293AC
He stood at the edge of the shrine's steps, for only the priests were allowed to set foot within, and watched the clouds go by across the windy sky. The heady scent of incensed smoke filled the air around him l, and he toyed with the nine long braids that hung from the back of his head. One for each of his years as a Magister, but in that time he had only fought one war. A short-lived thing over the cadet city of Norhoyhos on the shore. It had been battle with Lorath, now ostensibly their ally against Volantis, who as in ancient days wished to swallow them all.
Their eldest sister had bit off more than she could chew this time it seemed. Though she had allies on the Demon Road and her own large cadet cities to call up levies from, she still could not hope to war against all eight of the other cities at once. Even an army from Westeros was coming, to lay waste to the last of the dragonlords who found there.
Still, Volantis had strength enough that it would be a great war, with many prizes to be won, perhaps a cadet city for himself? The thought was appealing, and entirely within precedent, if he could demonstrate himself properly he might become the ruler of Selhorys on the Royne, which was nearly the size of Norvos itself, and larger than Lorath, though far less prestigious.
He came back to himself as the High priest stepped from the temple doors, his beard white with age and dragging along the ground alongside his hair. Arnio quickly fell to one knee, placing his right fist on the ground, as was custom.
The High Priest stood over him, casting his gaze down through his black eyes as if searching for any weakness. He would find none. Arnio was strong and powerful, taller than most men, and with his red-dyed hair rising in carefully greased spikes from his head that would fold down on each other then he wore his helmet. His mustache was necessarily short, but interwoven through it were bands and bangles he had taken at the battle of the rock-beach. After a long moment, the high priest nodded. "Rise, child of Norvos."
He did as he was instructed, rising to his feet, as one of the other priests lifted the newly anointed Long-Ax from its pillow. It was a beautifully made thing of Valyrian steel, forged at the founding of the city, and it belonged to the office rather than its current wielder. It was only taken up by the Magister General in times of war, and it gave him right to lead the city's armies, and more impressively, the Holy-Guard which made up its elite component. The Priests lofted the weapon carefully, holding it above his waiting hands as the High Priest closed his eyes, speaking a short and silent prayer.
"Go then, Child of Norvos, and find victory for your people."
Arnio nodded sharply as he felt the unnatural lightness of the weapon he had held once before. "For Norvos and our God." He said, and the high priest nodded, before sending him from the temple courtyard, and down into the city below armed now as well as any man in the Free Cities.
It took him three weeks to organize supply routes. Boats commissioned to carry food and lumber down the Noyne to where they would be joining with their allies from Qohor, fifty or sixty leagues north of Selhorys. There they would wait for the army of Lorath to arrive before besieging the cadet city.
The hope was that the Volantenes would be unable to respond with their forces tied up fighting the triarchy in the Southern Disputed-Lands, but if their gaze did turn northward the combined force ought to be able to meet them on the battlefield. Indeed, as he looked out over the assembled host of Norvos alone, some fifty thousand men which stood in lines before her gates, with five thousand being long ax-wielding Holy-Guards, and another two or three mounted warriors from amongst the nobility, he felt reassured that even this army alone ought to be able to contest the hosts of Volantis, and there at least this many more on the way from Qohor and Lorath.
As the fifty thousand looked to him, riding high atop his mighty warhorse, his hair-cloak blowing high in the wind, he felt that this was what he had become a general for, not putting down rabble, but leading great hosts of men to war. He placed his helmet down over his head, feeling his heart begin to beat with excitement as he raised his ax into the air above him and the marching drums began to beat.
He took a deep breath into himself, opening his throat to project his voice, and then, with all the fury of a bellows, he shouted over the crowd.
"TO WAR"
The cheer that returned was equally deafening, men stomping, spears shaking against shields, hunting horns blaring.
'Yes…' Arnia thought as he turned his horse about to trot at the head of the great host of Norvos. 'To war.'