Chapter Seven: Mobilization
Athellenas
Port Sarim was a smaller-sized town, located on the eastern banks of the Knossos Bay, many leagues southwest of Tethys. Though it was not the largest town in Centralia, it was arguably the busiest port, engaging in regular maritime trade with the tropical island of Karamja to the southwest, and with the Menaphites from the desert to the southeast. Port Sarim was the central hub between those two locations, and the trade goods went right through it and into the rest of Centralia.
Obviously, Port Sarim was not the only port in Centralia, but its ideal location on the leeward side of the Knossos Bay put it right smack in the middle of the trade routes from Karamja and the Menaphite Desert, both incoming trade and outgoing. Despite its moderate size, Sarim was nevertheless a bustling place as a result of this.
Warmaster Athellenas stood at the edge of a tall cliff, gazing down at the port city from the pinnacle of the small mountain which he had made camp upon for the previous night. The entire First Element of the Centralian Army was camped below; a huge mosaic of white tents arranged in haphazard rows and columns. Thirteen thousand men; infantry, light and heavy cavalry, archers—both mounted archers and longbowmen on foot, artillerists, engineers, medical personnel, and the ever-important cooks; all divided evenly into three subordinate legions; each legion led by a subordinate General. The vista of the tents, when looked upon from above, seemed impromptu and unorganized, sure, but Athellenas was not bothered by it; as long as the soldiers still knew how to fight, which they definitely did, the Warmaster really couldn't care less how neatly they could set up tents.
Athellenas observed the waterfront with his spyglass, watching as the medium-sized fleet of ships, which was supposed to rendezvous with him, drew into the Knossos Bay. They were just coming into view, rounding the point of the Spur. The Spur was the small part of Centralia that extended the furthest distance down into the Southern Ocean. It was a lush, green region, dotted with towns and villages. The Spur, to Athellenas, appeared as a green coastline that stretched south as far as the eye could see before the mist of distance obscured it from view. Port Sarim was located just north of the Spur. The Spur was also what separated the ocean from the bay and what ended up inadvertently blocking a good deal of bad weather, keeping the Knossos Bay relatively calm during most of the year.
Another reason why Port Sarim was an ideal center of trade: not very much bad weather.
The fleet of ships destined to provide transportation for Athellenas's men was rounding the Spur right now. Athellenas estimated that they would arrive at port in two or three hours, as the wind was on their side. Had the wind been blowing in another direction, the fleet's journey would be considerably lengthened. Such was the nature of sailing.
The past few days had been a blur. To the Warmaster, it still felt like it had been only yesterday when King Osman had brought him back into the Forum to finalize his plans.
News was already beginning to circulate around Centralia of Athellenas's ill-fated encounter with the Forum. The Warmaster had been dealing with those politicians ever since he had been a young infantry centurion under the direct command of the legendary Warmaster Aurelius, his predecessor. However, something had snapped in Athellenas when he had debriefed the Forum on the destruction of Ephyrn.
King Osman had called a recess, and then reconvened the next day. The main roadblock that was preventing the King from fully mobilizing the army to respond to the growing possibility of a Zamorackian resurgence was the fact that the Forum refused to approve a Declaration of War without the acquiescence of the Church. And the Church refused to acknowledge that Zamorak was emerging from the Wilderness.
To circumvent this, King Osman decided instead to mobilize only the 1st Element of the Centralian Army and put the others on reserve status. He was able to do this without a full War Declaration. While Athellenas was still not yet in command of the full army, as was his right, he now had command over its first and largest subdivision. It was a lot better than nothing.
Osman had been receiving disturbing news from the Menaphite Desert until two days ago, when contact was suddenly and abruptly cut off. Something was very wrong in the desert; the Menaphites had never cut off contact like this in the past.
It was clear to Athellenas what was happening over there. The Warmaster had known that Zamorak had been devastated by his defeat at the River Salve six hundred years ago, but the Warmaster had also known that the Dark God had obviously been regrouping, rebuilding his forces for the past century or so, as evidenced by the growing number of attacks on the Centralian border. Now, it was sounding more and more like the Dark God had finally unleashed his forces.
Osman had figured that once Athellenas and his men brought back hard, physical evidence that Zamorak was on the move, the Church would be forced to acknowledge the Dark One's resurgence, and in so doing would spur the Forum to authorize a full Declaration of War. Osman had run that through the consuls at the Forum the day after Athellenas's fight with Consul Earis, finalized the mobilization of the 1st Element, and sent Athellenas on his way.
Now, five days later, Athellenas found himself overlooking the fully-mobilized 1st Element, waiting for a contingent of the Centralian Navy to provide him and his men with transportation to the Menaphite Desert. Going by ship up the River Lum to the desert would be much faster than marching across the breadth of Centralia.
This whole situation was going differently than Athellenas had always feared and planned for. The Warmaster had always expected Zamorak to come thundering south from the Wilderness, straight into Centralia, burning and pillaging as he went. This had not happened; for whatever reason, Zamorak seemed to be attacking the desert first. Exactly why Zamorak was choosing to go after the Menaphites, Athellenas did not know.
"I don't know why, either."
Athellenas didn't need to glance behind himself to see that it was Sir Derren who has spoken. "Mm?" the Warmaster gave as inquisitive grunt.
"I know what you're probably thinking; why in Saradomin's holy name the Dark One would decide to invade the desert before first taking care of us," Sir Derren explained. "Doesn't make any sense to me, either."
Athellenas offered a simple shrug in response, stepping over to the left a tad bit as Sir Derren drew up alongside him. "The motives of Gods are seldom known to the likes of us…but though we may not understand the Dark One's reasons for attacking the desert, I would wager anything that they exist nonetheless. Zamorak would not unleash his full strength on the Menaphites for no reason."
"Well, then, regardless of why the Dark One has decided to take a stroll through the sand…what exactly can we do to stop him?" Sir Derren posed the question in its most rational form. "If the rumors we heard about Thammaron being in the desert are true… You are a great man, Warmaster, and an unrivaled commander. But I would not want to wager on a battle between this army and an army under Thammaron."
"That is wise; if you did wager for me in such a battle, you would be a fool," Athellenas agreed.
"Oh, I wouldn't have wagered on you," Sir Derren chuckled. "I would have wagered on Thammaron—I always win my bets."
Derren's frankness even got a laugh out of the Warmaster. "It's never a dull moment with you, Derren," Athellenas mused. The Warmaster turned back to the view of the port that lay before him. "We should get everybody ready to move. The Navy will be here, soon."
"Agreed," Sir Derren nodded. "I shall see to it."
Athellenas remained rooted to the spot as his second-in-command swung himself up into his steed's saddle. Sir Derren let out a belting 'Yah!' as he nudged Kicker, his battlehorse, into gear, galloping off down the long, winding path that led to the meadows and fields below the mountain where the men of the First Element were encamped.
The Warmaster continued to observe the naval vessels as they trudged up along the coast of the Knossos Bay towards the docks of Port Sarim. He watched them until he was able to distinguish the brilliant colors of the Centralian flags billowing from the tops of their mainmasts.
The Centralian Navy was not quite as 'hands-on' as its counterpart that fought on land, but that did not make it any less important. Centralia received a sizeable amount of trade from Karamja, the Menaphite Desert, and Ainuido—the exotic, oriental, isolated lands far across the Eastern Oceans. This trade came in through Centralia's ports from oceanic trade routes—trade routes which had at one time been mercilessly preyed upon by pirates. The formation of the Centralian Navy, roughly eight or nine hundred years ago, had managed to keep the pirates in check.
That had happened at a critical time in the formation of Centralia as the strongest nation in Gielinor—the God Wars had been raging for over a thousand years by that point, and humans had just been doing all they could to try to survive. The Old Kingdoms of the Second Age were memories, rent asunder by the horrible war between Zamorak and Saradomin. From the remnants of the Old Kingdoms rose a scattered, disorganized patchwork of feudal fiefdoms and city-states. The constant threat of attack from the forces of Chaos had united those fiefdoms and fused them into what was now Centralia, united under Pendragon, the first King of Centralia. King Osman was Pendragon's direct descendant.
"Beautiful, is it not?" the voice came from behind, bringing Athellenas out of his deep thoughts concerning Centralia's history.
Athellenas did not turn around this time, either. The man who had spoken stood abreast the Warmaster, not making eye contact with him, but rather gazing out at the Knossos Bay as well. He was an older man; younger than Athellenas, but still no spring chicken. A neatly-trimmed black beard—contrasting sharply with Athellenas's somewhat bushy gray one—covered the man's chin. He had a sharp, straight nose, black hair which was beginning to gray, and clear, piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in dull, battered armor that was tinted blue. Athellenas glanced at the man's breastplate and saw the easily recognizable faded-golden four-pointed holy star symbol of the God Saradomin, engraved on the chestpiece.
The man was a Temple Knight Paladin; a warrior from the Church of Saradomin who fought alongside the soldiers of the Centralian Army. This man was pretty much a political officer; the one who would see to the morale of the men, who would prevent them from deserting, who would keep them all true in their faith to Saradomin, and who would report directly to the Priori of Entrana. In some ways, the Paladin held more authority than Athellenas did himself. In some ways.
Overall, Athellenas would never be able to be subverted by any Paladin—the Warmaster was simply too close to King Osman, and King Osman would never allow Athellenas to be removed.
Secure in that knowledge, Athellenas did not have any overt or internal reaction to the Paladin's presence. The Paladin standing next to the Warmaster noticed this, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
"Most commanders under whom I've served have at least cringed at the sight of me," the Paladin mused. "Nothing from you, though. I must say…that is somewhat refreshing. A commander who has minerals."
Athellenas grunted. "I'm still a faithful Saradominist—that is all you need to know."
The Paladin chuckled. "That would certainly make my job easier, would it not, if that was all I needed to know? You misjudge me; I am here to ensure that the…moral compass of this army remains pointed towards the light."
"Towards Entrana, you mean?"
"They are one and the same, Warmaster."
"Mm-hm," Athellenas grunted again. That answer did not settle well with the Centralian veteran. The Warmaster brought the spyglass down from his eye and he turned his head to directly face his counterpart from the Church. "What's your name?"
"Anesti," the Paladin replied.
"Well then, Paladin Anesti," Athellenas cleared his throat, turning himself completely to face the Paladin. "If you are going to serve under me," the Warmaster made sure he stressed the 'under,' "then there is one thing you should know. As I said before, I am a faithful Saradominist. However, I am also, first and foremost, the senior Warmaster of Centralia. My duty is to King Osman; not to the Priori of your Church."
When Anesti opened his mouth to protest, Athellenas raised his hand, quelling the Paladin.
"My men answer to me, not to you," the Warmaster continued. "I will not have the likes of you undercutting my authority. If I so much as find a shred of evidence that you are swaying my men with your Church's dogma, I can guarantee you that what happens next will not be enjoyable for you."
Paladin Anesti was at a loss for words at first, but he did not show it in his outward appearance. He had endured the relentless training—both spiritual and physical, theological and militarical—required to become a Paladin of Entrana. Going through all of that had given him the ability to remain dispassionate, no matter how dire a situation could become.
The smooth veneer of Anesti's personality was somewhat ruffled nonetheless by Athellenas's reply. The Paladin had served in many parts of the Centralian Army, but never before had he encountered a commander who had outright refused to allow a Paladin almost free reign within his unit. Of course, this was the first time Anesti had served with an officer ranking higher than Centurion.
Still, it would take a lot more to get Anesti riled up. The only outward reaction the Paladin displayed was a simple raised eyebrow. "As long as your men remain true in their faith to the Lord Saradomin, I do not believe your authority will ever be in question."
"Damn right it won't," Athellenas growled. "You needn't worry about their faith to Saradomin; it is resolute. Morale is where you shall play a part, not faith. But do not ever try to give my men counsel that may countermand or contradict any of my orders. If you can avoid that, then I believe our relationship will not be a strained one. We can be a team and accomplish much, or we can be rivals and accomplish nothing. That I shall leave up to you."
The Warmaster gave the Paladin a hearty clap on the shoulder as he walked away from the edge of the cliff where he had been watching the bay. As the Warmaster swung himself up onto Onyx and kicked off, galloping away down the mountainside, the Paladin remained rooted to the spot.
"Mm…finally…" Paladin Anesti hummed, closing his eyes and breathing in the fresh, crisp morning air. "Someone worth his weight in shit."
Athellenas had just trotted back into the camp when he heard the commotion. A sentry's bugle was being sounded off on the other side of the huge encampment. Soldiers were emerging from their tents, shaking their heads groggily, curious to know what the source of all the hubbub was.
The Warmaster galloped straight through the camp, careful to avoid soldiers who were stumbling out into the open paths between the sections of tents. Mowing down his men would not necessarily improve his reputation.
Dozens of soldiers were grouping up at the eastern outskirts of the First Element's encampment. Some of the men who were archers had grabbed their bows and were aiming them at the man who was at the centre of the chaos.
Athellenas maneuvered through the trees outside of the encampment. He could tell from the men's armor insignias that they were from IV Legion, the White Eagles; General Sinclair's legion. They were renowned for their archers and cavalry. They drew back to a respectful distance, creating a path for the Warmaster to advance through.
The cause of the hubbub was in a clearing in the pine trees, several hundred yards beyond the sentry lines. A man dressed in a simple, faded-blue traveling cloak was standing in the centre of the clearing. He had slightly tanned skin and craggy, weathered features. Not rugged, but one could still tell that this was a man who had seen and done a lot in his lifetime. He had a short salt-and-pepper beard and a fringe of similar-colored hair circling his otherwise bald cranium. He was unarmed and surrounded by a ring of archers. The archers had their arrows knocked and were keeping their aim trained on the cloaked man.
A centurion, identifiable by the brilliant red plume on his helmet, was barking orders to the men, but he fell silent when he caught sight of Warmaster Athellenas.
"What is your name, Centurion?" Athellenas asked.
"Orestes, sir," the Centurion replied. "Royal Knight of the Eighth Order. First Company, First Cohort."
Athellenas recognized the man, now. He was the second-in-command of the IV Legion. It was the way the ranking command structure of the Centralian Army worked; each Legion was divided into a varying number of cohorts—usually around five to seven. Each cohort, in turn, was divided into four smaller companies of one hundred men each, on average. Added to those main infantry cohorts were the Legion's auxiliaries; there was a cavalry regiment and the logistics groups. The X Legion also had artillery and its respective personnel required to operate it, but the artillery was exclusive only to that particular legion.
Each company was commanded by a centurion, and the most senior centurion of a cohort commanded the First Company of that cohort, and by default the entire cohort. Each of the other three lesser centurions in the cohort were subordinate to the centurion of the First Company. The centurion who was the First Company Commander of the 1st Cohort was, in turn, the senior Centurion of the entire legion, and served as the legion General's second-in-command. This centurion was commonly referred to as the 'Eleven' by the rank and file—'eleven' standing for the two 'ones' of First Company-First Cohort, this centurion's designation.
The position of the Senior Centurion was not given to any lucky schmuck who happened to be in command of the double-first; the most experienced and able centurion was purposefully placed in command of the double-first by the legion general. This was how Generals chose their second-in-commands.
"I know you. General Sinclair's Number Two," Athellenas said.
The IV Legion senior centurion clasped his fist to his heart in a salute, giving a slight bow. "It is an honor, Warmaster."
"What is going on here? Who is that man, and how did he bypass our sentries?"
"We have no idea who he is," Sir Orestes shrugged. "He must have teleported in. He was beating six of my men into the next decade when we found him, but he keeps on saying he is not an enemy, that he was attacked."
Athellenas glanced up and back over at the cloaked man. The man's face was partially obscured by the cowl of his cloak, but Athellenas was able to see it as the wind tousled the hood. It was the man's eyes—cold, stormy gray—that Athellenas recognized. The Warmaster gave a start as his mind flashed back to a chamber on Entrana, the holy island of Saradomin. Of course, the man had been dressed in the flowing blue and white robes of a Priori at that time…now he was clad only in a simple traveler's cloak with common clothing underneath.
"Tell your men to lower their weapons," Athellenas ordered Orestes.
"Warmaster?" Sir Orestes cast Athellenas a questioning glance.
"Centurion, I ordered you to have your men lower their weapons," Athellenas repeated himself. "Perhaps I was not clear enough?"
"Not at all, sir," Sir Orestes shook his head, turning on his heels to execute his latest order. "Alright, boys, put 'em down."
The ring of archers surrounding the cloaked man lowered their bows uncertainly, exchanging furtive glances with one another. The cloaked man had proven to be an adept fighter and therefore a significant threat, one which they were unwilling to dismiss right off the bat. Still, despite their lingering suspicions, they obeyed their centurion and lowered their weapons.
Athellenas dismounted, stepping past the wary archers, and approached the cloaked man, who in turn relaxed from his defensive stance. The Warmaster stopped a short distance from the man and faced him. He was silent for a few moments, scrutinizing the man. He knew who he thought the man was...but Athellenas had not seen him for over a decade. He had believed him to be dead. Finally, the Warmaster spoke to the man. "If I were to say to you that I am a stranger traveling from the East, seeking that which is lost…"
The cloaked man was silent for a few moments as he let the Warmaster's words sink in before realizing that he remembered those words, as well as what the rest of the ancient proverb was. "…then I would reply that I am a stranger traveling from the West, it is I whom you seek…" the cloaked man murmured in reply.
Athellenas smiled, his suspicions on the man's identity confirmed. "You still remember, Jerrod."
The Cleric returned the smile, recognizing the Warmaster as well. "Took me a moment, old friend. Ten years in a swamp didn't do wonders to my memory."