Animosity between Tevaller and Chanjion began when a Tevaller King had a vision of a serpent people putting nations in chains, believed to be the Chanjion. The Tevaller began occupying Chanjion land thereafter. Chanjion had no army, and at the sight of the Tevaller had to stand aside.
Soon festered the abuses of power. The Chanjion people realised that they were not being treated as human. When resistance began, the Tevaller responded with retribution, rounding up tribes into larger masses. Then began to designate tiny areas of land to them, most barely able to sustain crops. This was internment, constricting tighter until the Chanjion would become extinct.
Overtime the Chanjion turned to guerrilla warfare. The Tevaller had never allowed Chanjion’s to own weapons but allowed them bows for hunting. Desperation lead to inventiveness, and the uprising was bows shot from shadows. Tevaller were driven from reservations, not by mass volleys, but by precision. Over sixty years, the Chanjion drove the Tevaller off their land, back across the mountains, and since then they have been at each other’s throats.
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Another overcast day greeted the Chanjion garrison. The fortress was a several miles from a wide mountain pass, and a mile from a town established to take advantage of the gold found in the run-offs from the mountains. It was a flashpoint, with the Tevaller working mines in the mountains, trying to cut off the rivers.
Rounded, coiled walls did nothing to dissuade the serpent image of the Chanjion, but the segmented stonework was resilient against long-range siege devices. The interior was wide, housing two hundred soldiers with a command building towards the rear, rising up in a segmented arc, inadvertently like a snake’s rattle-tail.
Archers took to the stone ramparts. Anyone of these warriors could place an arrow through the visor of a mounted Tevaller at two hundred yards; so much of a problem that Tevaller knights took to galloping into battle with shields raised over faces. The response to this was to take out the horses. It was a point of embarrassment among Tevaller knights to have punctures defacing their shields, but to lose their destrier? Such an aggrievance, that a new dishonour-marker had been designed to blemish the offender’s family crest.
Sumiko Akabane wasn’t an experienced officer, but her ferocity with the bow had her commanding this fort. She had obsidian-black hair in a ponytail and olive skin and gold eyes.
The Tevaller had been expected, since the Chanjion raid on one of their mines, collapsing enough tunnels to ensure it would be another century before they got at the river tunnels.
“A mile off,” Zakara said looking outward, listening to the stomps betrayed by the wind. Sumiko couldn’t hear anything. “That mist is a problem. They’ll be too close by the time we see them, and we won’t be able to kill enough of them before they get a ram to the gate.”
He was correct. Seventy yards out a thick fog had risen. “It’s as if the land doesn’t want blood shed today. How many do you think?” Sumiko asked.
“Between numerous and many,” Zakara replied.
The veteran, Zakara Egawa, was one of a minority still believing in the Gods. The lack of protective layers made it obvious; the belief was that death was predestined. Thus, warriors would enter battle without the constraints of armour. Sumiko didn’t mind this, as religious fervour proved to be one of the most lethal fighting implements, she’d ever seen. Besides, the Tevaller used armour, and it never did them any good.
Remnants of the Chanjion religion, however, was still evident on many warriors present: in totems and jewellery, or tattoos, even if it carried no piousness with it. Sumiko had, tattooed, around her wrists a constricting dragon’s tail to always remember her ancestor’s bondage under the Tevaller. Even the emerald and ivory guard on her forearm bore the crafted tail of a dragon as if constricting her. Every time she shot her bow, Sumiko relished the notion that should the string strike her arm, it was striking a serpent, the symbol of bondage to her people.
“I hope so,” Sumiko muttered.
“Those jewels on their breastplates make them too easy,” Zakara sighed.
“Absolutely, we’re getting soft out here.”
“Why did the Gods create the Tevaller?” Roared Zakara to the poised archers.
“Because killing animals is cruel!” Was the raucous reply.
There was a mound a hundred yards in front of the fort, Sumiko knew. “I wager, I can turn back their attack myself, from the mound beyond the fort,” Sumiko asserted so every soldier could hear. A din of murmurs broke out.
“Like I’m betting against a Chanjion archer,” Zakara chortled.
“I’m too cosy on these walls, and we are Chanjion! The finest archers the world over! It’s our destiny to wield the bow, however you believe it has been orchestrated.” A chorus of cheers lifted from the ramparts, fanatical enough to give the impression the whole fortress was already victorious.
Before Sumiko left the fort, she took two spare quivers, providing her with two hundred arrows, fletched with rainbow pheasant feathers, glossy green hues, iridescent with every colour. The piles were conical with diamond tips. The arrows and her bow were devoid of magic. Any self-respecting Chanjion refused the aid of magic. Archery was a skill of the self after all.
Sumiko bolted from the fort, her horse galloping with fury, the surrounding fields and mountains erased by the fog. At the mound Sumiko dismounted. The fog reduced her vision considerably. Despite the fort feeling miles away Sumiko was calm. The tingling cool on her face was a sweet balm, as she slipped her thumb ring on.
Upon the mound she could hear the cluttered approach, like a landslide of gravel. It was time to get their attention. Sumiko raised her bow, a short, recurved weapon with the characters of her ancestor’s names painted onto the back of the limbs.
She nocked an arrow, listening to the clanking of armoured destriers, isolating individual Tevaller through the din. Choosing one, Sumiko drew the bow. When the draw reached just past her ear, she opened her finger and thumb. A second and a half later a shrill cry from one of the Tevaller informed Sumiko that a horse was now without a rider.
The Tevaller took the insult as sourly, roaring into the fog. Sumiko began picking out the riders by sound alone, loosing arrow after arrow, punching rider after rider from destriers, victims to this unseen sentry. Out of the fog charged only unmounted horses.
Soldiers on the wall had been counting each horse, cheering. Tallies were carved into the rampart wall. When the last of the destriers galloped from the mist, Zakara and the remaining soldiers were aching in their midriffs from cheering but continued as Sumiko sauntered back towards the fort; her bow over one shoulder, each quiver empty.
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