deal with that himself.
Vangelis smirked at the Lady Selene's comments of the Gods finding humour. As far as he was concerned the Gods found whatever they wished in whatever was done by mortal man. If they were in the mood to feel slighted, there was little a man might to assuage their wrath. If they were in the mood to be entertained, then humour was always appreciated. At this time, Ares was about to reap that which he loved most: War. As such, Vangelis felt safe in his comments. The God of War would, he believed, appreciate his confidence and candid attitude towards his own safety. He would take that support with him upon leaving the capitol and smiting his enemies in the name of the great God of Warfare.
Offering only a nod to Selene's final words - for Vangelis was not a man to lie or promise that which he was not confident of fulfilling; anything could happen at the edge of a blade - Vangelis simply turned away from the lady to select one of the oil rags being offered by a serving girl.
Finding the creases and joins of his armour was no difficult task as Vangelis was familiar with the craftsmanship he wore and, within seconds, he was moving easily and without restraint. The rag, he dropped to the floor and then rinsed his hands once more. As he prepared his defensive layer, Vangelis had been watching the men around him. Some were nervous, others determined. Some wore their armour with a clunky sense of discomfort. Others, like him, wore it with a feeling of familiarity and ease. One such man was a handsome Lord who bore the lion of Mikaelidas. His resemblance to Achilleas - a man Vangelis had met upon his last visit to Taengea at that fateful chariot race - was so complete, that the Lord in question could only be Emilios, his younger brother.
Too far away to hear the words of the older man beside him - clearly his father, Prince Irakles - Vangelis was, however, able to read the tone and body language between the two. He felt for the man.
A military legacy came with both its benefits... and its pressures.
Catching the man's eye for a moment after Prince Irakles had moved away, Vangelis offered a nod of camaraderie before stepping up onto the back of his chariot. Nike read his actions fast enough and boarded up onto the cart behind him. By rights and protocol, Vangelis was of higher rank and should have therefore been driven by his Commander but the crown prince of Colchis had never been one to submit the reins to another; literally or figuratively. As such, he drove his own chariot and, instead, offered the role of his protector to Nike.
Initially, however, there would be nothing to defend against. The first leg of their journey was through the city, carried out at a slow and meandering pace so that all of the soldiers and their vehicles might pass between civilian and home successfully and without issue. The size of the streets forced them to journey single file, the highest ranking among the force leading their chariots while everyone else remained on foot.
Once outside of the city, however, the force bloomed and blossomed into a solid unit, rows and rows of chariots for the other men already in place. Each would support two men - for no chariot could manage more; the driver and the attacker. Defence was limited upon the back of a chariot, but then the idea of such a driving force was that there was little need for one. That the accumulative effect of a charioteer unit knocked down opponents at a height and speed that rendered other attacks useless. The only kinds of course that Vangelis had seen successfully overcome a chariot unit was cavalry. A force that involved soldiers actually upon the backs of their steeds and riding them into battle. It was a new technique he had only seen successfully managed once or twice. And according to the information Stephanos had shared with him at their last meeting, the Creed were infantry, if they were military at all. No horses had been seen or reported to be stored at the Enclave.
There was a pause outside the walls of Vasiliadon as the soldiers who had marched through the streets were matched to their chariots and everyone was organised into a single unit; a composed fighting force.
King Stephanos led from the front, having glanced at all the leaders of men before him, before turning frontwards to face the on-going threat to his kingdom.
There was no need for further communication than he had already given. As any good military leader worth his weight in steel, Stephanos had spoken with each commander personally, intent on ensuring that they each knew the appropriate step of the plan.
Vangelis, as a General of experience but without his own military unit could have been given one of Stephanos' forces. They would have followed. Of that, Vangelis was certain. But the alternative option was of greater support and intelligence. Vangelis and Nike were to take their own men - the small group of a dozen or so fighters they had brought with them from Colchis and attend to the top of the gorge. Arrows, oils, flames... that was to be their domain. Entrusted with a significant piece of the plan that tailored to their own abilities. Climbing mountains, after all, was what Colchians were known for... Vangelis thought with a quirk of his lips.
Moving himself into position before the half dozen chariots that the Colchians had borrowed from his Majesty - else they would have been a little late to the party, Vangelis whipped the reins around both his wrists, intent and ready to set forward whenever ordered.
It was strange to be subject to someone else's command on the battlefield. For that had not been the way of his life for many a year - if not decade. But this was Stephanos' fight and his kingdom. It would be down to him if their plan of attack today brought victory or defeat. Which meant it was he who would have to make the pertinent choices.
When the men were told to move forward and the horn for progress sounded, Vangelis snapped the leather in his hands, encouraging the two beasts before his cart into a quick trot that was immediately matched by his soldiers around him. Colchians might not have had the land or inclination to become fine charioteers that could grace the likes of arenas and circuses... but they at least knew how to handle one into battle, should it be required.
They travelled with the main group for a while, as they moved away from the capitol and towards their intended enemies, but as soon as the Gorge became a clearer outline - not just a jagged silhouette against the sun - Vangelis steered his cart towards the East, away from the main troupe, his own men following him beyond any other leader.
With a fist raised in salute to the King, Vangelis escorted his men behind a line of forestry and thicket, approaching closer to the mountainous side of the Gorge, hidden from view. They rode as close as they could in the space they had before finally abandoning the chariots and heading further on foot.
To ensure they weren't behind the plan, timewise, Vangelis hefted his weapons and all that would be required, before setting a gruelling, jogging pace through the woodland and to the edge of the cliffside.
The Gorge itself was large but not steep and was easy enough to climb. It would just take the men time to reach the opening far out above them. Time that Vangelis was very aware of and so continued to bark instructions at the men, leading the way and insisting they follow in his footsteps to ensure no slips or falls. They needed to reach the top in time to aid in the plan orchestrated by the king.
Breathing heavily and a little sweaty, Vangelis reached the top and then darted across the rocky terrain to look out and down across the plains, noting with relief that the chariots were still on their way, having had to take a longer route around the Taengean forestry, to mask their presence from the Creed until the last moment.
Sending a scout to the other end, Vangelis watched as his man dropped to his belly and slithered the last few feet so that the Creed below might not notice him. He was looking to ensure that the Mikaelidas brothers were in place at the back end of the Gorge.
The timing of this would be important. No sense scaring out the Creed if they were only to run in the wrong direction.
Emilios was trying to figure out exactly what had happened and changed when he heard heavy footfall, footfall he recognized without even needing to look up. His father had a very heavy, but very sure, way of walking. There was no hesitation in his step, no doubt in his destination. He wasn’t sure why his father felt the need to come to him now, but he quickly turned his head so that his point of attention wasn’t as obvious to those around him.
But it seemed that his father not only knew where he was focused but why he was looking at her.
His father knew. How the hell did his father have any idea? But it only took him a moment to realize that of course, he knew. Fotios would have made sure that his father was in the loop, and he could have been a potential disruption in whatever they wished to do. And there was no way the head of the Leventi house would blackmail a son of a prince without letting him know that he was doing it. There was no surprise that he wasn’t in defense of his son, which was exactly what he had expected.
He had chosen not to tell his father about their relationship because he knew his father wouldn’t care about his feelings. He bit his tongue instead of asking him what he was distracted from. There really was no point, not when he had made it so obvious who he was looking at. ”I am aware.” He said, stopping his actions to meet his father’s gaze, instead of looking back at the couple. ”I won’t.” His answer was simple, trying to ignore Vangelis, who had glance his way. This was no time for him to be distracted. He could focus on why Theo seemed far more content with his brother than he’d ever seen her later.
His military training needed to kick in, and with a deep breath and no focus on the direction Theo seemed to go, he was quick to follow Stephanos’ orders to load up into the chariot. He didn’t recognize the man who stepped into the chariot to drive, and he was happy to not have to converse about it. Emilios didn’t focus on the crowds as they moved through the city. He felt too somber to enjoy the calls in his direction. He used to the journey to quiet his mind, to focus on anything and nothing, all at the same time. It wasn’t unusual for him to clear his head before a battle, to focus on something besides what they were on their way to do, it usually did it with banter about anything other than the situation.
But he didn’t want to talk, or banter. Or think.
Right now, he just wanted to empty his brain.
As they came close to the gorge, he knew he could no longer just stare off into space. Instead, he focused in on what he knew best-- the art of the battle. As an archer, he was always looking for high ground. His ability was second to none of the field, and he was able to rapidly take down any enemy he came across, as long as he had a bit of distance on his side. Preferring the bow had its downside-- if he was close enough to see their lashes, he was in danger of being killed.
He knew where he was supposed to be, providing cover on the backside of the Gorge. But more still, he wanted the advantage of cover. And as they moved into place, the rest of the archers looked to him for guidance as to where to fo. He kept low, choosing dense and thick treelines to provide coverage. It was easy to see the enemy as his fingers itched to let the arrow in notched in his bow fly. But he’d wait for the sign.
No need to get everyone killed around them to show off his ability with a bow.
The feel of Theo's lips on his still burned his mouth, like the feeling of accidentally biting into a pepper corn. He did all he could to resist looking back for her, to steal one last look before his cousin and King gave the order. He was thankful he didn't have to wait long. He glanced over at his father and brother, seemingly tense, the both of them, but he only assumed that was circumstantial to their current situation. At the King's signal, he placed secured his helmet on his head, got into his chariot and signaled for his men to move and fall in line with the King's.
The journey wasn't long in distance, but it took longer than Achilleas had anticipated. Out of the city and into the surrounding country side, people looking upon their party at all points, some out of curiosity, some with disapproval, some with encouragement. Achilleas kept his head high, focused. He needed to center himself before they arrived, not after, and while the journey was bumpy, it allowed him the time to do so.
Eventually, the King signaled the army to a halt. At that point, everyone was gathered and the plan laid out before them. They were to trap the Creed within their own midst, to turn their perceived advantage into a grave disadvantage on their part. Men were to climb the sides of the gorge with vats of flammable oil, and spill it onto the unsuspecting Creed, where it would then be lit on fire with flaming arrows. At that point, the Creed would be forced to flee through the other side, where the rest of the men would be waiting to cut them down.
Achilleas' eyes darted to his father, and his face was a painting of silent and extreme disapproval, as was to be expected. Achilleas could see why it was this way. The act of dropping flaming oil into the gorge would most significantly disadvantage the Creed, but there was also the risk it would kill their own men in the chaos. If anyone, his father included, disagreed with the King's plan, no-one spoke up, and so it was settled.
The company dispersed to their relative duties. Achilleas and his men were to meet the Creed as they fled the burning gorge, but first they had to wait to be sure the men with the oil were in place at the top of the gorge. Once the signal was given, then the order to lit the oil would follow, and so the archers would be poised to strike the first to flee, at which point Achilleas and his men along with the King's and others would charge to take care of the rest of them. His men were stationed at the other side of the gorge, the King's men and his father's men on the other side.
If Stephanos could have read his uncle's thoughts, he would have laughed at Irakles's concerns. From where the oil would spill, none of their own soldiers would be anywhere near it. The flaming arrows would light the oil on fire and the only ones who would be negatively affected were the Creed in the center of the gorge. What the fire would also do was separate the Creed forces, literally cutting them in half. They wouldn't be able to rally each other together or all funnel one way or another. They'd be forced into chaos and running for their lives. Because the liquid fire would torch everything they held dear.
A taste of their own medicine. Since they set Vasiliadon on fire, he saw no reason not to do the same to their home. They deserved to burn.
Stephanos drummed his fingers on the chariot's rim as he watched the various parts of the army break off toward their appointed places. He wasn't sure that the Creed wouldn't at least have lookouts. They were stupid if they didn't.
But whatever the Creed were doing in the gorge, panicking, plotting, or blithely unaware of the reign of fire about to pour into their midst, they were not out on the field now. With the tree cover, it was impossible to see what Vangelis was doing or if Achilleas and Emilios, with their men, were ready. All he could do was wait with the rest of the archers and the chariots in front of the gorge.
He waited until the sands in the hour glasses ran out; the agreed upon timeframe. He then raised his arm up and the man with the trumpet blew out a sharp warning blast. This was the signal for Vangelis to pour the oil and for the archers with him to light it up. Within seconds of that happening, they would hear screaming and shouting. The flames should lick up the sides of the gorge and give it a heartwarming glow. And the first of the Creed should be fleeing the gorge.
Looking over to Irakles, Stephanos said, "Make sure to smile during the victory celebration, Uncle. That sour twist to your lips makes you look..." he considered all the imperfections of Prince Irakles. "Old."
It was petty but he wanted to make the prince angry. Angry people made mistakes. And if Irakles fell in battle...well that was two birds with one stone.
Coming closer to the gorge, Irakles shut off his focus on his sons and others, and instead, his hands tightened around the edges of the chariot he was driven in. Unlike usual fathers who concerned themselves too much over the safety of their offspring, Irakles was decidedly different. A sharpened sense for battle and the need to stay alive, he had honed his capability to block out anyone else around him, for he knew the consequences of being distracted. And he knew that he had to survive, at the very least. If anything happened to him, all that he worked for would be for naught, and at that point, it mattered not if either of his sons survived - the name and glory of his Kingdom would not be restored. Not in the hands of his peace-loving eldest, nor his distracted second born, and most definitely nothing would be done in the hands of his good-for-nothing nephew.
No, if Irakles wanted something done, he was going to have to do it himself.
The silence was thick, almost palpable as everyone got into position. He knew and felt, more then watch, as Emilios headed off to the rear end of the gorge, along with the archers to ensure the Creed did not manage to escape. Achilleas went as well, both sons poised to ensure that the faction's people did not go lose. And they would do well. They better do well. Irakles was a father of high ambition and high expectations, and he would not tolerate failure. It had been how he had brought them up, and how he expected them to live the rest of their lives. He would stand for nothing but the best in all aspects of his life.
For himself, the prince remained just a fraction of an inch behind the young King. His grayed face was disapproving, but he would allow people to chalk that off to just him being worried. The retired general did not allow his visage to falter, even as his eyes roamed to check below the Gorge. Surely the Creed would have lookouts? He assumed Stephanos has accounted for that, for he would be stupid not to have.
The blast of the trumpet was a familiar one to Irakles. He himself had signalled for many a trumpet to blare, to signify the beginning of a war, and for his men to jump to action. To him, it was like a call for home, and his adrenaline spiked at the sound. Oil was poured down, and the flames lit up the flammable liquid, the heat licked up and down the sides of the gorge, a sight that would be almost beautiful had it not been so dangerous. The amber flames made a beautiful dance, as if enticing others to join in its dangerous deception, and within moments, the sounds of screeches started as the Creed started to be flushed out from all directions, clearly having been in hiding before.
His visage tightened, his frown deepened, and his hands gripped the sides harder. It made Irakles ansty, frustrated to be staying within the chariots as others put their lives on the line. The Creed was now running in every which direction, looking for any way to get a way out. While Irakles had no love lost for them, for the agreement between himself and the Creed was clearly a business one - they had both wanted the same thing, which was to oust the nobility currently in power for a new dawn - but Irakles had done none of the negotiations himself, and neither had he left a paper trail. They were hired merceneries, and nothing else.
Stephanos' voice caused him to flick his gaze over, and despite how much his nephew's words rankled at him, Irakles merely gritted his teeth, but forced a scornful smile at his nephew, a young King barely green around his ears, but trying to cheat the Kingdom that he would actually be successful as a King. "Celebrating too early, nephew? You seem to make a habit of counting your chickens before they hatch, do you not. Careful, lest you forget that you may have a few bad eggs." he murmured in reply. "Besides, with age comes experience. Something you sorely lack."
With that last jibe, he turned back to watch the proceedings below. He knew there had been whispers questioning Stephanos's capability, considering he had never actually undergone the training to be King as is elder brother had. Irakles will let that sit and simmer for now. For now, the war hardened general had a fight to watch, and from the way he was poised, he was ready to go down at any given moment, should a need arise, if only to be useful and appear more capable then Stephanos in the eyes of spectators.
It was not as long a wait as Achilleas had been expecting for Vangelis' men to reach the top of the gorge. He wasn't sure if that was because during that time, he had been envisioning the battle ahead, firing himself, and his men, up for the fight before them.
His men, initially, were relatively quiet, save for periodic sound of metal on metal as shields and swords clanged against their neighbors as they moved. Achilleas left his men to their own thoughts and prayers for maybe the first twenty minutes, knowing that they, too, had their own pre-battle rituals. They must tend to themselves first before he brought them together before the battle.
For his own pre-battle ritual, Achilleas closed his eyes. While tensing every muscle and releasing them, over and over again, he tried to isolate every muscle in his body from his toes, to his eyelids, tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing. Feeling calm and grounded, he then sent up a prayer to Ares. Ares, God Of War
"Ares guide me. Ares protect me. Guide my blade as if it were your own. Grant me the strength to carry on where my men can't, for it is they I wish to bring home alive. Help me claim the lives of the Creed, so that they may not claim the lives of ours. Give me the courage to make the hard decisions during battle, and lend me your reflexes so that I may be ever present on the battlefield. I ask for your blessing, Ares, God of War. Embody yourself in me."
Allowing a few moments of quiet silence following his prayer, at last, he opened his eyes. He was ready.
Achilleas turned to face his men. He needn't have said anything; as he looked around him, the faces that stared back were full of clarity, anticipation and solitude. They were as ready as he was. He smiled proudly at his men, nodding resolutely. No, he needn't say anything. They knew what was at stake. They knew what lay ahead of them. Achilleas didn't need to remind them.
"Shouldn't be long now, Lads!"
Achilleas turned back to look toward the gorge, awaiting their signal.
Before long, the horn could be heard from atop the gorge. Achilleas heart rate immediately began to pick up as adrenaline began to pump rapidly through his veins. He pulled his sword, gripping it and his shield hard, at the ready. Barely a minute following the horn blast, the gorge began to glow orange, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of screams. Like ants escaping an anthill, the Creed began spilling out of the gorge, but they would find no safety.
A smile tugging the side of his mouth, Achilleas raised his sword. "Archers! On my signal-" The sound of dozens and dozens of arrows being knocked, followed by the protesting sound of bow strings pulled taught, he knew they were ready. Achilleas watched and waited for the right moment, the optimum release point, and then- "Now!!" He brought his sword down ahead of him as he yelled, and perfectly on cue, the dozens and dozens of arrows soared into the air in a beautiful arch, before falling like rain on the unsuspecting Creed runners. Some missed, but most found a target.
After repeating the act, guiding his archers, two more times, the numbers of the Creed members were now growing rapidly as they ran for their lives. Arrows would no longer suffice. It was time to enter the battle themselves - face on.
"For the King! For Taengea!!" Achilleas screamed it with all the pride and volume he possessed, and began to run full pelt toward the gorge, head on into battle, his men close behind him.
Vangelis watched the men fork and split across either side of the gorge, their forces deployed in unison to complete the entrapment manoeuvre. The Colchian prince had been selected for this particular part of the mission because, not only did it require someone the king could trust to command it, but it didn't need as many men to carry it out. Not to mention the fact that of all the potential assignments in this operation, is was probably the least dangerous. Which was appropriate for a member of a foreign royal family. After all, any aid he gave to this mission was a bonus but having a foreign heir to the throne killed on your soil? A diplomatic catastrophe waiting to happen.
Vangelis was quick to instruct his small band of guards in placing the oil containers that they had levied up the side of the mountain in the right position.
"We need them close to the eastern edge. Close to the Taengean forces but not within their sphere of impact."
They needed the fire to send the majority of the cultist fighters below out of the western facing opening, allowing them to run directly into the path of King Stephanos' chariots. The Lords Mikaelidas were in place to ensure that no-one ran out the opposing side which meant they were a small force of attack; powerful but not equipped that handle all of the infiltrators below. They needed to ensure as many as possible went in the opposite direction, allowing the rear defence to handle as few as possible with more precision; allowing a defensive net that caught a hundred percent of its pray.
With the barrels in position and their lips removed, Vangelis personally saw to lighting the starter flames for the archers, determined to have something to do in the few moments before they were ready to launch attack. Positioning the starters in the cracks between the rocky terrain in easy reach of his men, several of them came forward to light the tips of their arrows ready.
"Keep them away from the edge." He told them.
It was daylight so the chances of being spotted through the light of their arrowheads was unlikely but still plausible. Especially if any of the Creed below decided to look up at an inappropriate moment.
Heading back to the edge of the chasm, Vangelis was careful where he placed himself so as not to let his shadow fall down over the inner chambers and, instead, focused out towards the West, spotting Stephanos' chariot and awaiting the arranged signal.
As soon as Vangelis spied the kings arm raised in order and the sound of a war horn was blown, Vangelis made a cutting gesture through the air. He gave no command by sound in case it surprised the cultists with enough time to jump out of the way; he simply, silently ordered the oil to be poured.
Potentially deadly enough - the oil would coat those it fell upon, making them unable to hold weapons, move with any dexterity in their wet clothes and likely make it hard to stay on their feet if the oil got to their soles. But deadly enough was not entirely fatal. They needed to scare the creed out of their haven, not given them all a fatty bath.
"Fire." Vangelis stated, his command quiet and clear. And as the oil fell down hundreds of feet into the enclave below, the archers on either side - two assigned to each of the four barrels, in case one missed, fired their flaming weapons into each stream of liquid.
Vangelis held his breath to check the timing - for the flames would work up as well as down the stream and if there were too much oil in the barrels when it reached the top, he and his friends would be saying hello to Charon far sooner than any of them hoped. But he had counted, from the second the oil left the containers, he had counted the seconds and watched the pouring rate. He had no idea if he was mathematically accurate but he was accurate enough that, by the time the flames reached upwards to engulf the wooden barrels, the containers were almost empty and his men could kick them down into the ravine, adding a second dangerous attack on the masked men below.
"Arm!" Was Vangelis' next instruction, taking up his own bow and knocking an arrow ready.
Below, the bustle of movements and the ringing, clanging of a gong could be heard but there no screams. Frowning, concerned they had gotten their aim wrong, he leaned down over the edge and had to quickly draw his head back away from a crossbow bolt that was sent straight up at him.
In the split second he had been able to see, he had noted several figures running around in flames lighting everything they touched. But none of them were yelling.
Vangelis knew the Creed liked to keep their mouths shut but not even crying out in pain was just eerie.
"Fire at will!" Vangelis called to his men. "Do not approach the edge!"
It would damage visibility but there was little concern for that when they just had to fire downwards. It didn't even really matter if they hit anything - though to take out a few of the Creed would be a bonus. What they needed to do was simply make the enclave too dangerous to stay within and send all the cultists hurrying out of the gorge in one particular direction.
"Move!" Vangelis called again.
This time, as rehearsed and practised, his men moved as one, slowly moving towards the western end of the gorge. The idea being that the cultists would flee the storm of arrows, being pushed further along as their attacked pursued them and the Mikaelidas Lords came in behind, cutting off their only other escape.
It wasn't long before, in his peripheral, Vangelis spotted black figured, wrapped in their dark garments spilling out like ants from their safe haven, out onto the open plain to the west...
He was no asset to anyone in a chariot. With a bow, on horseback or off, was where he belonged. With the sword slapping against his hip, he followed Lord Achilleas and Lord Emilios, along with the rest of the archers toward the back of the gorge. The trek across the open field was a stressful one. They trailed Prince Vangelis’s forces and the lot of them had their bows constantly at the ready. The danger was apparent; the Creed could feasibly have archers of their own, raining down holy terror upon them all.
But they made it to the relative safety of the trees. It was among the forest that he felt most at ease. Traipsing across the uneven ground was not foreign to him. The deer hide boots he wore allowed his feet to make very little noise. They were being led by Achilleas and he expected an order to come down from the man that they all keep intensely quiet. The mission, this part of it at least, demanded that they arrive in utter stealth around the back of the gorge.
The men were tense. His own muscles were taught and each crashing footfall from a younger man beside or in front or behind him had him glaring them into a more careful gait. But at last, they all made it to the gorge’s end. It was narrow enough that a wagon could not wheel its way through. Even some horses might bulk at the sides of rock rising up on either side, imposing and jagged.
There had been a single watchman at the gorge’s end but a loosed arrow to the man’s neck silenced any cry the man might raise. There was nothing to do now but await the signal. The archers assembled into position. His gaze was on Achilleas for orders. Though he was older than the king’s cousin, he was outranked by not only the man’s title, but also the man’s military experience.
Gavriil was a hunter, not a soldier; though, for a battle, this was one he’d be ok to fight.
Once Achilleas shouted the signal, Gavriil, along with the rest, let their arrows fly into the oncoming hoard of black clad Creed. Most were not on fire. They were running from the savage glow whirling around the gorge’s interior. He shot arrow after arrow until they were spent. Most all found at least a mark but nearly none were lethal. This was not like riding on the back of his hunter and being able to take careful aim.
This was meant to wound and slow down their enemies.
Once the arrows were gone and some Creed had fallen down under the hissing rain of death, he freed its sword from its sheath and ran with the rest at Achilleas’s command. He did not know if he would survive this onslaught. His prayers had been offered up to both Ares and to Athena. It was his wish that Ares, the god of the spirit of war, would aid them and give them strength to overpower their enemies. But Ares was a fickle god and might just side with the Creed who probably prayed to him as well. But Athena was just and true. She would side with them, and through her own skill and cool reason, would give their swords sure aim to kill their opponents. And he’d prayed to Artemis, his patron goddess, who had seen fit to allow his aim to be better than it should have been when he’s shot the arrows.
Even now his shoulder didn’t hurt the way it should have. In fact, he felt invigorated and nearly youthful as he plunged after the rest, jabbing his sword into a gut here, slashing across a chest there. It was mayhem. There was no time to think. Only to act, and to rely on his fellows to do the same.
With King Stephanos's command, Nike had hopped on to the chariot right behind her general, an action as smooth to her as breathing by now. Her sword was by her waist, twin daggers tucked into her boots, but for the time being as they rode through the streets of Vasiliadon, the woman did not bother drawing either weapon. Allowing the prince to drive (a habit only he had, and she had to contend with odd looks thrown to her by Commanders of the Taengean cavalry, for they usually drove), instead, the woman's eyes took in the Taengean sights. While some may wonder, with her Taengean origins, if she felt any pluck of nostalgia or memories at the sights, in truth, Nike had none. Most of her childhood memories of being in this Kingdom was tied to her family home and parents, and with neither in sight, the kingdom was just as good as strange to her - and she's never felt more at home then in Colchis.
Only when they got to the borders of the capitol limits, did her stance tense, and her eyes turn watchful. Hair that needed cutting was tossed by the light breeze, and the seemingly peaceful countryside that they drove past with the rumbling chariots belied the chaos that Stephanos was soon to wrought with the plan Nike had been informed of much earlier whilst by Vangelis's side preparing for the day.
Chariots were an odd sensation for the Commander - she had trained on land, with cavalry, on rocky mountains, but very rarely on chariots. Manage she will however, as Vangelis led their small group of men away from the main group, through the thicket to the mountainous side of the Gorge they were supposed to take sentry and attack from. Her inner peace sighed a sense of relief when the Crown prince signalled for them to abandon the chariots (finally!), and the Commander glaldy followed on foot, jogging with weapons in tow.
Following instructions and knowing the plan herself, the Commander swiftly assisted and ensured each equipment was in place, the heavy cast iron pots filled to brim with the oil in containers they had brought up the side of the mountain. As Vangelis saw to the lighting of the starter flames, Nike supervised the filling of the vats done by the younger soldiers, and once that was done, simply waited for her General's signal.
On the signal, Nike nodded to the soldiers further down the edge, and as one entity, the cast iron pots were tipped, and the oil started down the sides of the Gorge. On itself, it was harmless, if a little messy, but it was suprising how one little change could amend the deadliness of a seemingly harmless concoction.
The fire picked up quickly upon contact with the oil, the flaming arrow lighting up all that the oil touched upon. They licked up and down the gorge sides, and as soon as the containers were empty, Nike was quick to bark the order to let the containers roll and retreat from the age so as to not be in the flame's way, not at all eager to meet Charon and gain passage from him just yet.
The next set of instructions, Nike did not follow - for trained and skilled as she was, she was not as well versed in the art of the bow and arrow. Instead, she had pulled out one of the dozen throwing knives she had strapped around her belt. These were the only ranged weapons she owned, for a bow and arrow was wasted on her. Much of her salary was spent crafting new ones to replace the ones she lost, but Nike often retrieved them as much as she could.
These dozen however, she knew she would lose - but for a good cause. Biting her lip and gritting her teeth, Nike crouched lower to stay out of the archer's way, and let her throwing knives fly with a flick of her wrist, aiming for the eyes and head as best as she could.
The Gorge was neither home or sanctuary. Not personal, nor secure. It was simply a place to rest one's head whilst their mission was completed within Taengea. So far, their demands had not been met. They had made their determinations and their intent clear. Stephanos of Mikaelidas - now the king of Taengea in no way but blood - needed to be handed over to their leader. Surrendered to their cause. Or men would continue to be killed. Villages continued to be attacked. It was so simply an entreaty - one life for many. And the longer the king refused to cave, the more his people would slowly turn against him, recognising his choice as a selfish act of personal preservation over the best choice as ruler of his people. Either he would turn himself over to the Creed, or he would be forced to do so by his own people.
What the drowned had not perceived - or perhaps had planned for and not cared regarding - was the idea of the king leading a battle against their hideout. The enclave was a large tear in the mountainside that had two exits; front and back, and was easy to defend. There were overhangs to hide beneath, caverns to lay back into if defence was necessary. The last attack on the part of a misguided battalion had resulted in the Taengean's ultimate demise. Many a head had been slain from its moorings and many a soul had been sent down to be carried across by Charon.
When a scout reported on-coming chariot forces, the Creeders within the enclave snorted with arrogance. No chariots would find their way down the gorge - it was too thin to be carried out as a thoroughfare for more than a single chariot abreast.
What they drowned had not counted on was an attack from the top of the mountainside. Looking up, the enclave was a bright light slash across the sky, the cragged black lines of the sides of the gorge causing an angry crevice around them. Such a skyline was suddenly interrupted by the bumps of human forms on the bank and this particular Creeder immediately pressed himself to the walls of the enclave in order to avoid whatever attack fell down upon his brethren. His orders forbade him from speaking to warn the others but then if the Shade had not given them the benefit of observation then it was not his place to correct them.
Fate made its own mockery of the other shadow walkers as burning, flaming oil descended upon them. Silent his brothers were as they accepted the heat, the destruction and the pain of the attack without exclamation. Even more so the shower of arrows that descended upon them.
Looking out from the darkness of the overhang, the drowned one looked for his leader - a creature swathed in dark cloth as much as they but was visible in his distinction because of his behaviour. Bravery than the others and standing in the open, the leader of their unit shook out his arm, stifling the flames that licked at his shoulder and threw out an instructive arm. His dagger in hand slapped the rock and created a clanging shrill around the gorge that had his brothers looking his way. Throwing out a hand to indicate the back exit of the gorge, the Creeders ran for the exit only to converge and come up short. A counter attack was already prepared at the rear and their unit, fast and efficient they were as individual fighters were unable to fight against an open arrow attack from an organised unit.
Most of the shadows were as fast as he, dropping to the floor on their stomach - arrows sailing over their heads - and then jumping back to their feet, throwing out knives, stars and weaponry. Many a Taengean soldier - some of regal dress were struck. Several suffered fatal blows to their necks while others were struck in the chest and shoulders. This drowned one was skilled, his aim true, and his target died bloody, choking on his own life's liquid as he dropped to the ground a small throwing star embedded in his throat.
The Creed were taking out many of the rear guard but a shrill twang from their leader's knife told him that they were not destroying enough. That, in a battle of attrition they would eventually lose, no matter how many souls they took with them. Not to mention the attacks from above continuing to shower them with the potential of death at every moment. And the mission was far too important for them all to die here.
The instruction that followed the sound of the knife was to turn around. To reverse the direction of attack and head to the opposing gorge exit, out towards the chariots. Perhaps their leader suspected there to be fewer fighters than had been originally reported. For some hard to be up top and others to the rear. That left fewer men to fight in the open space of the opposing gorge exit.
As one, the drowned turned in unison, a black wave of motion, as they hurried to the other head of their enclave. The particular shadow walker leapt gently from rock, to crevice, to outcropping. He hovered on a raised level as his brothers ran out into the open sunlight of the afternoon, knives and stars at the ready, death already in hand. From his perch, the drowned one threw out his blades with pinpoint precision, aiming for the necks of drivers and the legs of horses as the chariots that had been reported made themselves known. They had hoped in vain that the forces of the king had been diminished. For there were many a chariot and cart to meet them on the open plains. His eyes narrowed as he spotted the king at the vanguard. There was no need to battle against an entire battalion. All that was necessary was to slay Stephanos of Mikaelidas. A man who had foolishly brought himself into the jaws of death itself...
The wait was always the worst part. Even as the fire raged, here in the field, with horses grazing behind them and the soft breezes wafting in the scent of salt water, it was calm. The sun tinted the world in gold and caught the armor of the surrounded company. Stephanos squinted against the visual onslaught of hundreds of brilliantly armored warriors, all looking like their armor was crafted by Hephaestus himself.
It was strange that he wasn’t hearing screams. Roars, yes. Battlecries, yes. But no screams. And then he saw them. The Creed seething out from the ravine like a swarm of black ants. His skin crawled at the sight of their black coverings trailing their limbs like funerary shrouds.
As soon as the first wave of the Creed fled onto the flat field, he raised his sword and ordered the charge. Chariots lurched forward. Men held out bows or swords or spears. All weapons would be used. Stephanos held the shaft of his spear ready and launched it straight into the chest of the first of the Creed members close enough to him. His driver wheeled the chariot around and the king wrenched the spear from the body and launched it again.
But there wasn’t time to gather the spear again. They were in the thick of black bodied people now. His horses trampled a few. His sword caught someone in the face, someone else he decapitated. Blood was already sprayed across his armor. And this was the beginning.
There wasn’t time to see who was doing what. His whole company was fighting for their lives and the lives of those in Vasiliadon. They would free the people from this menace.
The Creed were not unarmed. Metal stars zipped out from within the folds of their black shrouds, lodging into the eyes of drivers or throats of horses. One such star zinged and lodged into the shoulder of his armor. It missed his face only because he’d turned at the exact right moment and hadn’t even known that it was coming. Fate was with him. He was more sure than ever.
His plan was solid and it was working. But he’d underestimated the number of the Creed. They were ghosts, dodging attacks, countering with impossible accuracy in their throwing knives and stars. The knives were only lethal when lodged in the throat or eye and it was a nigh impossible shot. But sometimes, they succeeded. Most of the time, they were causing wounds and trouble. Enough that a chariot would crash and the occupants be ejected onto the grass. It was then that they would be set upon and killed in their moments of weakness.
Stephanos was lucky in his driver and his team.
The afternoon wore on. Sweat streaked down his face but enough adrenaline coursed through his veins. He was not fatigued. With every swipe of his sword, more blood spattered across him. But he was far from the only crimson drenched person there. All around him battles were raging but more and more were on foot as drivers or horses were taken out by the Creed and the occupants forced to fight on foot.
All at once, a streak of silver cut across his vision. One of his horses reared up and he found himself tumbling from the back of the chariot, along with his driver. A stinging burned across his face as the blade of a knife streaked down, slicing from his cheek to his ear, but ultimately missing, excepting to do cosmetic damage. Then the Creed person was on him. With the heavy breastplate weighing down his torso, he was encumbered and nearly immobile while the Creed person put hands around his throat.
But all of the sudden, the Creed’s head fell from his shoulders and bounced off of Stephanos’s breastplate. He looked around for who had done it and gave a quick nod of thanks before scrambling up to collect his sword.
The battle waged and it was nothing if not frustrating. Charged with the responsibility of ensuring that their enemies met the king on the open plains below, Vangelis of Kotas - the trained and experience military general - could do little but stand high above the melee and watch as his men followed their duty and ensured their step of the plan was completed and the war below began in full effect.
He knew that it was right for him to stay where he was. He knew that he was the crown prince of a foreign land and that if something happened to his life whilst fighting on behalf of another monarch, the political ramifications would be harsh. Despite his letter to his brother that currently sat in his rooms in Vasiliadon, ready to be posted should he fall by the sword or one of the Creed's throwing knives.
But it still didn't sit well with him to be kept back in the safest sector of the battle whilst other good men fought and or fell.
Frustrated at his impotency in this instance, Vangelis stalked monstrously to the edge of the chasm and loomed down to peer at their enemies. If they could be assured that such men had evacuated the gorge and were too engaged fighting for their lives on the chariot plains then they could be fairly well assured that they wouldn't flee back into their safe haven to avoid death. The crack in the land that the terrorists had used as a temporary home was no longer the space that could trust.
Vangelis watched as the backrunners - the ones who had sought freedom through the back exit of the enclave - met with the arrows and swords of the Taengean Lords. The brothers Achilleas and Emilios fought with great courage, and Lord Gavriil with precision and skill. Looking out in the other direction, the king himself led his chariot forces, joined by his uncle the Lord Irakles and other loyalists to the cause.
Standing to the edge closest the chariot fighting, Vangelis folded his arms, clearly on show to those below but in little danger. Few archers could fire to such altitudes and even fewer could do so with any great accuracy. He watched like a hawk, intending on predicting the battles outcome via objective observation. Something he hated but which was the only course still open to him.
His eyes narrowed as he watched the fighting below.
The Taengeans were winning. But not by the margin they might have hoped. In any normal battle, chariots were the most powerful of forces. Against other chariots it was anyone's guess regarding a winner, but against infantry, archery - any other kind of unit - a chariot, given the right terrain, could lay their enemies to waste. And Taengeans were the finest charioteers in Greece.
The entire plan had been focused on getting the shadow walkers out onto the open lands where the chariots would destroy them quicker, efficiently and with limited loss of time to the Taengean forces. This did not seem to be the way Fate was playing.
The men in black, despite appearing to have no way of seeing, moved entirely independently from one another. There was no organisation, no unitary attack. They moved as singular individuals, intent on harming as many as they could on their path to freedom from the Gorge. Which meant that the second the chariots tore into them, they simply moved in between, darting left and right, avoiding attack.
Some were taken under a horses' hooves, some beneath golden wheels. There were too many chariots for the terrorists to avoid each and every one of them. But most of them were too fast for Stephanos forces to simply run down.
The soldiers from the backs of the chariots reacted admirably, shocked only momentarily as they took to their arms, throwing spears and shooting arrows from the backs of their rides, intent on catching the masked men who were distracted by avoiding the horses. Many went down.
But he Creeders were just as fast - if not more so, for they had to react against animals far quicker of foot than they. They jumped and dived, ducked and dodged and launched weaponry as easily as breathing. The men on the backs of their chariots were suddenly under a rainfall of projectiles.
Vangelis ground his teeth and felt adrenaline starting to surge within his limbs. This was to be a war of attrition. Not a swift victory.
"General..."
The voice came from behind him and Vangelis turned his head to show he was listening, without removing his gaze from the field below.
"There are no more insurgents within the gorge, my Lord." The man - one of the lieutenants in his private guard - informed him.
"Good." Vangelis commented, finally stepping back from the edge as he turned towards his men. He pointed specifically to half of them. "You're all to stay here." He ordered. "If any masked attackers seek shelter in the cavern below, shoot them dead before they're within a step of its shadows."
He then stormed back towards the side of the gorge that they had all climbed up.
"The rest of you come with me."
It was far faster climbing down the Gorge's walls than it had been to climb up. With gravity on their side and the speed of haste fuelling Vangelis' muscles, he was back down on solid ground within perhaps ten minutes. Not that such a time period was a concern. As he had already observed from above - this battle would wage for hours - had already waged for hours.
Setting up a fast walk, pseudo-jog through the trees in order to reach where they had left their own chariots, Vangelis didn't bother to call to his men to be just as quick. They had sworn their lives to him and his protection which meant they would keep up with however fast he was moving naturally.
Within another ten minutes, Vangelis was on the back of his own chariot and flicking his steeds into forward motion - at as close to a gallop as he could get right off the bat. He steered them around a copse of trees and out towards the battle he could see waging ahead of them. The thundering hooves and the rolling of the cart wheels behind him told him exactly how close his men where and he felt Nike tense beside him in his own cart as she held two throwing knives in hand.
"I don't intend to be on this thing long." He told Nike, letting her in on his thinking. "The power of a small chariot force is too limited." By this time most of their Taengean comrades had come to a standstill with their carts, or abandoned them altogether. Vangelis' forces would be able to do little without them.
"I'm going to skirt the perimeter - take out all that you can, and then we'll join the fighting on foot." There was no sense in staying within a cart that, without the element of surprise, became more of a prison than a safe haven. He, Nike and the Colchians were all better fighters on their feet anyway.
Following his own orders carefully, Vangelis kept his horses at full gallop as he shot between the trailing ends of the Creeder forces and the opening to the Gorge, cutting them off and steering around their flank, offering Nike and his other men the clearest and most efficient shots he could afford without getting too close. He then charged his cart down the outward flank and around the other side, heading back in the direction they had come, following the circumference of their enemies before he pulled the geldings back in to the left and found sanctuary within the Taengean forces.
As soon as he pulled the creates to a stop, Vangelis was out of the chariot and had drawn his dual blades.
The fighting was dark and bloody and hard.
It had been many years since Vangelis had found challenge on the battlefield. Some of his enemies, upon his reputation simply surrendered or cowered without a fight. Others attempted but their fear made their movements clumsy. Some were not afraid of him but had poorer training than a prince who had received the best training from the greatest military men since birth and who had spent the last two decades of his life on Ares' dancefloor.
The followers of the Creed held no such fear and lacked no such training.
Vangelis found it took every piece of concentration, every skill he had to fight these men. He was forced to duck, to dodge, to flurry his attacks before one was able to make purchase. He had to keep his wits about in, observing every other location in case another attacked from a different direction - for they did not behave as a unit.
After an hour of fighting, Vangelis found his breath coming in heavy pants. His bicep was streaked with blood that ran from a puncture wound near his shoulder - some shadow walker had gotten in a luck knife throw - and there was a slash on the outside of one of his thighs. He was covered in dirt, sweat and soot from the fires his men had started and he had had to abandon one of his swords that had been knocked from his grip and into the mud beneath his boots. He had - at some point in the fury - taken up a spear that was burrowed into the ground and had been fighting since with that.
Through pure chance, the fighting had led Vangelis closer to the King and it was as he dispatched another Creeder that his attention was snagged by the golden breast plate of Stephanos moving at a sharp angle - catching the evening light as he was pulled from his feet to the ground.
Breathing heavily, Vangelis hurried over and as the drowned one latched his hands around the king's neck, Vangelis discarded his adopted spear, took his scythe bladed sword in both hands and swung it with all his might. The Creeder's head seemed to stay in position for a second and then reacted late, flying off to the right, following the swing of his blade. Or perhaps that was just adrenaline, editing his perceptions. Either way, the terrorist with regicidal intent would do no further harm to Stephanos without a head.
Reaching out a hand to bring the man back to his feet, Vangelis' found Stephanos to be as blood splattered as himself. The two of them didn't pause for thank yous or comments. The both of them knew where they were and what was happening around them. Now was not the time...
Now was the time for killing...
Within another hour - just as the sun was kissing the horizon and starting to darken the sky into dusk, the battle was coming to a close. Like with most battles, there was no great climactic finish, no powerful victory or cheering crowd. Generally, war ended by petering out, to the point where the soldiers still left standing had to stop, look around, and double check that the combat had indeed died down. There was no obvious ending to a battle until there was no-one left standing to fight it.
Vangelis looked about himself, wiping at his mouth and brow with his forearm, his blade still in hand. He noticed how many black figures lay prone on the ground and how many Taengeans lay beside them. There would be a good number of women who wouldn't be welcoming home their sons and husbands...
His gaze fell on Nike who was - as usual - never far from his side - but battle had sent her more to fight with Lord Gavriil than with himself. And between them was knelt a masked man. He was on his knees, his hands bound behind his back. Nike held a blade at his neck whilst the Taengean lord was standing on his legs to stop escape. Vangelis glanced towards the King as Nike called over to them, reporting the hostage to be a man of leadership integrity within the Creed.
Vangelis caught the king's eye over the opportunities such a hostage afforded, before looking out over the battlefield again. So many dead. Despite the victory, Vangelis suspected that the king (and his loyalists) would only consider their sacrifice to be worth it based on what information they could extract from the man they would be taking back to the capitol. Vangelis almost winced at the ideas of what might be done to him to extract any pertinent information about his order. The man would most likely prefer death.
Battle was a familiar landscape to Irakles of Mikaelidas. Former General to all of the Taengean armies, it was as if he had grown up between war and skirmishes, played with swords and axes more then he played with the toys that children usually did. While others of his age laughed and gave chase to each other on fields, Irakles would be honing his skills and studying on tactics of warfare, all of which brought to him great benefit as he grew older. Blood was nothing, death even more so to the male. Numb to the affairs of life and death, Irakles always only had one aim when it came to starting a fight - the glory of Taengea.
So what was he to do in a fight such as this? To hold back would be to show that he had a part in the assasination of his own brother and nephew, but to go full on out would be to cripple his own plans. Yet he could not afford anyone noticing, even worst still if they managed to pilfer information from the Creeders.
Thus Irakles went full out. If he was to kill the ones he had requested assistance from, he would do it all. It was only to his benefit to ensure each and every last one of them left here was dead, for he knew Stephanos was out looking for answers. His nephew still panted after knowing who exactly was responsible for the death of his father and brother, and while Irakles did not think any of the Creed would know exactly who it was who had sanctioned their entrance to the palace on the day of the chariot races, he was not taking the chance.
As the first wave of men charged forward, Irakles joined them, his battle axe glinting in the sun as he wielded his trusted weapon. Freshly sharpened and polished, he felt the familiar rush of bloodlust in his veins. In a war, it was not rare to see Irakles smile as the sharp edge of his weapon sliced the gentle flesh of man under the thin armours they wore. A combination of brute force and a stellar weapon that had become, over the years, a signature of the great Taengean general, Irakles had a streak of need for a war to be won, that prevented him from ever backing down. Almost as if he had Ares by his side, Irakles would slice past his enemies on chariots as if he was an untamed child of the God of War, a physical aggresion in him that had aided in all his success in wars and fights.
Deflecting metal stars zipping out from the black shrouds, he would curse as a few found their mark on his skin, but Irakles never let that tarry his steps. His driver and team were skilled, a team trained by Irakles himself and warned to not fail on pain of death. While Stephanos had instructed Irakles to remain by his side, in the heat of battle, such instructions were tough to follow, and as the heat drawed on, the hours ticked by, it was too soon that the prince found himself a ways away from his nephew. Time was a foreign concept in a heat of a war, but it wasn't till the sky was beginning to turn to dusk, did it let up enough for Irakles to finally note where they were.
Disposing of his final assailant with a swing on their torso, the prince straightened up, a picture not so pretty himself. His armor was badly glazed, his right forearm carrying a deep cut from a wayward sword that would need seeing to. Blood stained his vision, a knock on his head from where he had fallen and momentarily was under attack till a few of his team had assisted him. Sweat mingled with dirt and blood as he blinked to clear his vision...
... And cursed beneath his breathe.
How had they managed to capture one? From a distance where he stood, Irakles scowled at the image of the Commander from the Colchian prince holding a Creed figure in captivity, a knife at the throat of the cloaked figure. His inner mind cursed at the inopportune arrival of the Colchian Crown Prince - had he not been around, he would be certain Stephanos would not have as much swagger as he did now.
Wiping the blade of his battle axe on the shrouds of the fallen Creed however, it was a neutral expression he fixed on his face as he drew closer, and commented with a slow drawl to Stephanos. "I see you've achieved what you came here." Slowly, his eyes drifted up to observe the scattered Taengean bodies amongst the black shrouded ones. "At a cost, it seems."