"LENGO MITHAROS!"
The knight's smile beamed as he passed through the crowd. The entire kingdom flocked to the capital's central road to send off the royal army. Beneath this horse he could feel the thunder of the thousand riders behind him, but all he could hear was the chant.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
His black destrier whinnied, its powerful body rippling under the saddle. The knight patted the steed reassuringly on the neck and spurred it onwards. It seemed nobody, not even the horses, were eager to pass the front gates. The street itself was long, wide and evenly paved. It stretched from the front gates of the City wall, all the way up the gentle hill to the Keep. On either side of the road were cozy wooden buildings. The structures facing the street were primarily commercial, teeming with life and sound. Shops, smiths, and taverns like all extended their warmth to travelling passersby. Today was a good day for business. Today they were all full. Today their patrons roared.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
Turning in his saddle, the knight looked up the road towards the castle; towards the home of the king he was riding off to die for. It was an impressive structure indeed. Six connected marble towers inclined gently, forming a conical base for a colossal steel pillar. Wider at the bottom, the pillar tapered off at the top to a fine point. A point, according to city legend, sharper than any blade. Centuries ago all six of the Great Kings came together to form a peace treaty in an attempt to rid the land of war. When they build the capital at the meeting point between all six kingdoms, they envisioned a grand metal spear to tower overhead and observe the land. So the six kings melted the spare armor and weapons from their combined armies and turned the steel into the panels used to build the pillar. In the end, they produced an enormous cone, and leaned the six towers up against its base. Each marble tower represented one of the six original kingdoms. The final product was the magnificent colossus in the center of the City: Silverlance Keep.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
As to the people, the masses had gathered for one singular purpose. War. For some reason or another the people of this kingdom have always been inexplicably attracted to violence. The reason the knights rode out now was to lead a final assault against the Collin forces. The usurpers believed that the unified kingdom should be once again split into six. They had pledged not to rest until the King's head lay on a pike in front of the Keep. Twelve years ago they began their conquest, slaying man woman and child alike in an attempt to provoke the royal army. The King had attempted to end the tyrants before, but with no success. Every war party, every force sent, no matter how large had never returned. The Collin have masked their transactions well, leaving their leaders and their base of operations shrouded in mystery. Employing brilliant strategies, the Collin forces have never lost a battle, never surrendered a single prisoner, never shown any sign of weakness. As much of the war chant filled the knight's heart with pride, there was a dark fog brewing in his heart. A crippling fear of defeat. But he would not share his thoughts, not now. His fellow soldiers needn't be discouraged by such things. The knights marched on.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
The procession was now reaching the front gates of the City. The knight righted himself upon his horse, and thought back upon how he wound up in this mess in the first place. He was young for a night, only twenty-five years of age. Occasionally the older veterans would jest at him about his youth. He would always laugh, for he was a respectful lad, but in secret the words stung. Not because he wished to be old and gray, but because they thought him a child. The reason he had been knighted so young was due to his unmatched swordsmanship. If he chose, he could cut through those that mocked him like a hot blade through butter. Yet still they joked. Every time - even when he felt like striking them - he calmed his mind, stilled his hand, and accepted his recurring title as "City Boy". Today, however, nobody paid enough mind to jest. Today was a day of glory, and as the crowds screamed on, the young knight felt his heart beat faster. When he passed under the enormous stone arches of the front gates, he would no longer be just another knight. The next time he returned he would be hailed as a hero... if he returned at all.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
As his section of the parade met the last of the cheering crowd and passed under the arching gates, the young knight looked over his shoulder one last time. As valiant as his heart felt, his mind whispered hints of sadness. Doubt. Regret. This would be the first time he'd ever left his home city. Out here, when he crossed swords it wouldn't be in training. Out here, blades are only swung to kill. Thought the thousands of the kingdom's greatest knights were riding with him now, the Collin forces were said to be numerous and impossibly deadly. A farmer had rushed into the City several weeks before claiming his farm had been burned to the ground, and his family slaughtered. The man said he tried to count the forces that attacked him, and they numbered close to one hundred thousand. The numbers of a single distressed farmer were hardly reliable, but they certainly inspired no bravery in the young knight.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
The knights that had finished parading and had already passed the gates were now starting to form rank. The young knight fell in beside one of his veteran jesters. Besides "City Boy", the man was actually quite humorous and likable. He had a slight, trimmed beard and a receding hairline, flecked grey with age. His eyes were perpetually wide, as if on alert at all times, but the corners were well wrinkled with laugh lines. The younger knight felt better knowing that his riding companion would at least be pleasant, though he was slightly embarrassed that he did not know the man's name. He did not bother asking now. "Excuse me." The voice of the younger knight seemed to register immediately with the older one, and the veteran cracked a warm smile. "Quite the parade, eh? This is the first time I've ever seen anything this grand. Lucky boy." The veteran's voice was gruff and tired, but there was a friendliness to it that comforted the young knight. "It certainly was... extravagant." The younger knight had been rather astonished when he saw the sheer number of onlookers flocking to the main road. Even in the City festivals there were never that many people. "But I seem to miss something. What is it that they're chanting?" The older man raised an eyebrow, his smile shifting into a wicked grin. "Lengo Mitharos. It's from the old language of the Six. Means 'Long live your legend.'" Before the younger man had time to register what that might mean, the knights had finished parading and the chanting died down. Without the roar of the masses the young knight's heart filled with the same despair that plagued him earlier, and what was worse, he was beginning to see it in the other knight's faces too. Now he saw their true thoughts: Fear. Doubt. Regret. His fellow comerades were no braver than he. In his looking, though, the young knight had not seen the ranks beginning to part. Finally noticing that he was standing in the middle of an empty column, he ungracefully yanked his reins to the right, causing his destrier to sidestep awkwardly into position. A few other knights laughed. Ashamed, the young knight looked away, glimpsing the Grand General Warhowl as he rode up the line. Upon reaching the front rank, he slowly turn his horse to look at the men in facing him. After a long stare, seemingly looking every man right in the eyes, the General unsheathed his sword and raised it in the air. His voice was thunder, he boomed it now. "There is nothing more to say that hasn't already been said." He began, sword gleaming in the morning sun. "You fight today for the City and Silverlance. For your families and children! FOR THE KING!" When he arced his sword, the knights erupted in a ferocious roar so menacing a lion would've whimpered. Despite the terrifying scream, there was no truth in it. It was a false cry, an attempt to show strength when in their hearts there was none. Then they began their ride, horses beating into the dirt. Without a crowd chanting, the sound of the destriers was nothing short of an earthquake. To nobody in particular, the young knight whispered under his breath. "Lengo Mitharos." He knew he was not coming back, but at least he would be remembered as a legend. With that, he steeled himself for whatever was to come, dug his heels into his horse, and set off to war.