Chapter-3-3

⁠—⁠—⁠— III ⁠—⁠—⁠—

The general’s pavilion was shrouded in sleep. Even the last orange torchlight spilling out through the cracks between its woven panels had been extinguished.

Around the camp, the knights who were not on watch curled up beside their bedded-down horses and rolled their bodies in their thick blankets until they looked like giant larvae on the sand trying to wrap themselves in sleep’s elusive web. The blankets they used were actually the same ones which the knights placed beneath their saddles to ease the jarring ride across the desert—and which, when each stage of the journey was over, they employed for all manner of camp purposes, as bedding, cover, or even impromptu dining tables.

From afar, the Mongauli host looked like nothing so much as a giant mushroom that had suddenly sprung up in the middle of the dark, featureless Nospherus landscape. From that mushroom, sentries had gone out like tiny spores into the night. Bearing spears and wearing faintly gleaming helmets, their long cloaks fluttering behind them, blue, red, black and white silhouettes had stood in the dark.

Now the bluish purple of the predawn sky stretched above their heads. It was a startlingly gentle and beautiful hue for such a forsaken place, so far into the Marches. Yet few looked up to appreciate it. When a soldier did look up, it was to curse the lingering gloom. Most of them watched the horizon, praying for day to come soon and protect them from the threat of the Sem who they imagined were lurking in every shadow, and around every boulder.

One of the patrolmen stopped suddenly, and raised his spear. “Who goes there?” he demanded in a low voice. “Ah, I beg your pardon, lord captain,” he stammered a moment later, quickly lowering his weapon as the young Astrias, a captain of the red, appeared from behind a rocky outcropping.

“Good work. Keep up your watch,” said the dashing noble. It seemed he did not need rest, for he had been away from his horse and crude bedroll, pacing the perimeter of the camp, breathing in the clear air of the day’s beginning.

Even in full armor, the captain cut a slender figure against the sky. He placed his hands at his waist and drew himself up to his full height to look out over the horizon. His handsome profile was smudged by a day’s growth of beard that made him look somehow wiser.

“What a woman! And still only eighteen,” whispered Astrias to the dawning sky. He had taken off his plumed helm, and there was a dreamlike expression on his face, almost as though… no, it was unmistakable, he was in love.

“Sorry, Captain? Do you have an order for me, sir?”

“Ah, no, it is nothing,” Astrias replied, glancing over at where the attentive sentry stood. He could feel the color rising to his cheeks, and he thanked the lingering gloom that it could not be seen.

The sentry stared at the young captain, the Red Lion of Gohra, beloved of all the troops. Fearing that he would break his captain’s reverie, he waited silently, eyes cast downward, only occasionally stealing glances up at Astrias. Finally, he made up his mind to speak, and managed a few nervous words.

“Lord Captain.”

“What is it?”

“Might I… Might I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“It is…” the soldier faltered. The captain knew what he wanted to ask but remained silent, looking out at the horizon, waiting for the soldier to finish. “It is concerning our destination.” Now that he had begun to talk, the man relaxed, and feeling that he must ask now or never, he continued on. “There is a rumor among the troops, sir. They say that the Lady of Mongaul plans for us to conquer all of Nospherus, and that we may be here for a very long time. They fear that many of us will never make the journey home, not in this lifetime.”

“And if it is so, do you not believe that as a soldier of Mongaul there can be no greater honor than to be part of such a grand undertaking? What is better than to have your bones buried to form a foundation for Mongauli glory in a foreign land?” Astrias' response was quick, and imperious—but then he relented and spoke more softly. “These rumors, are they widespread?” he asked, taking a step towards the soldier.

“Ah—”

“Do not fear me. Take off your helmet and speak clearly.”

Fear raced through the sentry’s mind that perhaps the captain wanted to remember the face of the one who had complained. But when he saw the friendly twinkle in the young captain’s round, black eyes, he relaxed and removed his black helmet, holding it over his right breast in the formal salute of Mongaul. The soldier was hardly different in age from Astrias. But he was a footman, not assigned to any troop of knights; he was rather a conscript for the Marches patrol, probably the son of some borderland farmer. Mongaul had a levy which required all youths to join one of the patrols for a minimum of three years upon turning eighteen.

This soldier’s sunburned face was soft and unrefined, a peasant’s face. Astrias decided to be gentle to this one. “What our commander fears most is inaccurate information spreading unnecessary fears among the ranks. Tell me your name, soldier, and where you hail from.”

“Marrel, sir. I am from the village of Luet in the county of Boa. I serve at Talos Keep.”

“Well, Marrel, there will be an announcement to the troops soon, so I might as well tell you now. We are headed for a valley near the middle of Nospherus, a place called Gur Nuu.”

“Sir!” said the astonished Marrel. “You mean we are not here to beat back the Sem tribes?”

“No. Or rather, that is not the most important objective,” replied Astrias. “Punishing the Sem is still part of our mission. And I feel it likely that we will have at least one large battle with the Sem on our way to the Nospherus interior. But our final destination remains Gur Nuu. We will go to that valley and there build a fortress to claim the land as Mongauli territory. It will be our new stronghold in this region, to replace the fallen Stafolos.”

“Gah! Sir, ay’ cunna—” began the young soldier, the regional accent of Boa coming through in his shock. “That idea’s crazier ’an Doal’s frothin’ horse, sir! I beg your pardon, but…” He looked up at Astrias' face, worried that he had offended the captain. Astrias' lips were curled in a sneer at the way he had said “frothing horse,” making it sound like a single word: “frothinorse.” Fearfully the man spoke on, trying to keep his accent in check. “Should that fortress be built, sir, we’d have to man it, wouldn’t we? We’d be stuck in a fortress in the middle of nowhere, wasting our days fending off the Sem!”

“We are not even sure we will make it to Gur Nuu yet,” snapped Astrias, losing his temper. “And who are you, a lowly foot soldier, to question the decisions of the Golden Scorpion Palace?” He glared at the quaking soldier briefly, then his face softened again. “Do not worry, Marrel. It is not we who will be stationed there. Why, we have not even brought an engineering corps with us. Should we find this valley, we would leave a small force there and hurry back to Alvon, from which a garrison force would then escort the castle-builders and supply caravans to Gur Nuu. Our duty, rather, is to drive out the Sem that stand in our way, and to find the location of this valley. Do not worry, you will be back in Alvon soon.”

Marrel nodded, but he looked no less anxious. It was an understandable anxiety, for the worst fear shared by all the levied peasant-soldiers was that they would be sent to man a keep in some remote and hostile place where they would die during their service. Unlike the professional soldiers, the levied men had fields in need of tending waiting for them at home, and needy families as well. A posting to a place like Talos Keep, right on the River Kes, gave them cause to lament their ill fortune. But such an assignment was nothing compared to the prospect of being sent to man the ramparts of a castle deep in the heart of Nospherus and overlooking that terrifying wasteland.

But Astrias did not have time to concern himself with the despair of a mere foot soldier. The captain was still young, and filled with ambition. His commander, a woman two years his junior, was no other than the beautiful Amnelis. For the Red Lion, leaving the safety of Mongauli territory and heading deep into the wastelands of Nospherus was not a challenge that provoked despair, despite his uncertainty as to what lay ahead and his knowledge of many dangers that did threaten. His greatest concern was to find an opportunity to win the grand victory that would enhance his reputation throughout the three archduchies and bring recognition—admiration, even—from that young lady-general with the golden hair.

Even this barren wasteland, the domain of the Sem and all manner of horrendous creatures, appeared to Astrias' youthful heart a fertile field with precious stones hidden in its soil. He soon forgot the worried Marrel, and slipped back into his earlier reverie. At the center of his thoughts, shining with a bright incandescence, was the cold and beautiful face of the lady Amnelis. This morning was not the first time he had met her. Being of the noble class of Mongaul, he had had occasion to bask in her presence quite often for one who was not a member of the white knights.

At the great parties in the palace, she would always appear to tremendous fanfare and applause, wrapped in jeweled satin and silk almost too dazzling to look upon. Leading her sickly brother Mial by her left hand she would stand on the balcony and bow gracefully to the assembled lords and ladies, and then withdraw. In the palace, she was like a moon goddess appearing in her radiant beauty one moment, only to disappear behind clouds the next. She was both extraordinarily beautiful and impossibly distant.

But here, Astrias thought, here in Nospherus, the radiant Aeris has come down to earth. She was there, sleeping in that pavilion, which stood so close that he could have hit it with a stone. That stern, beautiful white face surely wandered in a maiden’s sleep that none was permitted to disturb, her lips parted slightly, letting her sweet breath escape—beneath the blankets her bosom gently rising and falling. Asleep, she was just a fair girl of eighteen, nothing more. As soon as the order to march was given, however, she would place her helm on her head, hide her beauty behind an ornamented hood and cloak, and ride at the head of the troops atop her horse, a general once more.

Stronger than any man, braver than any warrior, more beautiful than any goddess…

Yet when Astrias had come to her on his knees with the report of his utter defeat and looked up at her, his eyes full of shame, the young lady-general of Mongaul had returned a glare that held not one shadow of charity, not a touch of softness.

How pitiful she must have thought me, to return routed by the Sem, escaping while my men died around me. How untrustworthy, how worthless a soldier I must be in her eyes! There was little chance she had noticed how he admired her beauty, or how deeply shocked and humiliated he was at his defeat. Yet Astrias, there in the harsh beauty of the Nospherus morning, could think of nothing but her.

May I protect her! What a burden for a maiden to bear—for she is destined to rule the entire Middle Country as the Empress of Mongaul one day… But no, she is more than a maiden. She is the avatar of Irana War-Goddess! Where, oh where in that slender form does she hide the courage and the strength to lead an army of fifteen thousand men on a march across the wilds of Nospherus? I must be her protector, even if it means my life! I would not have one strand of golden hair from that beautiful head come to harm at the hands of a filthy barbarian warrior. No matter what happens, I shall guard her, and return her safely back to Torus!

It did not occur to Astrias that if he truly managed to save the lady-general in such a manner, he might impress her enough to be put in the seat at her left, one day to succeed the archduke himself. Too young and too pure a warrior to consider such a scheme, it was with honor and innocence that Astrias turned wistful eyes to the lady-general’s pavilion.

Neither did his thoughts linger on Cal Moru, the fearful and strange spellcaster who had come through the Valley of Death and now shared her pavilion; nor did he dwell on the grand and fearsome plans that Cal Moru’s information had inspired the Golden Scorpion Palace to devise, and what that meant for the brave Mongauli warriors camped around him. All Astrias could see was Amnelis, and himself protecting her wherever she might lead them, fighting alongside her in battle, guarding her with his sworn blade.

“Eh?” Astrias lifted his eyes. “Someone plays the rigolo.”

The rigolo was the most popular wind instrument in Mongaul, a simple flute made of a length of bamboo.

“Yes, Captain Astrias,” answered Marrel of Luet. But Astrias had spoken to himself, entirely having forgotten in his daydreaming that he was not alone.

Some knight with a touch of romance in his heart had carried the instrument with him from Mongaul, thinking to calm the camp and relieve the tedium of the watch from time to time. The simple tune floated through the camp of fifteen thousand unquiet souls, ringing in the deep quiet of the Nospherus dawn.

Astrias' first impulse was to find the player and say something to him about the proper behavior of a soldier camped in enemy territory. He thought better of it, and stood silently listening to that melody from home. For Astrias, however, it was still too early to think of returning. He was too young to be yearning for peace, and the three years he had spent on the Marches in Alvon were fresher in his mind, and more exciting, than his dimming memories of life back in Torus.

Instead, he thought of Amnelis.

“The day is dawning,” he said at last, pulling himself out of his reverie and looking around at the brightening horizon.

Over the course of the journey into Nospherus, little had changed in the seemingly endless plain of rock and lichen on either side of the marching army. The dry landscape was dotted with an occasional desiccated bush but otherwise stretched flat and featureless far in all directions. Still, the gray land had a strange, severe kind of beauty to it that touched the hearts of the men who were awake at that moment. It was a kind of beauty that went well with the humble melody of the rigolo.

Hmm?

Astrias wrinkled his brow. For a moment he thought he had seen something moving out in the distance. He watched carefully for a while, but nothing else moved and so he decided that he had been tricked by the morning light. All he could see was gently sloping rock and sand, as lifeless as ever.

“Say—” began Astrias, thinking to ask Marrel whether he had seen anything. He broke off when he saw that tears were streaming down the conscript’s face. The song the rigolo played was a lullaby from the region of Boa.

Boa lay far from the Marches. It was a warm lowland, a basin with some of the most fertile farmland in all of Mongaul, warm enough to grow fruits in great quantities. How hard it must be on a youth from a verdant land such as that, the captain thought, to spend years in the Marches at Talos Keep, then to cross the black Kes into this wasteland. Feeling he should try to comfort him, but not knowing how, Astrias turned and walked away.

Hmm…

The sound of the rigolo had stopped mid-tune, as though cut off by some invisible hand. The wind, too, had died. The air was dead still, and despite the fifteen thousand troops there, the loneliness of the place became almost unbearable, pressing on the captain’s ears with its horrible silence.

Astrias, seeing Marrel peering about, suddenly felt unsure of what to do. He noticed that the sun had risen completely, but this only made him feel horribly exposed as he stood there on the edge of camp.

Marrel didn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. He turned to look for the rigolo player, perhaps to urge him to keep playing. His face was innocent as a child’s. Astrias had a sudden, inexplicable urge to call out to him, to tell him to put on his helmet, but before he could act on it he heard the sharp whistling noise of something cutting through the air.

From Marrel’s throat came a sound like the whistle of a flute. Astrias started. One minute the youth was standing, looking around for the rigolo player, and the next moment he was spinning his arms wildly, staggering in a circle. Then he fell headlong on the ash-gray Nospherus sand.

It all happened so fast that Astrias' mind could not comprehend what he saw. He stood for an instant staring stupidly at Marrel, who was falling with his eyes wide open, a short black feathered arrow in his neck.

Then the captain threw himself on the ground, narrowly dodging the next arrow that came flying, it seemed, out of nowhere. Where he had been standing just moments before, black feathers bristled on the ground like quills on the back of a hedgehog.

Rolling on one side, he drew his sword. There was no time to put on his helmet. He knew all too well the deadly poison that coated those arrows. Swinging his sword in a waterwheel pattern with the blinding speed of desperation, he knocked aside a storm of arrows, which clattered lightly off his blade.

Even as he did so, he ran, doubled over, back toward the center of the camp.

Then he froze. Around him the ashen sand was bubbling and rising!

No. It was not the ground that was moving, it was a troop of small hairy wildlings, looking ever so much like crazed monkeys. Garbed in tunics coated in birdlime and rubbed with sand, the Sem had spread a net of camouflage on the sandy ground and used it to approach within arrow range. Now they were throwing off the net.

The land split open before Astrias’ eyes and its furry guts spilled upward. In an instant, the white and gray desert under that clear blue sky was filled with faces painted red and blue, vicious bared teeth, brown and black mottled fur, and the foul smell of a force of screaming wildlings.

“Aiii! Iiiya iiiya iiiya!”

Astrias stared in dismay, but he recovered quickly from the shock. Again he began to run, shouting, “The Sem! The Sem are attacking! To arms! To arms!” He was in the midst of a sea of furred warriors.

Above the screeching of the wildlings he heard the bronze gong calling the camp to battle and the battle cries of the Mongauli soldiers. The camp was answering the Sem challenge.

A furious battle was underway all around him.

He shouted wildly, for he now realized that the Sem had not attacked from one direction only, but from all sides. They were surrounded.