Chapter-3-4

⁠—⁠—⁠— IV ⁠—⁠—⁠—

Of course, not enough Sem had come spilling out of the ground to actually surround the entire Mongauli army. Yet, to the surprised eyes of Astrias and the sleepy eyes of the march-weary troops, the wildlings seemed like a multitude, a swarm of twenty thousand or more boiling out of the ground on all sides. The men scrambled for their weapons, their hearts filled with fear.

Had any of the Mongauli soldiers had the presence of mind to look around with clear eyes, he would have realized that the human forces were superior in both numbers and equipment. Moreover, it was now fully light, and there were no rocks or bushes behind which to hide, a less than ideal situation for their attackers. But it was precisely because all these factors weighed so heavily in favor of the Mongauli that they had not expected this stealthy assault.

In keeping with their knowledge of the Sem’s simple tactics, the Mongauli commanders had expected a different sort of attack, and preparations had been made accordingly. What the men feared most was a night assault in an open camp; that was why they had risked the dangers of a night march in Nospherus and only allowed the troops to rest once the sky began to brighten around them. Even a night passage through the wastes had seemed less perilous than a Sem night attack, in which the wildlings might have crept up to the commanders’ very tents unobserved.

But now the day had dawned, and the sentries were watching in all directions. The Mongauli were superior in numbers, weapons, and sheer physical size compared to their enemies. The last thing the human army had expected was a daring assault in broad daylight. This overconfidence was the only chink in their armor, and through it the Sem had struck.

As part of their strategy, the Sem had made an effort to give the impression that they were coming from many different directions. All the wildling warriors had adorned themselves with bright warpaints and feathers to make themselves look larger and more numerous than they actually were. There was also a group of Sem who had slipped into a hidden hollow not far from camp, from which they beat on drums and blew war-pipes, and screamed shrill war cries as they set fire to bundles of smokegrass they had brought with them, sending thick yellow smoke rolling through the camp.

In moments, the smoke drew a noxious yellow veil across the sun, plunging the camp into an eerie twilight. The Mongauli warriors coughed and choked on the fumes as they ran about in confusion, grasping at their swords, slamming into each other by accident, and sending up cries of fear.

Many of the soldiers who had been sleeping when the attack began were tangled in their bedding, falling and tripping others who ran past them. A band of Sem warriors added to the confusion by rushing to where the horses were tethered and using their pointed stone axes to cut the horses’ flanks and sides, sending them whinnying and biting madly through the middle of the camp or bolting in fear in every direction. The thick yellow smoke, the galloping, whinnying horses, the beating drums, the screams of the soldiers, and the shouting of the captains giving orders all added to the chaos.

“Quiet! Quiet!”

“The Sem are attacking!”

“Grab your swords! Where are those bowmen? And the horses! Somebody grab the horses!”

Above it all the war cries of the Sem rang out. Madness reigned like a demon god.

The Sem invaders had bows, but they were already inside the camp, For the Mongauli crossbowmen to meet them with their hails of stone would have placed their comrades in a crossfire. Yet, having heard a captain’s wild shouts for them, the soldiers faithfully followed their orders, sending lethal shots streaking through the clouds of yellow smoke at their tiny furry targets. Some shots flew true, but the vast majority went wide, denting Mongauli armor or punishing the flanks of horses. Soon a great number of the cavalry’s steeds were racing uncontrolled among the milling soldiers or, their legs wounded, rolling and flailing among the tents. The Mongauli camp was sent spinning further out of control.

“Hold your shot! Put down your bows!” shouted Astrias, his voice already hoarse from yelling. “Meet them with swords!” The young captain ran through the haze, which had grown so thick that it had become difficult to tell friend from foe. His ears were full of the screams and clangor of battle and he struck out for all he was worth, cutting anything small and brown that got in his way. Already, his red armor was painted redder still with Sem blood. “Keep your wits about you! Throw down your bows, throw them down! Don’t spread out, keep to one place and fight in clusters! Somebody calm those horses!” As he shouted, he ran toward the general’s pavilion, one thought filling his mind. He must protect Amnelis!

Cutting down Sem left and right, he searched for the pavilion. The enemy had closed in on the camp, no doubt to prevent the Mongauli from using their powerful crossbows. But the maneuver also prevented the Sem from using their deadly poison arrows effectively. Instead, they wielded the stone axes that they carried at their waists; screaming in their high-pitched voices, they leapt through the air, splitting Mongauli soldiers’ heads or swinging at their vulnerable knees.

The Sem attacked with great speed, but Astrias knew them to be reckless in battle, and he felt himself in little danger. As long as he was wary that no Sem circled around him to attack from behind, and as long as he kept his beloved sword away from the stone axes’ shattering blows, he had little to fear. The small size of the Sem made it a simple matter for him to ward off their attacks.

When one Sem, his furry face painted an unsettling hue of scarlet, came leaping high with a howl and swung his wickedly sharp stone axe at Astrias' head, the captain nimbly stepped aside and brought down his blade with a chopping cut that split the Sem clean in two. Astrias jumped back neatly to avoid the spray of blood and brains. Dodging a puff of smoke, he turned back to look at the pavilion, then wiped his eyes and blinked.

The pavilion seemed unnaturally quiet. It was as if the lady-general were still sleeping inside, entirely unaware of the chaos raging all around, so calm did the great tent seem. Yet it was the brain of the Mongauli army, and the army was beginning to think once more.

The soldiers around the perimeter of the camp bore the brunt of the attack. Footmen, bowmen, and knights alike were caught unawares. None had the time to organize or to catch and control the bolting horses before the Sem were among them and everything was a chaotic mess of swords, cries, and battle. However, the interior of the camp had had time to listen to their captains’ orders, and lines of defense had been formed swiftly with the lady-general’s pavilion at their center.

Here at the heart of the camp, the Mongauli commanders had taken time to survey the situation and plan a course of action.

“Stay calm! Lower your faceplates!”

“We outnumber them! Watch their movements!”

“For Mongaul!”

The orders flew down the ranks, and finally, the knights began to act like the trained elites they were. They could see now that the only serious fighting with the enemy was confined to a shallow ring around the camp perimeter. Only a few groups of Sem had infiltrated the camp itself.

“They are few! The drums and smoke are a ruse!”

Messengers ran back and forth, carrying orders from the command center down to every squad captain. If one had looked down upon the wastes from high above, they would have seen the giant four-colored flower slowly bloom as the ranks formed and began to move in an organized fashion against their attackers.

“Leegan Corps, forward!”

“Irrim Corps, to the rear!”

“Tangard Corps, guard the left flank!”

“All white knights, surround the general’s flag!”

Ensigns brought commands to the divisions whose color flag they bore, and as the orders were executed, the petals of the flower opened—the blue, black, and red all moving out in formation while the white gathered toward the center, a brilliant pistil in the center of a blossom that unfurled its furious petals in the wasteland.

The Sem scurried about like insects buzzing around that giant flower. But the knights had soon gotten most of the horses under control, and now the wildlings faced mounted opposition. Furthermore, the yellow smoke that had concealed their numbers at the opening of the battle was now mostly gone, blown away by the morning breeze. They had lost most of the advantage gained by their sneak attack, and now the tables were clearly turned against them.

“Irrim Corps, advance beyond the footmen!”

“Marus Corps, send your First Troop out into the desert! Find the wildlings making that smoke, and deal with them!”

“Feldrik, Lindrot, and Vlon, form ranks by the tent and await your orders.”

The messengers moved through the troops efficiently, a spider web of guidance. All could see that the battle had turned. The Sem were divided by thrusts from the knights in formation, and they were being cut down one by one. Without the advantage of surprise, the small, poorly armed wildlings were no match for the elite riders of Mongaul.

By now, the soldiers were taking turns on the front lines, fresh men relieving their wearied comrades. Astrias, who had been surrounded by the fighting since the very beginning, now lowered his sword and traded places with another. Wiping the dripping blood off his blade, he strode back toward his own men. Since they had been positioned toward the middle of the camp, they were largely unharmed by the sneak attack.

“Lord Captain! Are you injured?” Astrias' lieutenant, Pollak, came running from among the ranks of red knights. “You look—you look like you’ve killed your share of monkeys, sir,” said Pollak, his face easing into a grin.

“You expected different?” asked Astrias, returning his smile. “Monkey see…” he brandished his bloodied sword, “monkey die.” He handed off his blade to a page and approached Pollak. “As you can see, I’ve not a scratch. Any wounded or dead among our corps?”

“Not a one,” Pollak reported. “The men are disappointed that none of the enemy made it in this far. Ah, there was one injury, actually.”

“Who?”

“Rilo, sir. He sprained his left arm trying to mount his horse. Got out the wrong side of his bed this morning.”

“The fool!” exclaimed Astrias, laughing aloud.

“We were most worried about you, sir,” Pollak admitted. He had been Astrias' right hand since they left Torus, and none knew the young captain better. “We called the rolls, and you were the only one missing.”

“Can’t a man take a morning stroll when he pleases anymore?” asked Astrias, sticking out his unshaven face in mock anger. The knights of the red around him laughed.

“Not if it means leaving your men and hoarding all the battle to yourself!” Pollak countered, smiling.

“There was no battle today, we were just playing with some monkeys. Pity about that Marrel…” he added with a frown, recalling the ruddy-cheeked footman of the Marches patrol who had listened to the tune of the rigolo with tears in his eyes.

“You should take a lesson from this,” Pollak jested. “Next time you feel moved to take a stroll, bring a bodyguard.”

Astrias was about to counter with a jibe of his own when a messenger with a white tassel hanging off his shoulder rode up and hailed him.

“Orders from the general. All captains are to give a report at once on the numbers of wounded, dead, and horses lost.”

“Understood,” responded Pollak on his captain’s behalf, bowing to the messenger. “Lord Captain, it appears the first skirmish is over.”

“Right. We have one wounded, then, and—what of our horses?”

“Margot’s horse hurt its leg, but it is nothing serious. Nothing else.”

“And the Sem, they have retreated?” Astrias asked. He stepped onto a boulder to peer toward the front, then nodded, satisfied. “Hmm, it seems so. I am afraid we did not kill all of them, though.”

Throughout the camp the fighting had ceased. The Sem had pulled back with the same surprising speed with which they had attacked. Around the camp’s perimeter the ground was strewn with dead Sem and the unlucky Mongauli who had been hit by poison arrows or had their heads split by stone axe-blades. They lay where they had fallen. The injured were being brought to a field hospital set up near the middle of camp.

“It’s odd,” muttered Pollak suddenly as he looked around at the aftermath of the battle.

“What’s odd, Pollak?”

“This attack. Don’t you find it unusually reckless? I don’t see the point.”

“I do not, either. But I fear you may be overestimating the minds of these monkey wildlings.”

“That may be. Still—”

“They don’t think as you and I do, friend. Like a sandworm, they strike by instinct at any enemy they come across. They are barbarians, nothing more.”

“That is true, sir, but still it is strange to me.” Pollak shook his head, a look of suspicion lingering on his face. Astrias laughed and asked him again what was strange about violent barbarians causing violence. But the young captain did not wait for the answer, for just then the flaps of the pavilion opened with a crisp snap, and the lady Amnelis showed herself outside for the first time since the attack began.

Because the pavilion had been erected on a slight rise, the general was visible from every part of the camp. Many gazed at her, for she was like a brilliant star on the morning horizon. The color rose to Astrias' cheeks, and he stared in awe at the vision of beauty.

Amnelis had equipped herself in full battle dress. She wore her white plate armor, high boots, and white fur cloak, above which her hair flowed freely like a shining waterfall of gold. The Nospherus sun shone down on her fair, noble face, and she lifted her left hand to shade her eyes. Standing there before the pavilion, the sunlight reflecting off her armor and hair, she had all the timeless beauty of a great painter’s masterwork.

’What am I doing here? I must go report,” said Astrias, his voice deep in his throat. He set out briskly toward his general as though drawn on a string. Pollak stayed behind, watching him go.

The other captains were already lined up before the pavilion and were beginning to give their reports.

“Irrim Corps. Dead: eight knights, thirty-four footmen. Wounded: two knights, eight footmen.”

“Leegan Corps. None dead, none wounded.”

Considering the amount of chaos following the surprise attack, the Mongauli losses were relatively light. Behind Amnelis, who stood with her hands on her hips listening to each captain’s report in turn, a scribe furiously took down the numbers on a scroll of parchment.

“Astrias Corps. None dead, one light injury.” When he had finished his report, Astrias stepped back and moved a little to one side, keeping his eyes fixed on Amnelis all the while.

While the reports continued, the Sem dead were counted. Two squads of Count Marus’ knights that had been giving light chase to the fleeing Sem returned, having received strict orders not to follow the wildlings too deeply into the wilderness for fear of an ambush.

“We believe that no more than three hundred Sem have escaped,” reported a squad leader of the blue knights who wore the crest of Tauride Castle. “We have confirmed approximately one hundred fifty Sem dead.”

“Including the drummers and the ones making smoke, that means an attack force of around five hundred,” said Amnelis, a look of disbelief on her face. “They sent a paltry five hundred warriors against our fifteen thousand?”

“General,” said Count Marus, walking slowly up to the archduke’s daughter.

“What is it, Marus?”

“Could this not be an attempt to draw us into pursuit?”

“They strike with five hundred, then immediately escape. We give chase and then their main force launches an attack. Yes, that is possible.”

“Yet—” objected Irrim from the line of captains. “Yet even if all the Sem tribes were gathered together, they would find it difficult to match our numbers, General.”

“True. Though it is hard to know their exact numbers, our reports suggest there are no more than ten thousand Sem in all Nospherus. Even if those reports were inaccurate, it is hard to imagine there being more than twice that number in this barren land.”

“And, General, we know that the Sem tribes are divided. They often go to war with each other, slaying their own kind. I do not think that they could muster a force of any great size on short notice, and it has been only three days since we crossed the Kes.”

“Then what possible reason could they have had to attack? With only five hundred warriors, it is as if they came to die.”

The captains exchanged uncertain glances, but none among them could guess the import of that morning’s battle. With the clever tactics they had used and the ferocity of their fighting, the Sem might have effectively capitalized on their advantage of surprise had there been as few as two thousand of them. But with only five hundred?

The number of Sem was far less than the Mongauli had imagined it to be during the battle, even after they had realized that the attacking force was relatively small. It made the invaders uneasy to wonder what the purpose of the assault might have been, what barbarian cunning might have led the Sem to attempt such an apparently foolhardy enterprise.

The meeting area in front of the pavilion was noisy with the captains’ questions—questions without answers. Each commander gave his opinions loudly. Some thought that the wildlings had happened upon them, and that without thinking—for their brains were not equipped to handle the nuances of strategy—they had leapt to the assault, only to beat a hasty retreat when they found themselves hopelessly outnumbered.

Others believed that the attack had been a death squad sent to create a diversion, and that the main forces were waiting up ahead. That would explain why the Sem had been so intent on creating as much chaos as possible with their limited numbers, using smoke and drums to confuse the soldiers into believing that the wildlings were perhaps as numerous as the invaders. When their ruse was discovered, however, they had been forced to retreat to keep their losses as low as possible.

“Very odd…” muttered Count Marus, who had fallen back in line next to Astrias.

“What is it, Count?” Astrias inquired, remembering that Pollak had said the same thing. The venerable count glanced over at the younger man. Count Marus had been childhood friends with Astrias' father, Malks Astrias, who was now Lord Defender of Torus, commander of the capital’s watch.

“How fare you, young Astrias?” The count turned and raised his hand genially, but there was a concerned look on his weathered face. “I find it very odd, this attack. I have fought with these barbarians many times in my years, but never have I seen them do something this… how shall I describe it? …this inexplicable. The attack this morning was unlike any Sem tactic I have ever seen. It worries me. I cannot say why I feel this, but I do feel that there was something strange about the Sem this morning. They were not the wildlings that I know. I fear that means they are planning something, but that in itself is odd, for I have seen many Sem ambushes and sneak attacks and the wildlings never seemed capable of high-level strategy.

“No, there is something amiss here, and we must be vigilant. We must not underestimate our enemy.”

“Perhaps you should tell the Lady of Mongaul your concerns, Lord Count?” said Astrias, glancing over at Amnelis.

Count Marus joined him in gazing at their general. She had just finished some consultation with the diviner Gajus and was now motioning for silence.

“Knights of Mongaul, listen to me,” she said in a voice high and clear. The captains were silent. “The Sem who attacked us have fled, but it appears that we are now in their territory. When we move, we must keep watch ahead and on both flanks at all times, and we must maintain our vigilance with the utmost keenness. Tell your men that from now on, when we pause to rest, they are to keep hold of their horses’ tethers, and keep their scabbards loosened and their armor and helmets on at all times. We march in ten shakes’ time. That is all.”

The captains scattered, hurriedly making their way back to their troops. Astrias looked back at Count Marus, then glanced over to where Amnelis’ retinue was busily dismantling the pavilion. Amnelis stood just before them, poring over the map of Nospherus, which was now spread out on the ground. Together with her two black-robed advisors, Gajus and the spellcaster Cal Moru, she was discussing their course. Astrias decided that it was an inopportune time to bring up the uncharacteristic behavior of the Sem. Quickly he made his way back to his men, for he had little time to prepare for the march.

Meanwhile, near the edge of the camp, two knights of the blue led by Count Marus were discussing lost property.

“Ye sure ye ’aven’t seen me helmet, Guloran?”

“Nay, for the tenth time, nay. And that’s eleven. This ’un’s mine, right here where I left it, Tagg.”

“Bloody thing! Where could it ‘ave gone off ta?”

“What are you two quarreling about?”

“Ah, lieutenant, er, it’s Tagg’s helmet—he’s lost it, he has.”

“A helmet?” scoffed the lieutenant. “It was probably kicked away by some panicking horse. I’ll make sure you get one from one of our dead. Now get ready, or you’ll miss ranks when we muster. We’re marching any moment now.”

The soldier scratched his head perplexedly and grumbled a bit, but none of the others gave it much thought. Soon they would all forget about the lost helmet.

For, just moments later, the call to march went out, and the Mongauli army resumed its cautious advance.