Chapter-1-1

⁠—⁠—⁠— I ⁠—⁠—⁠—

“We have been…”

The night that enveloped the battered, beaten, and exhausted soldiers left them doubtful of their own hands and features, so thick was its inky veil.

“We have been wrong about a few things…”

Sentries paced endlessly back and forth, their footfalls crackling like dry whispers. Orders were for the lights to be kept low, and all men were to remain in full armor with their weapons at the ready.

At every clang of sword guard against armor, every low whinny of a horse or murmur of conversation at camp’s edge, soldiers started and gripped the hilts of their own blades. Their nerves were horribly strained, sharpened to fine, trembling points, and it seemed the lightest fall of a feather could break the silence that surrounded them.

At times the wind picked up and carried strange howls and cries from far across the sands, grating on the men’s taut nerves. Perhaps these howls came from the legendary desert wolves of Nospherus, said to roam a thousand tads a day, or perhaps it was due to the bustle of some other, more foul creature of the Marches desert.

It was a night of terror. The Mongauli army, wounded and restive, felt vulnerable, and the merciless denizens of Nospherus hounded them without pause. Drawn by the stench of blood they came: bigeaters, mouths-of-the-desert, sand worms, soundless swarms of vampire moss and blood-sucking flies, even the sand leeches. The disgusting, misshapen creatures shone with sickly phosphorescence as they gave the Mongauli no end of nightmares both real and imagined.

Though the giant sand worm and bigeater were indeed frightful, the lesser perils that dogged the Gohrans gave them worse grief. The insatiable vampire moss and flies attached themselves to any exposed skin and dug in so deep it seemed nothing would get them out, and the men were constantly picking tenacious little blood-suckers off of their comrades.

The sand leeches were, like the yidoh, semi-translucent as though all pigment had been sucked out of them, but their hides were covered in bumps sickeningly reminiscent of chicken skin. When these leeches or the tight whorls of vampire moss attached themselves to human flesh, they sucked up blood until their swelling forms were a breathtaking crimson. When a victim finally peeled off the stuff and stomped on it, what seemed an impossible amount of blood gushed out and seeped into the dry, gray sands.

Had any one of them—the ten and five thousand elites culled from the five knightly orders, the pride of Mongaul—expected a mere five thousand wildlings to wreak such havoc on their expeditionary force? The troops had crossed the black river Kes, the boundary that separated the desert marches from eastern Gohra, hoping to see Nospherus swept clean of Sem through their valor and transformed into the newest domain of glorious Mongaul. Leading the fifteen thousand: Lady Amnelis of the golden mane, the archduke’s daughter, who at only eighteen years of age was General of the Right. The aides who rode out with her: the diviner Gajus Runecaster and the white knights Feldrik, Lindrot, and Vlon. Loyal to her followed Count Marus, lord of Tauride Castle, and his two thousand blue knights; from Talos, two thousand black knights and Captains Irrim and Tangard; and under the divided command of the young viscounts Leegan and Astrias, two thousand red knights from Alvon. With twenty hundred crossbowmen and roughly five thousand footmen supporting the knights, Amnelis’ army should have been unstoppable.

Mongaul was in need of a victory. The three archduchies of Yulania, Kumn, and Mongaul, which made up the Gohran Alliance, a new force in the Middle Country, maneuvered endlessly amongst themselves to maintain their delicate balance of power even as they attempted to expand further into that plain where reigned such formidable rivals as Parros, Cheironia, Earlgos, and Kaulos. It was Mongaul that had made a surprise attack on the elegant kingdom of Parros, which ages of peace had lulled into a sense of security. Yet, ironically, by taking the famed crystal city into its hands, Mongaul had endangered its position within the Gohran Alliance. Fearing that Archduke Vlad of Mongaul was growing too strong, indeed strong enough to threaten their own sovereignty, the Archdukes Olu Khan of Yulania and Tario of Kumn seemed to be entering into a secret pact to oppose Mongaul.

Nor had the conquered kingdom been as great a boon as Vlad had hoped it would be. Although Parros was now under Mongauli rule, the supporters of the High King Aldross’ orphaned twins, Prince Remus and Princess Rinda, who had miraculously escaped the flames of war, were ceaseless in their resistance of the Mongauli occupation.

Thus, it must have seemed bizarre indeed to any stranger’s eye when Mongaul suddenly turned its attention from its newfound prize in the Middle Country to the barren wildlands of Nospherus. Yet the change in strategy, unexpected though it was, was no act of madness. The Golden Scorpion Palace of Mongaul had become aware of a great secret that lay in these wastes, and Archduke Vlad had decided that sending Amnelis and a full invasion army after it was a critical step towards the realization of his ultimate ambitions.

But now, in the wake of three violent encounters with the wildling Sem tribes, the Mongauli army was reeling from the shock of defeat, and, although it had not been driven from Nospherus entirely, it had been forced to retreat and regroup.

Their numbers remained strong. The gravest damage that had been dealt to the invaders was psychological. The redoubtable Captain Leegan and his vanguard had been engulfed and devoured by a swarm of yidoh, but when the dust settled it became clear that the actual number of soldiers that the seething monsters had transformed into ghastly lumps of melting flesh was not great. Though the loss was painful, the yidoh-ambush had fallen short of a decisive blow. Later, the Sem tribes had attacked twice under cover of night, overrunning the outer pickets and sending ripples of fear through the main body of the troops, then fading as swiftly as they had appeared. Yet, including the dead and wounded from these two raids, the number that Mongaul had lost that day was no more than three thousand by the reports; even when these deaths were added to their earlier casualties, the Mongauli army was left with over ten thousand largely unscathed troops. The invading force was still more than twice the size of the combined army of all the Sem tribes.

Nonetheless, the faces of the Mongauli troops that turned to one another when the orders to camp for the night were finally given were filled with defeat and despair. The attacks had taken their toll.

Dominance in numbers does not always mean a dominance in spirit. In fact, the Gohrans, while they still retained an overall advantage, had been reduced by a greater proportion of their power than had the Sem; they had lost nearly a third of their original fifteen thousand while the wildlings had lost only a fifth of their five thousand. The invaders felt their loss weigh more heavily with every report of a casualty that came in during the night.

The warrior Guin could have told them why they were beaten, why they had tasted, and not just once, the bitterness of defeat. He knew what made them tremble like the remnants of a routed host even though they remained superior in numbers: it was Nospherus. The Mongauli were in enemy territory. They had stepped over the border, out of human lands, and now it seemed as though the forbidden desert itself had turned its will against them and that all the creatures of the sand had risen in alliance with the Sem to drive them out. The unexpected attack of the horrific yidoh might not have claimed as many lives as at first the Mongauli had feared, but it had devastated their confidence. Now the soldiers jumped at every whisper of the wind or sudden slip of sand upon the dunes, fearing that these might signal the approach of some new terror. Their enemy was Nospherus, and its harsh expanse surrounded them on all sides, and its unrelenting sky spread above them, dark and heavy with menace.

Their thoughts betrayed them, filling them with so great an unease that no matter how often their captains reassured them, telling them of their strength and the certainty of ultimate victory, the soldiers remained resolute in their grimness. Not a few of them cursed the commanders that had dreamed up this ill-omened expedition and their own bad fortune in being a part of it. Under their breath they muttered hopes that the Lady Amnelis would just sound the general retreat and be done with this folly.

There was one thing above all others that weighed upon their minds and left a tangible feeling of dread that they could not shake. The giant silhouette they had seen, looking down on them as the sun set, had cast its shadow into their hearts and made their blackest thoughts blacker still. It was the leopard-headed warrior who led four of the great Sem tribes—the Raku, Tubai, Rasa, and Guro—and their allies from lesser tribes. On a giant black charger he had ridden down the dunes at the head of the wildling army with eyes that blazed yellow as balefires. He was an unknown, a warrior whose very nature was shrouded in mystery, but his war-making had been without equal upon that battlefield.

If they had faced only the Sem tribes, the Mongauli armies surely would not have been driven to this defensive stance. But there was some power in that leopard-headed half-beast that made those he faced quaver and turn aside, their swords and arrows reduced from instruments of death to the unwieldy tools of a terrified defense. He was the embodiment of fear that should not have had form. In their hearts, the soldiers felt the unease of the sacrilegious, as though they took aim at Ruah Sun-god or the half-beast god Cirenos himself. They had lost faith that their side was in the right, and an army that doubts its very purpose has already lost.

None of them knew whence came the unease that gripped them when they saw the leopard-headed warrior, nor could they have said for certain whether he truly was man or god as he descended upon them like a storm, leading the wildling Sem to battle, only to disappear into the dunes once more at the battle’s end. So it was that during that dark night, which seemed to them all the darker because they were forbidden to light even the customary watchfires, that the soldiers whispered to one another, wondering just who the strange warrior was. But no sooner would a man speak than an anxious officer nearby would scold him.

“Shh! The enemy will hear you!”

And so the soldiers fell silent. But there were some among them who felt a more compelling reason than mere orders not to speak of the leopard-headed one. They crossed their fingers and made the sign of Janos for warding off demons and whispered in hushed voices that none must speak of “him.”

“Say not a word… He’s no man of flesh like us, he’s a demon! Aye, could be Doal Demongod himself come down to earth! And, if he is—”

“If he is…?”

“Then you’re best off not saying nothing of him, lest you say something you can’t take back. Speak the name of a demon, and you might’s well invite him over for supper!”

“Doalspit! Nospherus this may be, but him? Here? I think—”

“Don’t do it! Don’t talk about him, I say—may Janos protect us.”

“Janos protect us. Say, Doremugh, you were always good at the bettin’ table.”

“What of it?”

“What do you reckon our chances of gettin’ back to Talos Keep alive be?”

The soldier Doremugh’s answer was cut off by a shrill command. “Shh! Quiet over there! Did you not hear your orders, you gutter-rats?”

The tone of the voice made it clear that the officer who spoke was just as nervous as his men. The group of footsoldiers dispersed, and the obsidian darkness that surrounded them was quiet once more.

Whether it passed their lips or not, the name of Guin was at that moment the thing most feared by every soldier in the Mongauli expeditionary force. Nor was it the rank and file alone who were so enthralled by the terror of the leopard-man—the mysterious warrior had provoked the curiosity of even the highest commanders.

“It seems we have slightly underestimated the Sem…” General Amnelis addressed her officers, who had gathered for an emergency council in her pavilion. Count Marus, Irrim, Tangard, Astrias, Gajus, Vlon, and Lindrot huddled around the light of a stunted candle already half-burned to the table. “In our current situation, we have no choice but to revise the goals of this operation. We can no longer search for Gur Nuu. It is imperative that we first eradicate the Sem tribes. We will find the hidden valley and build a Mongauli stronghold there only after the eradication campaign is complete. Agreed?”

“As you wish.”

“We will do as my lady directs.”

“I have no objection to this plan.”

One by one, the leaders of the Mongauli army quietly muttered their approval, but there was little spirit left in them.

More than the turn of the battle, it was the loss of Leegan, beloved son of Count Ricard, keep-lord of Alvon, that had made their hearts sink and wrapped them in veils of sorrow.

“Very well. The Sem shall die. And yet—it seems that, above all, we fight not the Sem but that leopard-headed warrior—he alone has brought this defeat upon us. Wouldn’t you agree, Marus?”

Amnelis spoke evenly. She saw the change in mood that had come over her officers, and she had ceased to rage against the elusive Guin, transforming the fury she had felt earlier into a deadly calm. What she needed now was a cool head. Her lips did not tremble, even when she spoke of Guin directly. Her legendary icy calm had returned. She had swallowed her pride, convincing herself of the importance of judging her enemy objectively; the change in her attitude was remarkable. Of course, all who were there knew that this lady of ice was far more severe, and far more potent, than the fiery-tempered general of the previous day.

The lord of Tauride Castle nodded his head and spoke, his words heavy on his lips. “As you say, my lady.”

Amnelis slowly surveyed the men who stood before her, her impossibly deep green eyes alighting on each in turn.

“The Sem know little of battle,” she said after a long silence, “and less of tactics. They are barbarians, trusting only in their sheer numbers to carry the day. This we Mongauli have seen time and time again, at the misfortunate battle of Stafolos Keep and in every skirmish we have had with the Sem on our patrols through the Marches.

“Time and again, they have behaved like witless beasts—until now. Since we crossed the Kes into Nospherus, the Sem have shown remarkable craftiness—guile, even. They use a bewildering variety of tactics, taking advantage of our unfamiliarity with the terrain to lead us into ambushes and traps, like the monster-trap of the yidoh, employing one force as a decoy to divide us while hitting us on the flank with their main army. Assuming that they did not overnight obtain and read Augustinus’s Soldiery or Alzandross’s Book of Tactics, we must assume that the recent successes of the Sem are the sole work of the creature known as Guin.”

Her gaze flickered across her officers again, turning her last statement into a question. The captains were quick to agree.

“As you say, my lady.”

“It cannot be otherwise.”

“Surely, it is all the work of that fiend.”

“It was our ignorance of him and his influence that led us to view the Sem so lightly, Lady General.”

Amnelis nodded slowly. She smiled a fierce smile.

“Then it seems clear that our true enemy is not the Sem, but rather the leopard-man that leads their army. And he is a shrewd foe! The skill of their assaults, their swift advances and swifter retreats, all reveal his caliber. He is no mere mercenary, or accidental soldier. I believe that, when we do capture this creature and take off that leopard mask, we will find him to be none other than some famous general.”

“Surely, you are correct, my lady.”

“Or perhaps,” Marus added, “we would find him to be the king of some country, a keep-lord, or a hero known throughout the land. Yes, it is as sure as the sand we stand upon.”

“Ahh,” Tangard nodded, then blurted, “he could even be Gohran. In the worst possible scenario, of course.”

The weathered Count Marus drew his long white eyebrows together, frowning. “Tangard. If you say that in jest, you jest poorly.”

“No, no—I meant no jest, Elderlord,” Tangard responded. “Rather, I mean to say he could have been sent by Kumn or Yulania. As you can see from the current situation, it is quite possible that one of our archduke allies has joined hands with the enemies of Mongaul to, ah… put us in our place, so to speak.” Tangard stroked his ruddy moustache in thought. “And there are many warriors of name in our allies’ lands, Gandar the Grappler, Och-Ran of the Blue Whiskers. Could this leopard-man be one of them?”

“What we can say for sure is that he is no Mongauli traitor,” Amnelis spoke with the faintest hint of a cold smile in her voice. “Tor, to my certain knowledge, there is not one warrior in our homeland that could do what this man has done alone.”

A barely noticeable shiver passed through the men. It lasted only a moment, but in that moment Count Marus straightened and looked warily at Amnelis. It was clear he did not approve of what the young lady-general had said.

But it seemed that Amnelis did not notice the tension in the air her words had caused. She turned to speak to Gajus, who had been hovering in the shadows behind her.

“Gajus.”

“My lady?”

“Tell me. In all your study, all your readings of the tales of the world, have you learned of any warrior, hero, or king that could be the equal of our adversary—that might, indeed, be the face beneath that leopard mask?”

“Ah, yes… a perplexing question, indeed. Who could it be?” muttered Gajus, sinking into thought under the heavy cowl of his black robe. After a time his voice came hollowly from his unseen face.

“To the extent of my knowledge, there are several men of name in the lands we know who possess both the skill with a blade and the ability to command troops that he has demonstrated. Gandar of Kumn and Yulania’s General Och-Ran of the Blue Whiskers, both just mentioned, would qualify, perhaps. In Cheironia to the north, there is Darcius the Thousand-Dragon and Adan, the Thousand-Tiger, both generals of renown. And in Parros, Adlon, Lord of Kravia…

“Also there is the Black Prince Scaal of Earlgos; the intrepid Andanos, wealthy merchant and chancellor of the free city port of Rygorl; ah, and the Count of Taria, Guy Dolfus. Further to the north, there is Owin Longorn of House Longorn, or perhaps Raider-King Sigerd of Taluuan—it is said that he is an accomplished warrior, and sheathed in muscles like some titan out of legend—”

“Who else in Parros?” Amnelis cut in.

“In Parros?” The runecaster hesitated for a moment. “Well, there is the Holy Knight Darkan, pride of the Holy Knights. But he was wounded in the War of the Black Dragon, and I have heard that he has been bed-bound with his injuries ever since. Of course, Mad Duke Bek is strong enough, and I know for a certainty he was not wounded, for he was away when the fighting started, in Earlgos visiting Princess Ema, who had only just been sent there to wed the king. How vexing it must have been for him to miss the battle! We also have the Duke of Crystal, Aldo-Narisse. He was the henchman of High King Aldross, and it is rumored that he took a sharp blow to the head in the battle for the crystal city and was taken captive, though he afterwards escaped and now runs fugitive with a great bounty of gold on his head. We don’t know where he is, but I hardly think he wears the leopard-mask, for it was widely whispered that the Duke of Crystal was something of a dandy—a fair boy, who liked to recite poetry—from which I surmise he could not be the great warrior we face here now.

“Of course, it could be—”

“No.” Amnelis’ sharp voice cut through Gajus’ droning recitation.

All there straightened and turned to her.

“He is none of these men,” said Amnelis. Her voice was harsh, but her eyes were clouded as though she was looking at something impossibly far away. A crease formed in the smooth skin between her brows, and she spoke cautiously, as though to keep any trace of emotion from her voice.

“I brought up the name of Parros because, given that our foe is defending against the armies of Gohra, it seems to make more sense to me that we should look first to Parros to find the identity of this masked creature before casting our thoughts to far-flung Rygorl or Taluuan. Furthermore, though all the names Gajus has spoken here have merit, none are he.”

Amnelis looked around the pavilion.

“The leopard-man is no sellsword, nay, he is not even a knight, nor a general. I knew from the first time I saw him: he is a king. Nothing less. He was surely born to a house of power, a house that gives decrees, leads men, and is followed in turn—a house with none above it but the gods.”

All in the pavilion were silent.

“Of course, there is another possibility!” broke in Gajus at last, seeing his opportunity to resume his lecture, and unable to sit still in such complete silence long without saying anything. “This is nothing more than rumor, but according to some…”

Amnelis glared at the caster.

He continued undaunted. “There are those who believe that, during the Black Dragon War and the invasion of Parros, while our armies were most successful in capturing the king and queen and all their royal insignia, that these were nothing more than decoys—fakes! That is to say, that His Holiness Aldross the Third secretly escaped and is still alive today!”

The captains gasped and said nothing.

Amnelis bristled. “You are saying the leopard-headed warrior is the high king of Parros?”

“It is just a theory, my lady, a theory.”

“If this theory should begin making the rounds of our camp, I will hold you personally responsible, Gajus, and you know the price of my displeasure is high.”

“As you say, my lady,” squeaked Gajus, cowering in rather exaggerated deference.

“Any other theories to share?”

“The… world is vast,” began the caster tentatively, “and true heroes are as rare as stars on a cloudy night. Indeed, upon further consideration, I do not find it likely that Chancellor Andanos of Rygorl would come to the aid of the Sem, and I’ve heard no rumor that the Black Prince of Earlgos rode to Parros’ aid, bound to them by marriage though he was. But there is one last possibility, though even I would find it quite remarkable if this were the case, and I consider myself rather charitable when it comes to believing the outlandish; and that is a rumor that originates among the unique cultures of the Northlands of Norn, from Taluuan at the southern edge of the snowlands up to Queensland and Migard. Among these realms there is a kingdom by the name of Vanheim. It is said that the king who reigns there, the hero Bardor, is a swordsman and a warrior of a level rare in all the history of our world.”

“The hero-king Bardor of Vanheim, yes,” Amnelis nodded.

“Furthermore, I think that since most men of the southern lands have skin ever darkened by the sun, and that those who live in the eastern kingdoms are marked by the unique olive shade of their skin, we can wisely guess by the copper skin of our leopard-man adversary that he hails from either the Middle Country or the Northlands. Ahh, but wait!” Gajus put a hand to his mouth.

“Gajus?” prompted Amnelis sternly.

“I’ve just remembered something. If you sail down the Kes River, down through the length of the Middle Country, where do you arrive at last?”

“The Lentsea, of course.”

“Correct, the Lentsea! And if you sail across its depths, then you will eventually come to Corsea where floats the great island of Simhara, where, it is said, the kings for generations have followed the peculiar custom of concealing their true features behind the gem-encrusted mask of a beast! Still, I suppose it would be presumptuous to say that this leopard mask is likely of the same stock…”

“Simhara,” muttered Amnelis. “An island country of legend. There is a labyrinth there, no?”

The runecaster nodded.

“Gajus.”

“My lady?”

Amnelis’ eyes had opened wide, as though something had startled her. “Simhara—the word itself means ‘the lion’s country,’ does it not?”

“Yes… yes it does,” the aged caster replied, then looked up at Amnelis, waiting for her next words.

But those words did not come. Amnelis seemed to have sunken into deep thought. Outside the pavilion, the dark had grown deeper, the gloom heavier, pushing down on the fearful soldiers as they went about their preparations for the night ahead. Only one stood still in the gathering dusk—the young captain Astrias—his black eyes fixed on Amnelis, filled with a sad reverence for the Lady of Mongaul.