Again, because I’ve been not great at posting these, a reminder that I 500-words in my Spear-Woman Sword & Sorcery world every Saturday over on my Substack.
Yes, that is basically this world’s version of the Oriflamme…
© 2026 – Joel Balkovec, published by Emona Literary Services™
The Pagan lords and kings have had their squabbles, sometimes fighting one another more fiercely than they make war with the beys of Khalaran. But King Wulf, whatever is own ambitions for the Lands East of the Sea, was quick to come to his brother-in-law’s aid, the Axe-King of Blaith and his thanes hurried across the desert, smashing into the pursuing Khalarantine army’s flank with all the force of an avalanche.
The bellowing war-cries of the axe-men of Blaith through the Khalarantines into disarray and they could only clumsily draw up feeble, unsteady ranks. That, in turn, gave the Meroean army a chance to rally around Léon’s banner: a holy thing said to be dyed red in the blood of Meroean heroes, woven with golden thread that blazes like the Sun.
At sunrise, the Khalarantines thought themselves the victors, chasing down their quarry. By sunset, they became the prey – trapped between the two Pagan armies like the jaws of some great beast closing around their throat.
Whatever ranks the Khalarantines had formed are long-shattered. The army has disintegrated into a writhing sea of desperate men. There is no more front or rear lines and the Pagans have drawn around them in a great circle of steel, slowing yet inexorably closing in.
Bayan has found herself facing the Meroeans. Somewhere, lost amid the dust and blood and tumult is King Léon. She has lost sight of him. But the blood-red banner of Mero stands tall above the chaos, turned an even deeper red in the setting sun.
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