It seemed the night would never end during the war

with the Sar Trell. Before the appearance of Our Great

Emperor, Dessimbelackis, our legions were thrown

back on the field of battle, again and again. Our sons

and daughters wept blood on the green ground, and

the wagon-drums of the enemy came forth in thunder.

But no stains could hold upon our faith, and it shone

ever fierce, ever defiant. We drew our ranks tall,

overlapped shields polished and bright as the red sun,

and the one among us who was needed, who was

destined to grasp the splashed grip of the First Empire’s

truthful sword, gave his voice and his strength to lead

us in answer to the well-throated rumble of the Sar Trell

warcries, the stone-tremble of their wagon-drums.

Victory was destined, in the forge-lit eyes of He of

the Seven Holy cities, the fever-charge of his will,

and on that day, the Nineteenth in the Month of

Leth-ara in the Year of Arenbal, the Sar Trell army

was broken on the plain south of Yath-Ghatan, and

with their bones was laid the foundation, and with

their skulls the cobbles of Empire’s road . . .

The Dessilan

Vilara

(MT, UK Trade, p.531)