- Writing Levels
- Adaptable
- Genres
- I'm wary of magic with lots of rules.
A storm gathered outside Avarath, with thunder and lightning and rain and dust devils.
But the thunder came from two million feet of different sizes.
The lightning came from elemental discharge of a hundred thousand staffs and one-hundred-fifty-two alchemical labs.
The rain came from a thousand Watertenders and Trolls who dolled out the water to the throng of soldiers.
And the dust devils swirled in the sand that the two thousand-thousand feet stirred into the air.
From the desert haze, an army emerged.
But the thunder came from two million feet of different sizes.
The lightning came from elemental discharge of a hundred thousand staffs and one-hundred-fifty-two alchemical labs.
The rain came from a thousand Watertenders and Trolls who dolled out the water to the throng of soldiers.
And the dust devils swirled in the sand that the two thousand-thousand feet stirred into the air.
From the desert haze, an army emerged.
Chapter 7
The Annexation of the Chersonese
The Annexation of the Chersonese
"There are some among us," The Burning Czar Lukesh spoke even before he had finished ascending the platform, "Who feel uncertain about leaving the desert. About leaving our mother cities."
"I do not blame them. Our life has been defined by struggle. Kaustir is struggle. We squeezed water and iron from nothing. We scraped life where there should have been none. Together, we have worked the sand for close to a century. That has been our struggle."
"But now," and his voice was magnified not by the advent, but by a sudden, vicious conviction, "We will struggle for something other than livelihood."
"The Western nations are decadent. Not in their excesses. Their virgin lips would burn at the lightest touch of kresnik." The Czar smirked, and his audience rumbled with mirth. "Ilium's bootlickers can't tell a sheep's cunt from a human whore's. All the Northern monks want to do is smoke White Claudia and stare at the stars. Most of them spend all their time adhered to their mystical wall, divining idiocy from it."
"No." He placed his hands on the altar and leaned forward. "They are decadent because they continue to worship what brought strife to Sunne. They continue to practice magic, to venerate and study the old gods, and they dig in the remains of the cataclysm!" Kaustir roared back with indignation, the irony not lost.
Aukhmos bounded up behind him, leaping into the Czar's back. He shimmered with advent power. "Where we walk is Kaustir. Where we plant our spears is Kaustir. Where we sleep is Kaustir. Our struggle begins anew. Today and tomorrow, and for as long as it takes after that, we struggle. We will liberate them of their false philosophies, inch by bloody inch."
His army knew the chant well, and followed him in unison.
"No gods."
"No miracles."
"Only aux."
"Only crux!"
"Only Kaustir!"
"No miracles."
"Only aux."
"Only crux!"
"Only Kaustir!"
The roar of his million-strong army faintly reverberated across Sunne. Birds rose with the spreading shock wave of sound. A century later, the story would say that this faint echo was what stirred Ilium from her slumber and exile since the Cataclysm.
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The desert was once again devoid of anything except for the giant lizards and fire scarabs, the strange octahedrons floating above the ykloid pits, and the gigantic flying bats. Dorgrad's ore veins were still mined, but the majority of Kaustir had taken up residence in a long line along the coast from Avarath up to the Chersonese. Yurts and wooden stockades had sprung up along the entire coast, and supply ships plied the lanes. Even now, the 1st Group of the Czar's army was still arriving and settling in.
Generalissimo Sar sat inside the commander's yurt. The Czar's advent-augmented voice boomed in the far distance. The flap doors were pulled back, and the canvas roof fluttered in the gentle sea breeze.
This was something he had never experienced before. In Kaustir, the desert wind ripped the moisture from his throat, making speaking and breathing difficult. It threw sand into his eyes. The blazing, omnipresent sun forced him into the prison of his caravan, from which he could only emerge at night or once they arrived in the city. To any Nocturne living in Kaustir, the only things they saw in its hundred-and-some year history were the three cities: Dorgrad, Avarath, and Zirako, and long periods of dark if they had to travel in between.
But the breeze. It was warm, a bit humid, and slightly salty. It reminded him of life. He dared the sun outside, and saw trees and shrubs, and his yurt was in the cool shade. He heard sounds of other life, skittish animals, grasses waving in the wind. The rivers were cool and fresh.
Paradise on Sunne. And it seemed many in the army felt that way too. Morale was high and a provisional city was rising on the Chersonese. Already, the land was being clearcut. Animals were trapped and placed in pastures. The earth was tilled and sowed with hardy desert wheat. It seemed like the Czar was here to stay.
Yet the doors to Lut Sar's yurt remained open, for today he was expecting visitors. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Shae, his faithful scryer, who had seen the plains floating underneath fleet foot. Diplomats and leaders from Viridos and Pegulis, who had received word of the Czar's activities just weeks prior. He could feel the hoofs thundering in the distance, as their riders drove their horses to a frenzy. They were panicked. They wanted explanations. There would be politics to play.
None of that would change the Czar's collision course. The Nocturne drank from a goblet of kresnik-and-blood and waited for the first emissary to arrive.
[/dash]Generalissimo Sar sat inside the commander's yurt. The Czar's advent-augmented voice boomed in the far distance. The flap doors were pulled back, and the canvas roof fluttered in the gentle sea breeze.
This was something he had never experienced before. In Kaustir, the desert wind ripped the moisture from his throat, making speaking and breathing difficult. It threw sand into his eyes. The blazing, omnipresent sun forced him into the prison of his caravan, from which he could only emerge at night or once they arrived in the city. To any Nocturne living in Kaustir, the only things they saw in its hundred-and-some year history were the three cities: Dorgrad, Avarath, and Zirako, and long periods of dark if they had to travel in between.
But the breeze. It was warm, a bit humid, and slightly salty. It reminded him of life. He dared the sun outside, and saw trees and shrubs, and his yurt was in the cool shade. He heard sounds of other life, skittish animals, grasses waving in the wind. The rivers were cool and fresh.
Paradise on Sunne. And it seemed many in the army felt that way too. Morale was high and a provisional city was rising on the Chersonese. Already, the land was being clearcut. Animals were trapped and placed in pastures. The earth was tilled and sowed with hardy desert wheat. It seemed like the Czar was here to stay.
Yet the doors to Lut Sar's yurt remained open, for today he was expecting visitors. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Shae, his faithful scryer, who had seen the plains floating underneath fleet foot. Diplomats and leaders from Viridos and Pegulis, who had received word of the Czar's activities just weeks prior. He could feel the hoofs thundering in the distance, as their riders drove their horses to a frenzy. They were panicked. They wanted explanations. There would be politics to play.
None of that would change the Czar's collision course. The Nocturne drank from a goblet of kresnik-and-blood and waited for the first emissary to arrive.
The nomadic horseman on the western edge of the Chersonese were the first to fall. Fall was a generous term. They rode their giant beasts, horse cross-bred with nearly any other four legged animal, around the gigantic Kaustir as it slowly pushed its way into the their lands. They ran along the flanks with their flint-tipped spears. Yet no matter how many tens of warriors they may have slain, no one paid them any heed. There was no retaliation, no acknowledge of their presence, no warrior's challenge.
They were crushed by their own insignificance, broken by their own religion. They believed that they were isolated fragments, pulled together on frail threads by their tenacity in the post-cataclysm, living in the shadow of the Old God's whose sword blows still echoed in the thunder and waves of Sunne. Combined, Kaustir was a god in and of itself, a writhing mass of cataclysm survivors whose gestalt was so much more.
It was only after they fell to the ground in utter defeat that the Sun Inquisition approached them ...