[Translator’s Preface:  The following excerpt is from “A Simple Soldier’s Complicated Journey through Peace, War, Treachery, Revolution, Retribution, and, Again, Peace” by Elalitáni hiVisúrte” of the Golden Bough Clan.  The manuscript of this long memoir is available at the Temple of Karakán in Bey Sü.  However, noble travelers can call on Elalitáni at his estate outside Jakálla and hear him recount many of the same stories.

In the early war with Yan Kor, Elalitáni, a Dritlán of the First Legion of Ever-Present Glory, served as an assistant to General Kéttukal on the northwest front.  Despite his fervent faith in Karakán, Elalitáni later joined the entourage of the flame-worshiping Prince Mirusíya during the Civil War, for which he was well rewarded after Mirusíya ascended the Petal Throne.  Now Elalitáni has semi-retired, affecting a love for farming but spending most of his time writing the autobiographical elegy that aristocratic followers of Karakán bequeath to their heirs.  

The contemporary style of elegiac writing (which is a revival of a First Epoch Engsvanyáli style) uses florid and lengthy honorifics to introduce notable characters and invoke the Gods. For example, Elalitáni’s initial invocation in praise of Karakán runs over 400 words.  In deference to the impatient Terran reader, the translation below abbreviates these passages, marking them with ellipses. End Preface.]

In the name of Karakán the Just Warrior, the Resolute Protector, the Stern Commander of Lord Hnálla’s Mighty Legions, the Hero of Dórmoron Field […] 

As is written in the epics, “old age slows the mind but loosens the tongue.”  Like many a retired general I enjoy sharing my experiences with younger comrades, who listen politely while quietly snapping their fingers, anxious to fight their own battles. Yet, as I reflect on my lost youth, it is not battles I remember, but the small acts of self-sacrifice and generosity of those I fought beside. I have lived through an age of courage and of cowardice, of glory and of tragedy, of victory and of death.  However, my most vivid memory of noble action is not of swordplay nor of statecraft, but rather a simple dinner of coarse dna and wild game prepared by an army cook.  

Hear my tale.

It was autumn during the reign of the Glorious […] Emperor Hirkáne, may he enjoy the paradises beyond the Isles, when the vengeful […] Baron Ald launched his invasion, vainly believing he could cast off the memory of his dead mistress and recover his lost honor by capturing the Petal Throne. Hearing the news, I bid farewell to my clan in Jakálla and rejoined my legion, again taking up duties fulfilling the orders of […] General Kéttukal.  

The northerners’ threat looked dire. The Baron had succeeded in uniting the squabbling kaíka of the Yan Kor city states into a powerful army.  Moreover, rumor had it that he had entered into unholy alliances to obtain weapons that mortals could not oppose. Our spies had sighted a huge cube swathed in black, the “Weapon Without Answer,” crawling south.  But could a weapon of such power really exist?  Or was the story a ruse?

Whatever the truth, our enemies enjoyed initial success, slicing like a steel blade pressed into the flesh of the northwest provinces. Our own political divisions weakened our defense.  It was only General Kéttukal’s genius that thwarted the Baron, but did not defeat him. 

Two years later, the northern enemy had not been expelled from our land.  Prince Mirusíya, upon whose victories the sun does not set […], had not yet opened a second front in the northeast.  The two great armies circled and probed each other in the arid passes between Khirgár and Pijéna like wary fighters in the Hirilákte.  

At this point in the war, the white plume of our soldiers’ courage was still unsoiled by the blood and grime of prolonged war.  Our officers had tasted battle and mourned fallen comrades, but still savored the thrill of warfare and the opportunity to seek glory.  A decade later, the blood-soaked battles and treachery of the Civil War would trample these spirits. After enough death and betrayal, one learns to miss the dull lassitude of a country home and even the howl of a Chlen being peeled on the rear terraces sounds musical and familiar.

This truth is an opportunity to observe that our mighty God Karakán teaches us the wise insight that war is glorious, but must end in restoration of the authority of the Petal Throne. Our beloved friends who worship Vimúhla glory in the incandescence of battle, but that flame cannot burn indefinitely, and must eventually lead to the firm rule of a just Emperor, as we enjoy today.  Or so I think, but Pavár himself warned us not to ponder too long on the affairs of the Gods, which are unknowable to men.  

We had arrived at a break in the low dry hills of the northwest with a ragged and disparate group. In my retirement, I meet merchants, priests, and land-owners who imagine military strategy to be a game of denden. As if feeding, equipping, transporting, and housing tens of thousands of troops is as simple as placing a white piece on a board!  In fact, any soldier knows that mobilizing for battle is like grasping water.  A legion is laid low by illness, or riots against cruel commanders, or is slowed when rotten food poisons the bearers, or splits when half its cohorts turn the wrong way on a mismarked road.  Before long the den-den pieces are strewn across a thousand tsan.  

So, on this bright, cool fall day, we had managed to accumulate roughly 18,000 troops northwest of Khirgár.  Eight cohorts of General Kéttukal’s potent First Legion were already setting red and gold blazoned tents around the dais of their commander. However, Kéttukal had left the best cohorts of this legion in Chéne Ho, as protection for Prince Eselné and a stern warning to the Mu’ugalavyáni, lest the Red Hats use the opportunity of our war with Yan Kor to pursue their ambitions in the Chákas.  

Six cohorts of the Legion of Sérqu, tough and experienced fighters but again not the best armed troops of that ancient legion, had pitched their tents at the edge of some scrub brush to the west.  Roughly 2,000 fanatics of the Legion of the Lord of Red Devastation bolstered our force, though the rest of that mighty legion, which is more skilled in battle than in transport, was strung like a scarlet thread winding down the road to Komoré.  Half a legion of Aridáni commanded by Lady Mríssa had already broken the noses of a few score troopers who had not shown them sufficient respect.  And another three thousand women of the Legion of the Sapphire Kirtle formed our vanguard, softening the enemy with volleys of javelins.

A contingent of 3,000 Shen had recently arrived and would form our sword unit. Standing half again as tall as the human troops, the reptiles gleamed under the bright northern sun like jagged shards of coal.  General Kéttukal hoped these mercenaries would shatter the Yan Kor lines. I know as little of Shen politics as I do of the hissing beak snaps of the Shen language, but we understood the Shen commander to be an outcast among his own kind.  In central councils in Avánthar, the tails of other Shen legion commanders would twitch angrily at his presence and no human knew what Shen obscenities were hurled at him.  

Our Hláka scouts, fearing archers, dared not fly close to the Yan Koryáni camp in daylight, but their distant surveillance told us that the northerners had a significantly larger force under the overall command of Lord Vachén Vorúna, who over the past two months had forced our slow retreat. We expected General Kéttukal to withdraw another few score tsan to the safety of rough terrain further south.  Instead, we had struck camp outside a natural gap in the thick brush and dusty hills of the region.  

That night, Kéttukal spoke to his commanders.  “My instinct is that the Baron has pushed too far. If our fresh cohorts of Shen can punch through the force before us, we can threaten the supply lines running north and force the northerners to retreat completely from our land. The Yan Koryáni hope as much to push south to threaten Khirgár and will not shrink from battle. The field is set.”  

Such was the respect for General Kéttukal that none of the commanders doubted his risky gambit would work.  The next day the archers staked likely positions under some desiccated kenari trees along the edge of the eastward hills, troops heaped the baggage and supplies to form platforms for the commander and our sorcerous contingent. Blades were sharpened, shields banded, and armor repaired.  All worked with the brisk efficiency of those who know their efforts can mean the difference between life and death.

The General sat immobile like Thénu Thendráya amidst a raging storm.  A good general is most busy at peace: training recruits, sorting out issues of command, and overseeing procurement of supplies. On the eve of an action, it seems he has little to do as the enterprise he has created operates almost without guidance. But, of course, he does have things to do. He must anticipate the enemy and formulate strategies. Inferior in numbers, we would only win the battle through craftiness and bravery just as Hrúgga tricked the Demon Qu’u into saying his own name.  

Nonetheless, General Kéttukal did not forget his greater obligation. “Litá,” the General called down to me from his dais, “amidst the swirl of approaching battle and the certainty of death and carnage, let us not forget our duty as warriors and as subjects of the Emperor to honor our enemy and show our own noble action. I will invite General Vachén to a dinner tonight on the eve of battle.  Consult the quartermaster, make clear to our forces that I will not tolerate the least incivility to the evening’s guests, then take the northerners a letter under flag of truce.  In it I offer my personal guarantee; Lord Vachén will not decline.” 

I marveled at my general’s devotion to honor, even if it meant entertaining barbarians who worshipped false Gods. After initiating the preparations, alerting the sentries, and communicating plans to the other officers, I along with five troopers flew the red and white checked flag of truce and crossed slowly over the dry land and across a pitiful stream to the Yan Kor lines.  The northerners’ pickets, not as cultured as our Tsolyáni forces, jeered us, asking if we came to offer our surrender. My Aridáni escort Díli na Báru became irritated, but I lay my hand on her shoulder and suggested that we not amuse our foes by becoming angry.

Despite the crude jibes from the troopers, the officers who received our small party were courteous and professional.  Ascertaining that we had a personal message from our kérdu to their “ochür,” as the Yan Koryáni say in their unpleasant sounding language, they, after only a short wait, bid us follow to a receiving tent, sparse but well-appointed in the northern style.  

There, on a simple three-level platform, sat the ochür. He had been speaking to one of his Hláka officers, the light grey wings of the latter fluttering nervously as she contemplated the battle the next day. Upon our entry, silence fell on the tent.  Vachén Vorúna acknowledged our presence with an arch of the brows while we saluted.  I began, “Great and glorious general, in the name of the …”

The ochür raised his hand.  “Let us dispense with the diplomatic niceties and high phraseology.  You bring a message from General Kéttukal?”

“Yes, my lord,” I replied.

“Let us have it then.” I handed the scroll to an adjutant, who in turn carried it to the ochür.  All strained to glimpse the text as he broke the waxy blue seal and read the message.  Raising his head, he called to the officers seated below him on the dais. “Let us all learn a lesson in noble action.” Turning to me, “please reply to General Kéttukal that I accept and will bring eight of my officers to the dinner. As we may die tomorrow, let us honor the Gods, our nations, and our comrades tonight. Please work out the details with my staff.” With that he rose and left the tent. The Hláka, not sure whether to follow or to stay, bobbed and twitched, unable to keep her three sapphire eyes in a steady gaze.

Upon my return, General Kéttukal questioned me closely. I told him of the behavior of the troopers, the crisp professionalism of the officers, the nervous Hláka, and the answer of the ochür.  “Let us think as he thinks,” the General said quietly. “He advances confidently to battle because he knows he has a larger force.  He wonders why we stand to fight rather than retreat and so sends his Hláka to investigate. We must confirm his belief that we hide a stone behind our cloth of firyá, but not reveal the size of that stone.  Call the Shen commander.”

The Shen soon arrived, as inscrutable as a piece of dark granite, along with a translator.  “Tell General Gure-gaha that, to deceive the Hláka, 2,000 of his force tonight must sleep in human-style tents,” Kéttukal told the translator, who involuntarily ducked his head in pain at Kéttukal’s pronunciation of the commander’s name. “Further, offer local villagers a good price for enough of the hard chr melons that delight the Shen to feed “almost 1,000 troops.” Yan Kor’s spies in the villages will learn of this. 

The Shen eschew human trickery, preferring headlong advance.  However, as the details of this ruse were translated, the Shen commander acknowledged its cleverness with a flex of the lacquered spines on his head, noting via the raspy translator only that he hoped the enemy’s observers would not notice the large feet of his troopers sticking out of the small human tents.

As the gentle evening descended, lending the land a rusty glow, our party proceeded to the platform that had been erected in the space between the two great armies. The cooks were putting the final touches on the meal, spicing the thick red porridge and brushing oil on the sizzling skewers of hmélu.  Not long after, the Yan Koryáni arrived. Under Kéttukal’s watchful eye, all in our party took care to extend the barbarians the same courteous welcome that they might give to visiting clan cousins.  Kéttukal and Vachén Vorúna settled onto their platforms a handspan above the rest of the places and the servers quickly brought bowls of water for them to wash their hands.

“My Lord,” the ochür addressed General Kéttukal in proficient Tsolyáni, “I am grateful for your invitation.  Not only does it mark you as a man of noble action, but I will be happy to renew our acquaintance and speak to you again. I well remember our debates over the writings of the ancient tacticians.” Noting the stunned looks of both entourages, Kéttukal said “my friend, let us explain to our confused officers that we were acquainted when in peaceful times you served in Bey Sü as a legate of the city of Vanu.” “Indeed, those were friendlier times,” the ochür replied. “I have fond memories of Bey Sü and hope soon to visit again,” he said with a hint of slyness, “and that peace will be restored between our great empires,” he quickly added to make amends.  Kéttukal directed a fierce look at one of our officers who had murmured quietly after the ochür termed puny Yan Kor an “empire” like Tsolyánu.  

Neither side could spare time for a leisurely meal and the servers soon brought in the various dishes and laid them on the rough grey cloth covering the planks of the table.  After they had left, Kéttukal said “Comrade, I must beg your forgiveness but the day’s preparations have left me ravenously hungry. Though it is the height of rudeness, I must quickly eat something.  I hope you can forgive me.  I must partake or I fear I shall faint.”  With that he took a small portion of each dish on his plate and quickly tasted.  Of course, no amount of hunger would have led General Kéttukal to commit a discourtesy.  In fact, this was a polite way to assure the guests that no poison or other trickery was contained in the food.  

“Brother,” the ochür replied, “I appreciate your delicate and subtle politeness but for the rest of the meal let us dispense with overly refined manners and leave them to court dandies. We are men of honor.  You’ll see that we have also brought some specialties supplied by our Milumanayáni allies” (another hint of slyness in his thick brows).  “I’a is a rare delicacy,” he said uncovering a large dish of black lumps, bathed in a peppery sauce. And for the benefit of your officers, here the ochür briefly nodded at me, I have had it spiced with eye-watering amounts of hling in the style of Jakálla.” (Despite the ochür’s protestations, I noticed his party included a Pe Choi officer, no doubt tasked with using his heightened perception to spot trickery.)

“Before we eat, however,” the ochür said, “let me present you with a token of my thanks.” Pausing while two of his adjutants brought in a largish bundle, he said “I have often said that our spouses bear much of the burden of war, running the clan businesses and raising children while we are preoccupied with battle, or, more likely, repairing chlen carts. Thus, I offer a gift not for you but for your wife Zakhéya.” At this, the two adjutants unrolled a bolt of shimmering sky blue cloth delicately embroidered at the edges with linked red flowers.”

Kéttukal grabbed a handful of the cloth and inspected it closely.  “Vánu has for millennia been famous for its weaving and embroidery. Who knows what sorcery was used to make such a fine weave. Zakhéya will be delighted.  I thank you.”  “It is remarkable,” Kéttukal continued, “how our thoughts have run in parallel courses like two channels of the wide Mssúma.” I also have brought a gift for your wife. However, I am conscious that rather than tend to clan affairs Yan Koryáni women prefer to fire the bow, throw the javelin, and … wield the sword.”  On that cue, I handed a case across the table from which the ochür brought forth a steel sword.  I recognized this as a stunning gift, even by the standards of Tsolyáni politesse. The elaborately incised sword was over 500 years old and recognizable as the work of the forge of Rákhinenu during the reign of Empress Nrainúe.  No sword like this is ever sold openly, of course, but a fat collector in Usenánu would have paid tens of thousands of káitars for such an item.  

Perhaps in Yan Kor they don’t offer such polite gifts, because the ochür almost lost his composure at the extravagance of the sword, pressing his yellowish fingers up and down the incised sapphire lettering before recovering himself and saying “this is wonderful work.  Mnému now commands her own tlümrík.  This will be a marvelous weapon for her to bear.  I am very grateful to you.”  

The two contingents spoke little while eating, the Yan Koryáni following our civilized custom. The cooks had won a victory. The Yan Kor officers clearly enjoyed the food though they shied away from the more heavily spiced dishes. As the dishes were cleared, Kéttukal clapped his hands and a shadow puppet troop revealed a stage and performed a short excerpt of a longer drama. The old puppeteer and musicians were not of the caliber one might see in Avánthar, but for village performers were quite skilled, interspersing the heroic passages with ribald side stories in the style of Wa’ang puppetry. General Kéttukal had chosen a vignette from the story of the birth of Utékh Mssa, a subtle message to the Yan Kor contingent that the Gods did not side with Baron Ald’s war of vengeance.

The ochür had brought entertainment as well. After the puppeteer withdrew, a musician playing a suling and a woman singer with long, straight black hair approached.  These were no village performers and must have formed part of Vachén’s permanent retinue.  The woman sang in Yan Koryáni, but the pure high notes of her voice scoured away the ugliness of that language, imbuing the words with palpable sadness. General Kéttukal’s translator whispered a synopsis. The song recounted an episode from “Deeds of the Great King” that described how a heroic soldier nobly risked all to spare the honor of his lost love. The Yan Koryáni were sending us their own message, it seemed.

The song faded and the singer withdrew. Uneasy silence fell upon the tent. A distant cry of a mikú was barely audible above the buzz of the clouds of chri attracted by our torches.  Perhaps the thoughts of the Yan Koryáni, like my own, turned to distant clan houses when, or whether, we might ever return home again.  

Finally, Vachén Vorúna broke the silence, “A soldier’s fate is, above all else, one of duty. Duty to the Gods, to our commanders, to our comrades, to our soldiers, and to our súku.* However, your kind invitation, my comrade, has reminded me that a soldier owes another duty. I mean, of course, a duty to our opponents. No victory in battle would be sweet if our opponent were not worthy. And how bitter is defeat at the hands of a dishonorable foe. As we bid farewell, I confess that I am humbled by the lesson you have taught me tonight with your wonderful meal and pleasant conversation – and of course your wonderful gift.  For this lesson, I will always venerate you and offer sacrifice to Lord Vumél in your name.”  Vachén’s words were so powerfully stated that I shuddered only slightly at his perversion of Pavár’s pantheon.  

“Not even the greatest heroes weave their own skeins,” Kéttukal replied. “Tomorrow we will engage in terrible battle and the field will ring with a sound like stone striking stone. Yet, we remain at the disposal of the Gods and take no pride in our own strength. We can only uphold, as you say, our duty and our honor, and the honor of our sacred Emperor, may his name live forever. Whatever the result of this cursed war, I will also recall this meal with pleasure and reflect on a great opponent. Let us hope our grandchildren will sing epics recounting our exploits.  

At this, the Yan Koryáni’s Pe Choi shifted position, audibly expelling a thin whine of air from the lower segment of its abdomen, as happens with that species.  All fought laughter at this strange punctuation of the conversation and the solemn mood broke. The Yan Koryáni rose, bid quick farewells, and were gone.    

When we arrived back at our camp, Kéttukal called his closest staff to his quarters. He was gleeful. “Did you notice that the Yan Koryáni officers took the food a bit too eagerly, even though they had no doubt been instructed to eat sparingly. And why did Vachén mention fixing chlen carts? The northerners are hungry and focus on supply.  Should we punch through their lines and threaten the road leading north, and here he glanced at the Shen commander stooping slightly in the tent, the invaders will break and retreat all the way to Ke’ér or further. Pray to your respective Gods, but I sense we have a chance tomorrow.”

As I later lay myself on my bedroll, General Kéttukal’s initially infectious optimism faded from my thoughts. The sad notes of the Yan Koryáni song still haunted my feelings. I tossed on my mat and wondered how General Vachén had known I was from Jakálla. I was not the only one too uneasy to sleep.  The low chanting of the entranced fanatics in the Legion of Red Devastation, “Vimúhla mítlan hi mitlanyál,” rolled softly through the camp the whole night. Even the kuní, normally not nocturnal, pierced the darkness with their shrill calls as if warning that carnage loomed and all should make their same winged escape.  When dawn painted its rosy petals on the camp, I emerged from my tent confused, irritable, and anxious about the day ahead.  

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*Translator’s Note: “suku” is an untranslatable concept comprising, inter alia, race, nationality, cultural values, and shared destiny.