The streets of Tiazitia were alive with the press and surge of hundreds of bodies as they gathered in the streets to lay eyes upon he who would deliver them to greatness. Men, women and children of every age, and most social backgrounds were gathered here to hear the words of he who had claimed to be their savior.

   There he stood; High Lord Pahki Matsya upon the small second story balcony of one of the city's many taverns. He was fair to behold, with handsome features. His simple white tunic rustled gently over his chain-mail armor in Kosala's afternoon breeze. Upon his left hip, rested a golden scimitar, a weapon that he himself had never learned to use. Upon his right hip, coiled like a serpent waiting to strike was a whip.

   Gathered about the street level of the tavern in a large protective semi-circle was his personal guard, a group of men ominously known as the Whips of Yajur. A small contingent of handpicked men, skilled in the art of fighting. They were completely loyal to their master, and served him fanatically. They helped in keeping the hundreds of cheering spectators back behind the barricade as the High Lord Matsya addressed the masses.

   As the charismatic Matsya raised his open hands outward, the crowd as one suddenly fell silent. He stared out at them all, and each person felt as if he were starring at them directly. His gaze penetrated deep into their souls, and as he spoke, they were filled with a fervor that had each person hanging upon his every word. As he continued to speak, the people began to form up into organized lines and file down the street past where he stood. At the end of the road stood several of his Acolytes near huge baths of water. They baptized each individual, young and old in the name of Yajur, and as they did so, they divided the people up into groups.

   The youngest and most able men were corralled onto large transport wagons headed up by High Lord Matsya's brother, Katchan. A large, physically powerful man, if not a simple one, who was to begin training them for the righteous defense of their god with sword and shield.

   The very young were escorted off by the High Lord's priests to be taught the ways of Yajur, who were questing for those youths with sorcerous potential. The elderly were instructed to return to their homes that they might keep the commerce of the city alive, and await the return of "Yajur's chosen" to lead them to glory.

   There were no tearful "goodbyes" as husbands and wives parted. Nor were there sad farewells between lovers. Children left their parents wordlessly, and none doubted that they would ever see their loved ones again. For all knew that in this life or the next, Yajur would reunite them all, and they would stand triumphantly over their enemies.

   As the large column of wagons departed the city towards High Lord Matsya's Temple-Fortress, a stealthy figure rode his horse hell-bent on reaching the capital in Yota-Pong to inform his master, the king, Lord Ekto Matsya.

   "So, my brother has found his way out of the Land of No Return, and has come home with that simpleton, Katchan, eh?"

   Lord Ekto Matsya was now the ruling power in Kosala these days, and it was whispered that he sat the throne because it pleased the King of Vendhya that he did so. A Vendhyan sympathizer, he was allowed to rule over Kosala because it kept the citizenry from revolting to have one of their own upon the throne, while also serving as a natural buffer between Vendhya and Iranistan.

   "I told you we should have simply killed him, sire." Came Tirup Yajora's reply. Yajora was King Matsya's vizier, and helped him in negotiating terms to sit the throne of Kosala. In return, he was granted stewardship of Yota-Pong, the kingdom's capital and command of its armies.

   "Fool!" came the king's reply. "If we slay him now, we'll only make a martyr of him, and the people will surely rise up against us then." King Ekto Matsya folded his hands behind his back as he stared out the window of the palace. Turning then to face Tirup Yajora, he ordered him to take a regiment of troops and intercept his brother on his march out of the city. Tirup Yajora then turned and gave the same command to Commander Layan Matsya, the king's cousin.

   "I will return your brother to you in an iron cage!" came the general's response. And with that he turned on his heels and exited to complete his charge. As the General left the room with his adjutants, the king could only ponder his current situation.

   "Even with a three-to-one advantage, is my cousin up to the task? What if he doesn't succeed? What then will become of me? Surely my brother will not forget how I exiled him to the Land of No Return."

   The days quickly became weeks, and King Ekto Matsya waited impatiently to hear from his General in the field. "What had happened? Had he succeeded in intercepting my brother? Is he dead? Has my brother slain him?" So many questions raced through his mind, but he was not to get the answers he sought, for at that very moment, miles away, at the Larajan border to Kosala, High Lord Pakhi Matsya was marching at the head of his small army of followers. They were few in number, poorly trained, and ill-equipped for battle, but they marched behind their leader prepared to lay down their lives in the name of their god, Yajur.

   At the head of the column, and all around the High Lord rode his personal guard, the Whips of Yajur. The commanding High Lord informed his adjutant that once they had reached the next hill they would stop and rest for a bit. But, as they rose to the crest of the small earthwork, they were greeted by a sight that caught them completely by surprise, and filled many of them with terror! There before them, arrayed in battle formation stood the Provincial Army of Tiazitia. The fighting men of the 97th! Kosala's first line of defense against potential Iranistani aggression now stood poised to fight an enemy from within. As High Lord Matsya lead his troops over the hill, his brother Katchan dispersed his own men into battle formation. They were fewer in number than that General Yajora's provincial army, but they formed up ready to fight for their master with the same fanatical fervor one would expect from such zealots.

   As the archers on both sides drew back their strings, missiles notched and prepared to fire, High Lord Matsya dismounted his steed, and broke through the ranks of his bowmen in a slow, deliberate walk. As he did so, me motioned for his own men to lower their aim, and relax their weapons. None questioned his silent command, and as his own troops stood back, the right-hand of Yajur methodically took several steps towards General Yajora's front ranks. The Provincial Commander shouted the command, "READY…." He raised his own sword high above his head as he did so; ready to loose his deadly shafts right into the oncoming Pahki Matsya!

   The High Lord of Yajur continued straight on. As he did so he placed his hands out to either side of himself, with his open palms facing the archers to show that he bore no weapons. Several of the bowmen began to grow anxious as he drew ever nearer. What trick could he be up to that he would walk straight into an oncoming volley?

   "AIM…" roared the archery commanders voice. The High Lord began to sweat as his nerves tensed at the sound of the command. Still he walked onward at them. When he came within twenty feet of the archers, he opened his cloak to show that he had no hidden weapons on his person, and nothing sturdier than that of his chain-mail to protect himself. No enchanted weapons, no magical armor. His faith in Yajur would be his only defense.

   He looked across the front rank of archers, trying to make quick eye contact with them all. When he knew that he had their complete attention, he spoke.

   "Soldiers of the 97th." He addressed them. His voice was calm and soothing. Though fear raced through his veins, none could tell. His own men starred wild eyed and bewildered at him, in awe of his actions. "If you wish to kill your King…and Savior, then do so now." The archers began to shift uncomfortably in their places, and look sideways to each other to see who would loose that fatal shaft. None did.

   High Lord Pahki Matsya exhaled a deep breath of relief. He had gained their attention, but he could capture their trust? "FIRE!" came the command. The High Lord flinched, and his body shook for a brief second at the thought of dozens of arrows shredding through him. But none did. No one fired. The archery commander looked to his left and to his right, and watched as several of the bowmen began to lower their weapons.

   Behind Lord Matsya, his younger brother Katchan and several of his captains released their held breath as the sight unfolded before them. Then, from somewhere within the ranks of the 97th, came a shout, "Praise be to Yajur!" Then a flurry of cheers went up, as hundreds of voices cried out as one. The High Lord Matsya smiled, and he turned his head back to look at his captains with a grin of satisfaction for his part in this. They in turn smiled back at him and laughed with the most sincere relief over the event's outcome. Several of the soldiers broke from their ranks, and ran towards him, many kneeled before him, while others simply wished to touch his cloak, or lay a hand upon his shoulder or on his back. Some took his hand and kissed his ring, while still many more merely got caught up in the moment of jubilation and raised their swords high into the air.

   Several of the men grabbed the archery commander, and pulled him forcibly from his horse, and cast him into the dust of the dirt road. Slowly, the High Lord made his way passed the men, and he approached the terrified commander. He was shocked but not disappointed to see the archery commander was his own cousin, Layan. "This man has the forgiveness of Yajur, for surely he will not get it from his king." He said. Tearfully, the commander clutched at the hem of Matsya's tunic, and kissed his boots. He thanked him, and swore fealty to him.

   The High Lord helped him to his feet and then continued on. The men at this point began to form into tightly packed ranks at either side of the road, and gave the High Lord a clear path to the place where General Yajora sat atop his finest horse. All grew quiet as Matsya made his way past the ranks of men standing at attention. Their eyes remained fixed upon him as he made his way towards the King's general.

   General Yajora stared down at him from his horse. The two locked eyes for a brief moment, and then the general drew his long curved saber from its sheathe. The troops became alarmed at this, and many were ready to intercept the blade should it make its way towards their "savior". The High Lord Matsya looked up at him. He neither shirked, nor raised a hand to defend himself. General Yajora lifted his saber, and then tossed it to the ground with a clang to land at Matsya's feet. The high lord shifted his gaze down at the blade before him, and then back up at the saddled general; never moving his head, just lifting his powerful gaze upon him.

   Unnoticed, an officer broke ranks to retrieve the sword and stand rigidly before Matsya to deliver it to him. The High Lord took the sword in his hands, and approached the general. He caressed the length of the blade with his palm. The General felt his life pass before his eyes, as he knew that Pahki Matsya would remember his part in helping his brother seize the crown as well as exile him to the Land of No Return. As the high lord approached him, he then took the sword by its point, and resting it over his bent arm with the hilt facing towards the general he spoke the words, "Follow me to Yota-Pong."

   The general took the sword and held it to his breast over his heart. He nodded once, and then sheathed his blade. "As you command, sire. Where you go…I will follow." The combined ranks of both armies lifted their voices in a roaring cheer that could be heard across the plains from the border of Larajan to the far eastern border of Tiazitia.