[puffyn]

---- Arcoscephale, Turn 32 ----

At times I feel a little redundant. We approached a large Mictlan army on the plains outside Oeversee. As usual, I had my slow troops in a protective square around the mystics, priests, wounded, and other useless bums. On the left flank, the now-elite hypastist phalanx; on the right, a barely distinguishable clump of vines and moss that typically breaks up into something like ten vinoghers.

The blood-herders have some men who have mastered the art of flight, and these sometimes cause problems for the mystics, who have never held an honest spear in their life. In this case, one lone fanatic soared majestically into the air, raised his spear, gave a horrible cry, and ... promptly skewered himself upon the spears of the phalanx.

The mystics were wasting their time on foolish chants, so I left Andromache to watch out for them, and marched forward with the phalanx. The slave army had nearly reached us, and though we were heavily outnumbered, I could see the fear in their eyes, for we have gained quite a fearsome reputation in these parts. There was a sound like a thousands swords being drawn, and a whistling that you felt, rather than heard. Instinctively, we all ducked behind shields, pulled our helmets down low, but the whirling blades came from behind us, flew safely over our heads, and scythed the slave army apart.

The slaves of Mictlan rarely wear any armor or shields, and are generally slow also. The blades tore limbs clean off, chunked a few of them cleanly, and generally mangled a number more. Slipping on the blood and entrails, still more afraid of their masters behind them than of the death in front, the few remaining slaves got to their feet, and struggled forward. At that moment, a lightening bolt appeared out of the sky, and with a great clap of thunder, charred the earth directly in front of the slaves. On the way down, the lightening must have caught the trees branches on fire, for the next second, a veritable shower of fire fell amongst the poor conscripts, burning many, and lighting several of them on fire.

The survivors fled as soon as we reached them and presented our spear points, and impenetrable wall of gleaming shields. The vinoghers tore a few apart as they ran, dropping their spears to escape more quickly. The few non-slave warriors melted easily under our advance, and the battlefield was ours.

That night, I spoke with Tushar (Balachandra's second cousin, once removed). He confirmed my suspicion that there was nothing supernatural going on at the battle: the mystics had simply found a way to propel a large number of sharpened blades through the air. He refused to tell me the mechanism though: "Magic," he replied with a wink. Of course he also claimed credit for the lightning strike, but it was clear he was just trying to see how gullible I am.

---