As the pharoah bidded (for Narmer was not one to dally on tasks given), he quickly jumped to doing so despite some hesitant sideway glances at Osorsen. He hoped his friend could see how stuck between a rock and a hard place Narmer was, for despite him not wishing at all to displace Osorsen, for much of Narmer's military training had been done under his grandfather afterall, at the same time Narmer could not risk purposefully going against the pharoah if he wanted to leave the war alive and not murdered by his own leader.

Backing away respectfully from the pharoah to leave him and General Moghadam to have their own conversation, Narmer quickly headed to his men, and his few short and curt instructions had them quickly dispersing to do as told. His men were well trained even if they were kitted to the best of the noble house's abilities.

Purposely using their smaller sizes to be of value however, the men of the Haikaddad troops would steal through the wet sand and grass to weaken the Grecian troops by their very roots first, before the rest of the Egyptians picked them off like flies on a dog's back. Briefly, Narmer's eyes swung upwards to search for his nephew, but not wanting his attention to be frayed, the man quickly reminded himself to leave Kissan be even as their eyes met, and the man hardened his jaw to swing his attention back to his own troops, seeing them assemble in place. His nephew had wanted to learn to be a man - he can see first hand the horrors of warfare.

Crouching low to await the pharoah's orders, Narmer felt the familiar tingle of adrenaline under his leather and bronze armor, a feeling he had almost thought he would forget. How long had it been since he had taken on the mantle of a military man? He had lost the chance since the death of his brother which necessitated his taking upon the leadership of the house. But this, where the wind blew and sand stirred, blood pumping and hands gripping weapon, not knowing if he would see the next sunrise - this was what Narmer was born to do.

The shout of the pharoah led smoothly to the onward approach of his men, as Narmer deftly manovred his horse to swing his bronzed spear forward as his men charged. Behind a row of shields, arrows flew and arched above their head, aiming for the Grecian's own archers, even as his men along with the forces of the pharoah's and other noble families deftly moved forward. Perhaps it would surprise their Grecian enemies that the first charge of his men attacked downwards instead of upwards, but Narmer had purposefully trained them to disable mobility, before the second wave would move in for the kill, all whilst atop his steed, the man combed the area for the supposed king of the Grecian armies. Even if they did not overwhelm them with skills, the sheer number of the Egyptian army would be far too much for the Grecian's to outlast much less beat, or so Narmer believed.

It was the morn of battle, and Ionas could not truly identify what he was feeling when he was prodded awake by an impersonal hand. Anticipation, surely, and nerves abundant. But there was an excitement there too, an eagerness at the chance to prove himself on a real field of combat. A chance to prove that all his training, his flashy showmanship, and the grace with which he bore a blade were not all for show. He would be as deadly on the field as he was in the practice yard. He just knew it.

After all, he had been chosen to sail with the King, a great honor for a young man still unblooded. That spoke volumes of the skills he possessed, the potential he was repeatedly told he held. Until the day they finally set sail from the shores of Taengea, it was all he had boasted of—that he would sail with the king himself, and he would make his family and his country proud. Their army would return to Vasiliadon with a thousand Egyptian heads. He had no doubts.

But now that it was here… he couldn’t deny the nauseous flutter in his stomach as he donned his armor, securing his cuirass in place with a shaky breath. He was quiet, unusually so for a man known to crack a quip in even the most inappropriate of situations. It was one thing to swing a blade with his fellow soldiers, to hack and stab at a dummy; it was quite another to kill, and he did not think the atmosphere of the morning leant itself to his normal humor. It was natural, he thought, to be afraid, but he couldn’t let it show. Not now, not with the enemy hovering practically at their bedsides. He would be strong. He would show what he was capable of. And this day would be theirs.

It wasn’t long before they were called into formation, Ionas falling back into his assigned rank with his spear gripped in a suddenly sweaty hand. It had initially pricked at him that he would not be at the front of the formation with King Achilleas and Captain Krysto—he was too inexperienced, he would not have his skills tested in a way that would compromise their unit. He did, however, fall right behind, and should the first line crumble, he would be next. Now, as they formed into the phalanx, he was secretly glad he had not been put in the front. He was ready to fight, but he was not quite ready to die.

Helmet pulled down over his head, Ionas hefted his spear and shield, swallowing hard as he watched the Egyptian contingent advance. Gods, but there were so many of them, and even with the strength of the Grecian formation, could they truly hope to hold? No, this was no time for doubt. The king was a seasoned warrior, as was the captain. They had weathered the last Egyptian war, and they would lead them to victory in this one. There was no other option.

The Egyptian forces advanced, and then there was no time left to think. Battle cries abounded as the men poured forward, Ionas raising his shield with the others at the first rain of arrows. His arm did not falter as his shield bore the brunt of half a dozen arrows, his heart picking up speed. He did not flinch, he did not waver, not even at the screams of the men in front of him whose shields did not quite hold up to the task. Though he would never forget those bloodcurdling sounds, he had to hold strong. If their formation collapsed, they had to be ready. This was no time for distraction.

The men kept coming and all Ionas could do was react, trusting that his training would be enough for him to parry in the way he needed to stay alive. Thrust with the spear, block with the shield. Thrust with the spear, block with the shield. Raise his shield and come together as another sleuth of arrows fell on them all. Tighten formation, form a wall. Thrust and block.

How long will this go on? he thought as he thrust again, sweat dripping from dark curls to fall in his eyes. Blinking the sudden sting from his gaze, Ionas hissed, his shield faltering just enough for an arrow to fall through and graze the unarmored portion of his upper arm. As blood welled and dripped from the wound, he knew he couldn’t stop, and he was grateful in that moment that the pain hadn’t quite seemed to catch up. Keep going, he thought, grunting as he moved his shield back into place. He couldn’t stop now, not before he even had the chance to draw his blade. He had to keep going.

As Sutekh’s brother-in-law gave the command to attack the Greeks, he wasn’t sure what to think. Even though the Pharaoh’s words were supposed to be riveting as they thundered across the sands, informing the soldiers that the moment that they had been preparing for had finally come, Sutekh couldn’t help, but feel a twinge of fear course through him at the man’s words. This was it. The moment had finally come. Ia was turning the men loose onto the battlefield and he was sentencing Sutekh to his death. The boy had long ago accepted the fact that he was going to die on the battlefield even though it was a difficult thing to come to terms with. His impending death always seemed like some far off event that would never truly come, but now Sutekh could see that it was here. He was not going to see another sunrise. He was not even going to see the evening sunset when the fighting was over. Sutekh was going to die today.

This may have been a truth that had been haunting Sutekh from the first moment that Iahotep had told the boy he was giving his newfound brother-in-law the honor of being a Deputy General, but it didn’t feel real until the Pharaoh gave his orders and then turned to the Bastard Prince. Sutekh swallowed nervously, trying to not let the natural fear that came with the understanding that he was mere minutes away from a painful death consume him, as Ia laid down one final edict. “Leave the arrows.” The statement was bone chillingly cold as Iahotep finally brought the hidden death warrant out into the open air. It might not have been common knowledge for all the men present, but Sutekh’s specialty was archery and charioteering. He was not nearly as skilled with the khopesh as the others and sending him out onto the field without the proper weaponry that he had actually been trained with was bound to ensure that Sutekh would not fare well in the fray that was about to unfold. All of his military skill depended on archery. This was how Iahotep was going to kill him. He was going to keep Sutekh away from the weaponry that he needed.

His eyes darted over to General Oso in a silent plea for help. The man knew that Sutekh was absolute shit with the khopesh, but there was truthfully very little that the other man could do when the Pharaoh had clearly told Sutekh to drop the arrows where he stood. It was a direct order from the king of kings and it was not to be disobeyed. So, Sutekh had no choice but to listen as she shrugged the quiver off of his back and dropped it into the sand. His face twisted into a stony glare, but his eyes were pointed down to the ground. As much as Sutekh was afraid of dying in a horrible way for the mere crime of being the son of the last Pharaoh, he was more incensed by the sheer injustice of it all. His birth and relation to the crown were not his own doing. Yet, he was about to die in a terrible, painful way without a scrap of honor to his name because it was more convenient to the man before him for Sutekh to be dead. There was no other reasoning. Sutekh had not made any sort of move towards the throne. He had made it more than clear that he had no interest in doing so anyway, but just because Imopehatsuma’s blood was in his veins, the pharaoh thought that he was better off dead.

Sutekh knew that it was unlikely, but he hoped that he would get to live another day, just so he could be a bit of a thorn in the Pharaoh’s side. The sheer pettiness of daring to live might make all this shame worth it. Or at least that’s what the Bastard Prince told himself as he took his leave to join the other men on the front line. As a Deputy General, Sutekh had at least the luxury to position himself in such a way that he was unlikely to die in the immediate bloodbath as the Egyptian forces marched forward, making the first move against the outnumbered Greeks. The army moved as one as the deafening noise of both battle cries and loosened arrows rung through the air before even this was drowned out by the gut-wrenching sound of metal upon metal as swords met. The Prince, dressed only in the regalia of a Deputy General and nothing of the royal blood that had condemned him, tried to stay back as much as he could. After all, he knew that there was no way he was going to be able to hold his own with this wretched sword that felt too awkward in his grip, but with the endless push forward, there was little Sutekh do to avoid the conflict that was now unfolding.

Behind his men, he had yet to reach a single greek before the winds began to change. Where they had been still a moment before, they suddenly roared to life all at once. Arrows were knocked off course and Sutekh could hear stray projectile after projectile land near him. He couldn’t see them, of course, due to the sand that had been picked up by the winds. His eyes were screwed shut as the stinging little flecks of grit battered his skin. Any half-hearted awkward swings from the Prince was brought to a halt as he stumbled backward, every instinct in his body telling him to do what he had been taught to from when he was a young boy. Hide. Get out of the sand before it hurts you. But where was there to run or hide on the battlefield? Especially from a storm that the gods themselves had kicked up as there had no been so much as a weak breeze earlier. That was worrying. Of course, perhaps it had been a natural sandstorm, but what were the odds of that happening? And why would the gods blind the Egyptians like this? Were they not on their side?

If they weren’t what on earth could that mean for the battle?

Lifting his arm to shield his eyes, Sutekh dared to peak to see what was happening and the battle was still raging even though no one could see beyond the amber haze that the sand had kicked up. He could see several men already dead on the ground. But were they Greek? Egyptian? Sutekh couldn’t tell. All he did know was that nearby he could see the overturned cart of a charioteer from the Egyptian side that had been knocked off course by the winds. The Bastard Prince could not see the rider, but the horse’s legs were faintly kicking away, signaling that at least the beast was alive. That wasn’t what mattered to him though. Not when it made him realize that the sand storm would block the view of the Pharaoh in regards what was happening on the battlefield. If the storm stayed, Sutekh could make his way to the downed chariot and see if he could find the rider’s bow without having Ia ever know. He could stand a fighting chance in this conflict, but only if there was a bow there. Regardless though, he still had a chance.

So the Bastard Prince sent a quiet prayer of thanks to whatever god had unleashed this chaos onto the battlefield before he began to fight his way through the sand and sea of Egyptian men to the chariot. However, with such a confusing scene unfolding around them, there was a good chance that Sutekh was not going to make it to his goal without something getting in his way -- though it was yet to be seen if that was going to be friend or foe. It would be impossible to tell in the blinding chaos that was this sandstorm.

There was something almost reassuring about the familiarity of this. After weeks of uncertainty, of standing in shoes he was not sure he wanted to fill, there was no need for him to question himself in this. As one, the Taengean men of the phalanx stood and fought. Their ranks had spread to effectively barrier the small gorge that led to the beach they had claimed as their own, and bordered by rocky bluffs each side; the pass made an unforgiving battleground for those Egyptians who were pressed forward by their own men.

For a moment, the men around him shifted, moving to pull back a felled fellow, Achilleas seeing the bloody pulp of his thigh as he was dragged backwards. A blade had bitten above the greaves, and beyond the torn flesh and pooling crimson, he chanced he saw the white of bone. He’d seen worse, but every man injured felt like a personal insult to him, and they were so few already…

He hefted the spear in his hand, and in the scant extra space around him, drew back his arm, launching it toward one of the few men on horseback who kept out of range of the Phalanx and called orders in Coptic that were swallowed in the sounds of battle. The King’s aim was true, and he had time only to take a brief satisfaction in watching the man jerk and fall before he raised his voice to his own.

“Spear!” It was not a request, and his fingers closed around another soon enough and it was back to the tight formation, shoulder to shoulder, holding ground. Until one force or the other called to break, it would go on, and Achilleas did not know that the Egyptians would do that before nightfall. They had to dig in and stand firm against what seemed like swarms of enemy soldiers, cut down just to be replaced by two, three more.

He was not yet tired when a second enemy took to the field of battle. There was no warning, no winds to suggest the threat was present, the sand and dust seeming to rise from beneath their very feet, swept up and around until the sky was nothing but brown. Achilleas had seen sandstorms before, the darkening horizon and the warning to take cover, but here there they had none, the cloud rising around them where they stood. There was a twinge of worry and the unnaturalness of it, but choking sand and dust did not lend itself to speculating.

He felt as much as saw the men around him falter as wind-whipped sand stung their eyes and burned their skin, and with a glance toward Krysto, he called to the Greeks to break for cover. They could not fight if they could not see or breathe. There was a little shelter on the beach - they had the ships that had been pulled from the water, the rock walls of the cliffs and little else. Achilleas spat against a mouthful of dust even as he turned and moved toward where he thought the bluffs would offer some shelter.

It was like stumbling around in the dark, the eerie half-light where dust blocked the sun and Achilleas did not know who it was at his back, hurrying him forward. His arm was drawn up across his face, trying to shield his eyes as they ran for some sort of cover. Sand blasted from all directions, sharp and stinging, and the air was heavy with dust, choking.

He did know that they almost walked straight into an Egyptian soldier, wrapping his face to cover his mouth and nose as they should be doing too. But the act of protecting himself from the storm cost him in other ways when the blade of a hoplite’s sword plunged into his abdomen, and he fell, hands clutching at spreading blood as the cloth fluttered forgotten around his face.

Coughing and eyes streaming, Achilleas found himself shoved forward into the shadow of the rocks, and he sank down, pressed himself as close to the stone as he could, swiping at his eyes even as he reached blindly for the man who’d had his back, the ‘thank you’ half-whispered, half- wheezed.

Akhem rushed into battle with an unbridled fervor. Nothing else in life demanded such intense rage as fighting enemy soldiers. The pharaoh demanded Greek blood, and Akhem did not hesitate. He obliged the order gratefully. With the blade in his hands, Akhem spun in a whirlwind of momentum. Every strike pierced the skin. He had never felt more certain of himself than when he killed fellow combatants. It was simply a matter of toughness. The man who won the most fights earned the most respect, honor, and accolades. Although not everyone in Egypt agreed with his behavior, Akhem knew better than to listen to their petty, jealous comments. He thought like a man, which only made him a better warrior. Too many of his comrades backed down after challenging him; Akhem never did.

Akhem had not watched any Greek soldiers die. One of his strikes may have killed a man, but he never lay in wait to watch them fall. He continued, adding to the pile of corpses at their feet. Eventually, just when he finally heard the blood rushing in his ears, they would be called back- honor, respect- as the men who insisted on rules of engagement understand them, anyway. Their kind of respect meant nothing to him. True respect came at the point of a sword, when your choice to spare an opponent required that he had already seen nine men impaled on it.

Now, though, they stood in the thick of it. Iahotep’s exhortations urged Akhem forward. Where he might have restrained himself to claim a better moment, now he let himself act freely. He smiled at the enemy soldiers as he struck, relishing the chance to put fear in their hearts. He felt Sekhmet’s fire burning in his stomach. He exhaled on every thrust and inhaled on every parry. The sword extended his reach, turning him from a man with a body to an instrument of Ra’s will, a cast down by the sun. He served them, and he served the Pharaoh. For every heartbeat, Akhem tried to spill a drop of blood.

Before Akhem could count the number of dead Greeks, the desert winds whipped about them. Akhem thanked Sekhmet for her intervention. Although the choking dust restriction his eyes and nostrils equally, Akhem cared more that the enemy suffered from the effects of the sandstorm. If not for the retreating figures on his own side of the lines, Akhem would have continued incessantly to strike towards the heart of the Greek force. Instead, he admitted defeat against Sekhmet’s breath. She chased them off the battlefield. Akhem wondered what she might have seen that his feeble, mortal eyesigh could not. He took shelter in Osorsen's tent, awaiting a break in the wind to rush out once more.

The sand storm had died off almost as suddenly as it had appeared, but dust still hung thick and heavy in the air, cloying and choking. Achilleas stood up from the hunched position they had adopted against the rock wall and rubbed at his eyes. They burned, felt dry and gritty and his throat felt like he’d inhaled half of the beach.

Easy as it might have been to be discouraged, to feel as if the odds were stacked even further against them, he could not let such thoughts take hold. They needed to regroup, gather the men and resume the fight that had been thrust upon them by the fates. If this were going to be his last stand, he would not have it be cowering against the cliffs to be picked off one by one.

“Reform the Phalanx” he croaked, throat scratchy. “We have to hold the gorge.”

The men were scattered, having taken shelter where they could, but the Taengean soldiers knew their business, and soon enough the King’s orders had been obeyed, and the Greeks had assembled again. Their discipline and organisation was a strength they had to cling too when so outnumbered. If they could keep the battle on their terms, hold off being swarmed by the enemy then perhaps...maybe they stood some chance of lasting out until support arrived.

Whether it be from the Colchians who even now might be crossing the sea or the Taengean units from Judea who should have received word that they were to mobilise against the Egyptians...it didn’t matter who, Achilleas and his small band of soldiers just needed to hold fast. And hold fast they did. Days passed, and the resilience of the Phalanx stood up to the pressure from the seemingly endless flood of Egyptian soldiers. Nights were spent clawing what rest could be had and patching up those wounded so they could get up and do it all again as Apollo brought the sun.

But fatigue was not a thing that could be wished away by will alone, and it crept up on the Taengeans, clung to them and made arms and legs heavy, slowed them until the freshness of their opponents began to tell, and the Phalanx broke apart. What had been men relying upon the men beside them became scattered and free for all.

Achilleas did not falter. He stood amongst his men and cut down those Egyptians that dared to meet him face to face. This was not a dance unknown to the man, and he did not have to think as he met each swing of the deadly curved khopesh. He didn’t count those who fell before him, just wheeled to meet the next, aware of Krysto paces away and the rest of those bold Taengeans, who even now, outnumbered as they were, fought with the grit and passion that commended them to their King.

His own blood pounded in his temples, loud even against the metallic slide of sword against sword, and his skin was splattered it, a gruesome embellishment to the bronze armour long dulled by dust and grime. At some point, a blade had caught him across the knuckles and blood ran over his hand, slippery and making the grip upon his sword treacherous. He couldn’t stop to wipe it clean though, not when the moment one Egyptian fell they were replaced with another, then another. His arms and shoulders burned with the efforts of parrying and blocking, his steps tiring too but it was dogged determination that kept him moving.

This was not what he had wanted, they could not win like this, not hope to stand against the sheer numbers of foes, but for now, they kept coming, and there was not a chance to draw the men back together.

There was a judder that travelled up his arm as he met the swing of an Egyptian blade. Achilleas threw his considerable strength into pushing the khopesh away, ramming the man hard with the edge of his shield before he sliced him open across his middle, a hot stink as there was a spill of rubbery entrails and Achilleas knew this fight was done. He kicked the man away, spinning to find his next opponent before a cry to his left had him turn. Krysto had just buried his axe in an Egyptian, but the Captain’s face was a mess of red and Achilleas’ blood ran cold when he caught wretched sight of the man’s eye.

“Krysto” He’d turned to take a couple of steps toward his friend without thinking, thinking to catch the man before he fell. He managed to set a hand on the other’s shoulder, swallowing back his fear when Krysto turned toward him. “Go back,” he ordered because there was no way the man could fight on, not like that. And then there was a grimness settling over the King that perhaps their fighting was hopeless, that he should try and barter for the lives of the men at least.

But whatever Achilleas might have said to the notion never passed his lips. The hand upon Krysto’s shoulder jolted as the King jerked forward suddenly, staggering into the Captain he’d sought to aid as a grunt of pain left through lips thinned and drawn tight. A momentary flicker of surprise across his face before there was a burst of fire in his shoulder, an explosion of pain that ripped down one arm and saw the king’s sword fall from nerveless fingers. When he let go of Krysto to grope for the source of the pain, it flared again as his fingers met the wooden shaft of an arrow, loosed by one of the Egyptian archers on the cliffs no doubt, the price for his inattention.

He cursed, his breaths coming short and sharp as his hand fell away from the arrow that punched through plate armour, only to stop short in the meat of his shoulder. Not a killing wound, but one that rendered one arm useless and was a crippling blow for the Taengean forces in what already felt a battle shifting toward a despairing end.

“Pull it out” he muttered, unable to bear the idea that he could be so crippled, to leave his men to fight this unwinnable fight without him. “Come on.” But his face was turned ashy beneath the spattered blood, a sheen of sweat across his brow that suggested the pain of such an endeavour might be more than the King could bear. Death or capture was surely all that awaited them now.

But it was Krysto who kept his head about him despite the chaos around them, who drew Achilleas back despite his protests and pointed out that he was useless dead and a prize their enemies did not deserve if caught alive. His words of reason broke through the instinctive want to fight until there was literally nothing left to fight with, and Achilleas followed the man.

The pain in his shoulder was a dull heat now. If he didn’t move his arm, if he didn’t jostle it then it was bearable. But he wondered if it was the shock of it that had his breaths coming a little fast and his feet feeling unsteady under him.

Dimly, he noted that Krysto had wound cloth around his head, covered that gruesome mess of his eye and Achilleas realised he was sitting against one of the crates back by their damaged ships. When had they…

“ What do you intend?” he threw out toward the Captain, squinting a little against the light that seemed too bright somehow. Across the sands, their countrymen fought on, but the fates had seemed to have made up their minds, the vastness of the Egyptian armies rendering the Taengean's efforts fruitless. The truth of that left a bitter taste in Achilleas' mouth, worse than the poppy that he'd refused.

'To get you out of here, however we can.' came his friend’s clipped response, words drawn sharp with what was surely pain. Biting down on the urge to tell Krysto to drink his own poppy, Achilleas wavered a little as the soldier Krysto had summoned fastened his injured arm to his chest with a make-do sling, swallowed back the bile that threatened to rise. His head throbbed in time with his pulse, and he thought he had not drunk enough water. "You should use me to negotiate the men's safety." he said, the words rolling strangely off his tongue and sounding slow and slurred.

They were all running on empty, on battlefire alone. It did not cross his mind that the arrow in his shoulder had carried a special gift from the Pharoah that even now seeped through his veins.

And as the three of them made a somewhat unsteady progress along the edge of shore, hoping that the clamour of battle would mean they went unnoticed, the poison spread further still. Krysto had dragged the Taengean King away from the battle, but had he really saved him?Mayhaps was it already too late.