Chapter-1-3

⁠—⁠—⁠— III ⁠—⁠—⁠—

It was another bitter conflict in what seemed like an endless string of identical battles for the Mongauli expeditionary army. The sands they fought in, and their foes, never changed.

The tiny Sem, taking advantage of their greatest weapons— their maneuverability and their familiarity with the deadly terrain of their homeland—had so successfully overcome their disadvantage in numbers that they were always on the attack, always pushing back the Mongauli’s position.

Perhaps the war-making Mongauli would not have been so dazed were they fighting their fellow Gohrans, or another of the civilized peoples of the Middle Country. At least the folk of Cheironia and Parros, and even Earlgos far to the south, were much the same as them, despite their oft-emphasized regional differences. And while the Steppes had their own culture and the Northlands had another, they had by and large developed in the same direction. But these Sem—no matter how much one looked at them, with their strange chirping cries and their bared teeth—seemed less than men, prehistoric. They were monkeys complete with furry tails. It was hard to believe them capable of possessing any real intelligence.

Even now, there were some among the Mongauli who snorted with indignation at the very idea of drawing swords against “mere primates,” and they were hard pressed to summon much of a will to fight.

But an enemy was an enemy, and they were at war. Like great colored swarms that stained the bleached, flat Nospherus sands, fiercely contending masses of some writhing, primordial ooze, the two armies met and skirmished and killed one another.

Far away on the northern horizon, a wall of tall, white mountains stood like a distant mirage. These were the Ashgarns, a range of towering peaks forever capped in ice. On the eastern reaches, the Kanan Mountains of legend stretched away southward in a jagged black line. Far from reminding the Mongauli that Nospherus, too, had its limits, the mountains served only to emphasize the vast, flat desert between them and the horizon, an inhospitable waste that offered no place to hide.

The only noticeable features in this vast sea of sand were the flat area known as the Devil’s Anvil, through which the invaders had recently passed, and the rocky hills to the northeast, which, unbeknownst to them, hid the villages of the Sem. It was enough to drive despair into the heart of any man who had grown up surrounded by the rich greenery of the Middle Country. It had an absence of emotion, a feeling of lifelessness, a severity that was utterly inhuman and welcomed nothing that did not belong to the sand.

As they had done two times the night before, the Sem attacked, saw that they had left a mark, and withdrew. But even the flight of the wildlings was disheartening to the Mongauli soldiers, who were eager to beat down and kill every last one of the crafty monkeys and thus put an end to the aggravating and painful raids.

Cries went up from the knights.

“Chase them!”

“They’re pulling back! Hunt them down!”

Some stood in their saddles, calling their fellows to the attack, but the messengers of Amnelis, wearing white plumes on their shoulders, were quick to pass the countermand.

“No one is to follow the Sem! Orders! Orders!”

“Assume defensive formation. Prepare to march!”

The aged Count Marus, riding his big charger at the head of the blue knights, looked concerned.

“This will not do,” he muttered, lifting his faceplate and furrowing his whitened brows. The only person close enough to catch his words was his lieutenant, Garanth, astride a bay stallion close beside the count.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Captain.” Garanth sounded surprised. “Did you say something?”

“No.” The count furrowed his brow further.

Garanth eyed the count carefully. “It looks to me that our enemy has been routed, and all is in order in our camp, my lord?”

“I supposed it would seem that way, but it is not. Trust me.” Marus spoke softly so that only his lieutenant might hear him. “This turn of events does not sit well with me. Our losses with each raid are slight, and we are quickly growing used to these Sem attacks. We know that each time they appear, they will pull back before long—we’ve come to expect it like we expect the sun to rise in the morning. That is what troubles me.”

“My lord?”

“Garanth, are we not doing exactly as they intend us to do? They attack us when they want, and then draw off again when they want, while we merely scramble to gather our weapons and fend them off each time. We are responding, always responding—always on the defensive, you see?”

“I see this, my lord, but as you say, our casualties are light, and we still outnumber them. Does that not make the advantage ours?”

“The principles of strategy forbid a policy of mere reaction. Even a dagger can fell a mighty oak if the oak does nothing. Be they fewer in number, or poorly armed, victory always goes to the side that acts, not the side that reacts. You would do well to remember this, Garanth: when a battle drags on so, the side that wins is the side that can convince its men that they are attacking and their opponents are defending. It has nothing to do with the advantages of numbers or territory.”

Garanth nodded.

“Of course, this is a matter that I should have minded,” sighed Marus. He shot a glance towards the gathering of white knights where the army’s temporary command post had been established. “Our lady general is young, Garanth—of course, that’s not something I would say before our soldiers, either. But she is young, and though they call her the Lady of Ice, I can see all too clearly the blush of warm blood beneath her skin. She cannot yet understand these nuances of the battle. That is why she must take better heed of the advice that Gajus and I give.”

Garanth nodded, and was silent. Marus smiled at him. “It does little good for me to say these things here, to you. It is just that… I do not like the way things are going.”

“Lord Captain, if you are troubled, why not act yourself? You could speak to the lady general again, persuade her to go on the offensive, convince her to hunt down the Sem. I know for a fact that our men are eager to do just this.”

“Hmm,” Marus grunted and considered the idea for a while. Then his face brightened. “Well spoken, Garanth. I believe that your counsel is good.” He favored his lieutenant of many years with a smile. “Perhaps this is the right time, too. The Sem are unlikely to return soon.” Marus nodded, then gently nudged his faithful steed’s flank and began to move out of formation—but at that very moment he heard Garanth’s voice raised behind him.

“What’s that? An urgent message?”

He turned to see to whom Garanth was speaking, and saw a tall blue knight with lowered faceplate approaching, bringing his horse to a slow walk and finally stopping next to the lieutenant. The knight nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, very urgent!”

“Halt!” responded Garanth sharply. “Though this may be an expeditionary force, and we may have left some formalities behind us, have the decency to properly introduce yourself.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the blue knight. “I am Eru, of Troop Argon.”

“Eru of Troop Argon. Very well, what’s your message?”

“Again, I beg your pardon, sir, but if I might speak to the lord captain…”

“The lord count is busy. I will relay the message, you may speak to me.”

“Yes, I’m sure, but..” the blue knight floundered.

“What? Is speaking to his lieutenant beneath your station?”

“Garanth, wait.” Marus abruptly tugged the reins hard to the right and turned his horse back toward the two men. “Let us hear this message.”

The blue knight bowed. “If we might speak where no one else can hear…”

Marus snorted. “We are in formation and in formation we shall stay! Speak quietly, and none but Garanth and I will hear you. I should think that would be sufficient.”

“Yes, m’lord,” replied the blue knight.

It was the youthful spring in the voice of this Eru of Troop Argon that had brought the count back to hear what he had to say. As a lord in charge of an entire castle, Marus was well practiced in discerning the worth of a man, a fact in which he took no little pride. This Eru’s voice was young indeed, almost child-like, yet it possessed a fearlessness and a deep strength that the aged soldier noted with approval.

From behind his faceplate, Eru exchanged stares with Count Marus and Garanth.

It was Garanth who spoke first. “Come on now, show your face. Have you no manners?”

“M’lord,” Eru nodded and, somewhat reluctantly, raised his faceplate.

Well now, thought Marus, as something in the man’s look struck a chord within him. Then he smiled, realizing what had surprised him about the young Eru’s visage. While it was a touch longer, and perhaps a bit harder around the eyes, the knight’s face looked much like that of Astrias, captain of the red. Eru’s black, canny gaze shone with a lively spirit and met the count’s stare straight on without the slightest touch of fear. He was even younger than his voice had led Marus to believe.

“Speak, Eru.”

“I… Well, you see, m’lord, I wouldn’t want to alarm you with what might amount to supposition on my part—”

“Enough with the preamble. What is it you wish to say?” snapped Garanth irritably.

Eru’s eyes flashed back and forth, checking to see that no one else was within earshot. “Well, it’s this: I believe I may know whence this leopard-headed creature comes. I may know who he is.”

“What?!” Marus’ incredulous voice was so loud that several blue knights around them turned to see what had riled him. A dismissive wave from Garanth turned them back around.

Marus waited for the others to go back about their business, then asked, “Can you assure me of the truth of this claim you mean to make?”

“Well, m’lord, I’ve not had the opportunity to check beneath that mask and see for certain, of course…”

“None of us have. So, how do you know?”

“Yesterday, in the battle, when he appeared on that dune, I saw upon his chest,” here Eru raised his hand and slashed a cross in the air, “a scar.”

“That he might have had. He was mostly unclothed. So you recognized that scar, did you?”

“I believe I saw its cutting, yes.”

“Hold a moment!” Marus’ expression was severe. “This revelation might best be made before the Lady herself.”

“I-I would prefer not…” stuttered Eru. “That is, as I said before, I’m not entirely certain, and I wouldn’t want to cause a stir without good reason, if you see my problem.”

“Yes, I see,” replied the count. “Tell us what you know, then, from the beginning. I dare say any inkling of who he is would be better than what we have at the moment.” The young blue knight had Marus’ complete attention now. The count looked around to make sure that no orders to march had been given, then nodded to Eru. “If what you say is true, it would be valuable information, indeed. Come down off your horse, and stand by my stirrup, and tell me every last detail. We should have plenty of time before the army moves again.”

“First,” said Eru, more calmly now, his black eyes darting between the two men, “might I receive a promise that this stay between m’lord and his lieutenant, at least until we can be sure who hides behind that leopard mask?”

“You speak far above your station, you—” began Garanth, his eyes flashing, but Marus had become quite enamored of this young knight, and he waved a hand for silence.

“It is no matter,” the count told his aide. “With all the lily-livered softlings we get these days, I like a little insolence—shows he’s got backbone. Now, Eru, tell us your story.”

Eru nodded and dismounted from his horse as he had been bidden, walking over to stand beside the count. “I was born in Gallikea,” he began, “and in my sixteenth year I came to Torus. I’ve been a knight of Mongaul ever since.” The young man’s voice was clear and crisp as he spoke. “Of course, I was no conscript, but a professional soldier. Before I joined the blue, I wielded the sword of Captain Tagg’s red knights, and Lord Roman’s black knights, and I fought in numerous battles before I was honored to be part of the Marches patrol.

“My story takes place when I was following Captain Tagg. I had been sent to Luane, capital of Kumn, as a member of the ambassador’s guard. As soon as the ambassador, a certain marquis, arrived, he was summoned to the water palace of Archduke Tario, and so we in the guard were relieved of duty for a day, and given leave to tour the city.

“As you know, they call Luane the ‘City of Water,’ and its beauty rivals that of Tais, the ‘Beautiful Monarch’ of the south. That day we split up into small groups and idled about, or headed out to buy women, drink wine, and gamble as soldiers do. I was with a small group of close friends, and we went to see the sights. We marveled at the many bridges that cross the city’s moats, and we were quite engaged in our exploration when we heard strange voices up ahead of us.

“At first we thought it was a brawl of some sort, but then it seemed like the voices were not arguing, but cheering. The source of the excitement was soon revealed to us. We heard one voice rise above the other shouts with a clear cry of ‘Gandar! Gandar!’ and soon it seemed that everyone in the streets around us was shouting ‘Gandar! Long live Gandar!’ in unison.

“‘I know this one they speak of,’ said a longtime friend of mine. ‘Gandar of Kumn is one of the greatest gladiators in the three duchies of Gohra, maybe in all the Middle Country. They say he is the king of fighters, that he can lift two horses with his bare hands, and that no fighter in the last fifty years or the next will rise above him. Heh, of course not! No one dares even challenge him any more. I hear he’s so bored with lack of competition that he’s taken to showing off by dueling wilderbears and giant vipers—and I daresay they wouldn’t fight him either, if they knew what they were up against.’

“‘Then a shrill voice rang out suddenly right among us, giving us a terrible start. ‘You think so, do you?’ the voice said. ‘Then I daresay you’re travelers newly arrived here in Luane.’

“Looking down, I saw that the owner of the voice was a short, shifty fellow with an impoverished look to him and a manner that suggested he was a common panderer of women, or a collector for some gambling den. He sneered up at us, licking his lips unpleasantly, and pulled on the sleeves of our chainmail shirts. ‘What nonsense is this?’ my companion asked. ‘Why, word that Gandar is so strong he lacks competition has even reached our country! Yet to hear you speak, it sounds as if you knew of someone—’

“And here my friend was interrupted by a hundred approaching voices shouting ‘Gandar! Gandar!’ ‘Gandar-King!’ and ‘Lord of the Gladiators!’ and we saw, moving slowly through a wild tide of people cheering his name, Gandar himself. He was riding a chariot over the bridge on which we stood. All of us held our breath.

“Gandar stood arrogantly high, one hand in an iron gauntlet at his waist, and the other clenched in a fist across his chest. Not a move did he make to steady himself on the chariot’s rail, yet he seemed not to sway or rock with the vehicle’s lurching in the least. He was truly a giant of a man. His skin was like dark-glinting steel that armored his entire body, and the hair streamed from his head like a lion’s mane. So tall he was that even I, who, as you can see, am not short among men, felt much like a midget who had wandered into the presence of a titan. His face was as threatening as the rumors told, and the old scars that ran across it made him look all the more impressive, like a machine that knew only how to make war.

“‘He is amazing,’ muttered my companion. ‘I would not have the strength to twist his neck even were he sodden and comatose before me! And you mean to tell us that there is someone to challenge this man to a fair fight? I don’t believe it.’

“‘I didn’t say there was anybody,’ said the pander, baring his teeth in a grin. ‘Why, if there was, I’d be the first to place my bets on Gandar and make a small fortune! All I’m saying is, the world’s a large place, and I would believe it if someone did show up claiming they could best Gandar.’

“No sooner had the little man finished saying this than a deep, terrible bellow rang out from the slowing chariot. It was Gandar. ‘You there,’ he shouted in a voice that rattled our very bones, ‘What was that you said?’ It seemed that, as luck would have it, Gandar himself had somehow heard what the squalid little fellow had been telling us, and it had piqued his interest. The pander was frantic.

“‘N-Nothing, sir, just, eh…’ he stuttered, the color draining from his face. I thought he would fall dead right there in the street. I do not blame him, either, for that evil-looking gladiator now stopped his vehicle directly before us, his mouth open like a rampant lion’s.

“‘I heard you! You said that a gladiator strong enough to challenge the great Gandar has appeared! You said it!’ roared the giant man. He wore iron bands on his legs and arms, and a hide loincloth that hung down from his waist. The bands clanged together as he jumped lightly down to stand, towering over the unfortunate pander. ‘So, at last, I have competition! Excellent. Bring him out. I am Gandar, and I would face the one who says he can best me. I must know if he speaks the truth! Who is he? Where are you hiding him? Is it one of you?’

“Suddenly, Gandar noticed us standing by the pander. His eyes burned holes in our chests. We were quick to deny that any of us stood a chance and nary hesitated to firmly relinquish the honor of a duel. ‘Then it must be you!’ growled Gandar, glaring at the diminutive pander. The little man looked ready to faint.

“‘I-I beg of you, sir… Please, it was just an expression, a s-slip of the tongue, Master Gandar!’

“‘Hmph. I know when a man is telling the truth, and I believe you know of someone who would challenge me! Now, tell me where he is. The crowds in this city tire of watching me fight mere bears and snakes. Tell me!’

“The pander cowered in silence.

“‘Not talking? Fine. Men! Bring this one to my lodgings!’

“‘Help!’ squawked the pander, and he spun around and made to escape, but the gladiator reached out a thick arm and grabbed him by the neck before he could run. He was like a kitten held helpless in its mother’s jaws. I believe all of us felt a fluttering in our breasts then. None there had the nerve to stop a man like Gandar, however, and so we stood by and watched him swing the hapless pander back toward his chariot.

“Just then, a deep voice sounded from behind us—from the door to the inn at the foot of the bridge we stood on. ‘It does not do to act so childishly, be you Gandar or any other grown man,’ the voice said.

“A moment later the speaker stepped out of the inn and stood before the astonished crowd. He too was a giant—easily the equal of Gandar in size—and the long dust-covered mantle and well-worn boots that he wore made us think that he must be a traveler from distant lands. The muscles that armored his massive frame were marvelous beyond compare. Yet it was not his phenomenal size that brought gasps and some cries from the crowd. No, it was the strange black cloth he wore around his head—for when he first appeared in the shade of the inn, the cloth made it seem as if he had nothing from the neck up—as if he were a headless champion come from beyond the grave.

“But, as we looked more closely, it became apparent that he merely wore a bulky wrapping of some sort, with small holes cut for the eyes. Those eyes! They shone with a yellow fire, and just one look at the fearful strength in them was enough to convince us that this, here, was the man of whom the pander had spoken.

“It was not long before Gandar, too, came to this conclusion. He let go of the pander, and gazed at the newcomer, sizing him up. Then a look of joy came to his face, like a desert in bloom after a long-awaited shower. ‘Ha, a strong one!’ Gandar practically howled in delight. ‘You look strong! Fight me, then! I beg you, fight me!’

“‘I am not a gladiator,’ the man replied.

“‘Who cares? I must fight someone strong! Fight me! Here! Draw your sword!’

“‘Street fighting is a serious offense.’

“‘Then, to the arena! Come!’

“‘I will not.’

“It was hard to tell whether the man feared Gandar at all. He seemed hardly even to be engaged in their exchange. The big gladiator could sense this, and he grew more insistent as he challenged the stranger again. When this failed, he became incensed, and drew the short sword at his side. ‘Then I will make you fight!’ he shouted, and lashed out with his blade, first a cut and then a backstroke, faster than the eye could follow.

“By the time the crowd reacted with a shout, he had slashed the strings of the man’s mantle. But that was not all. Beneath the fastenings of his cape, the blade had struck the flesh of the stranger’s broad chest, and cut a perfect ‘x’ across it, sending up blood in a crimson spray.

“What surprised us most about this was not the brazen lawlessness of Gandar’s attack, but rather the boldness of the masked stranger who, it seemed clear to us, could have easily avoided his sword, yet instead had chosen—chosen—to take the cut without moving so much as a hair.

“Gandar saw this as well as we did, and his face went white as fine paper. Then, in a blur of motion, the man grabbed hold of the gladiator’s arm with a hand that seemed to hold the strength of an entire army, and he drew him close. ‘I said no,’ the man growled. ‘I’m not going to fight you now. One day, I would like to fight a man such as you, very much. But now, I have something more important that I must do.’

“Well, you don’t seem like the type to run,’ muttered Gandar, his words flat and lifeless, as though he had the wind knocked out of him.

“‘If that is your worry, let me tell you my name,’ replied the stranger. ‘I am…’ he began, but the only one to hear the rest of what he said was Gandar himself, for he leaned in close and whispered it in the gladiator’s ear.

“Gandar’s face went paler than before—and it seemed to us that he shook with fear! ‘What?’ he muttered, stricken into a daze as he stood there in the street. Before we knew it, the stranger, making no attempt to staunch the blood that flowed freely from the wound on his chest, had disappeared back into the inn.

“We were left only with an unquenchable curiosity, and a lingering amazement at what we had witnessed there that day,” Eru concluded, finishing his story.

Count Marus sighed and scratched the beard on his chin and was quiet for a long while. “As you say,” he began at last, breaking the thoughtful silence, “this tale gives us no solid proof of our enemy’s true identity, but if that man truly was that leopard-headed warrior, then this is no trivial piece of information, Garanth.” The count turned to his right-hand man. “Until now, we had feared only that he had allied himself with Parros and the Sem, bringing together the enemies of Mongaul against us. But, if by some chance, he was this hooded man who appeared in Kumn…”

“I, too, was suspicious of the man,” offered Eru, “so I went to the inn—it was only later that I found out the pander was an employee of that very same establishment—and tried to dig up some information. But the big warrior had already left for parts unknown and he had left no name in the inn register by which to identify him.”

“Hrm,” Marus snorted, then looked at the warrior Eru from Troop Argon and considered him. “Very well. I will keep this story to myself. That, and—Knight Eru, you seem to be a man with his wits about him, and an eye for detail—and your sword arm looks strong. You don’t belong in one of the regular troops. Come and join my guard. You may be of some use to me.”

“It would be an honor, m’lord,” Eru declared, drawing the hilt of his sword to his chest in a salute.

“You agree? Good, then bring your horse and fall in with the ranks behind me. I’ll inform your troop captain.” It was clear from the way the count spoke that this bright youth had made quite an impression on him. “I had no idea there were men of such promise in that troop, Garanth.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Did you notice, Garanth, how much he resembles the younger Astrias?”

“I was thinking,” the lieutenant replied, “that he also looked much like your son, the Viscount Maltius of Torus…”

“That he does,” replied the aged count, thinking of his far-away son as he watched Eru leave. “That he does. He’s a soldier of some worth. I think I was wise to recruit him,” he added in an undertone, nodding to himself. “Garanth. Please inform Troop Argon of the transfer.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“We will be marching soon, I think. Ah, the messengers come even now.” Both the count and his aged lieutenant seemed to have completely forgotten about relaying their earlier concerns about the Sem’s tactics to the Lady Amnelis.

“March! March!” came the messenger’s voice.

Through the commotion and noise of the army’s preparations, the loyal Garanth rode back to where the members of Troop Argon were saddling their mounts. He wanted to relay his message before it slipped his mind. “Where’s your captain?” he asked one of the men.

“He’s busy directing our preparations to march, sir.”

“I see,” said Garanth, thinking. The sounds of horses whinnying and the clatter of swords and armor around him were deafening. “Then, give your captain a message for me,” he shouted over the clamor. “Tell him that Eru of his troop has been transferred to Count Marus’ guard.”

“Understood,” replied the knight, bowing his head.

It was Ewan; and he paused for a moment in puzzlement. Eru? he thought to himself. There’s no Eru in our troop that I know of. He must have meant Eku. Yes, come to think of it, I don’t see that chap anywhere.

“Line up!” came a shout from behind him. Ewan jumped, startled, then hurriedly mounted and led his horse into position. Then, like a many-colored beetle crawling out into the sunlight, the Mongauli expeditionary force began to sway and pitch across the white sands of Nospherus. The army was underway again.