The Silver Helms are the mailed fist of the asur heartlands: squadrons of heavy horse in mirror-bright ithilmar, mounted on steeds bred from the proud herds of Ellyrion. Their charge is geometry weaponised — a wedge of lances arriving at full gallop in perfect order, striking a battle-line at its hinge and folding it shut. Armoured like knights yet swift as raiders, they deliver a hammer-blow, rally beyond reach, and deliver it again.
The Helms are where Ulthuan's nobility sends its young to become worthy of their names. Every rider is heir to some hall or harbour, hungry for deeds like those their grandsires hung upon the walls, and their gleaming panoply is as much declaration as protection: the asur are not yet done making heroes. In an age of dwindling musters that shine carries a shadow — each Silver Helm who falls may be a noble line ending in the mud — but no young knight of Ulthuan has ever been persuaded to charge more carefully.
Order of battle
