Chapter-2-2

⁠—⁠—⁠— II ⁠—⁠—⁠—

“Knights of Mongaul, halt!”

“Post the sentinels! The rest of you—at ease!”

The massive Mongauli host ground to a stop, the dust of its passage drifting around it. None among the invaders could have guessed how close they were to the main force of the Sem, sheltered at the oasis only a short distance from the scarred flats of the Devil’s Anvil.

“A sandstorm is brewing. The sky has clouded.” Amnelis frowned and peered at the roiling clouds racing over the horizon. “Gajus, what direction will the weather take?”

“It does not appear to be moving toward us. Our troops should suffer no harm. Yet if these clouds portend a true wild-lands storm, the desert dwellers will emerge in great numbers to harass us. Each troop should be warned.”

Amnelis frowned again. She lifted her bottomless green eyes and cast a suspicious gaze over the rolling white swells of the sea of sand. “This land is cursed,” she spat. “I swear it moves against us.” Once the storm-darkness came, the host would not be able to advance safely without the risk of riding into the midst of another colony of yidoh, or falling into the pit traps of the dread mouths-of-the-desert. Amnelis’ face was calm, a picture of serenity, but beneath the surface she hid a growing frustration with their situation and impatience with their marked lack of progress. “There is a chance that the Sem will raid under cover of the storm. Warn the captains.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“We will be delayed again,” she added in a mutter. “Still, we must find a way to make progress! We will reach the end of our supplies before long, and before that happens, I want very much to put an end to the Sem nuisance. These skirmishes get us nowhere.” The general’s voice rose again: “Gajus, we will choose a place to camp, send out scouts in all directions, and find the whereabouts of the Sem village. Then we will bring our main force to bear and crush them at their very root. That may be our best chance to end this quickly.” Amnelis fingered the hilt of her sword, her thoughts roving inwardly. Her words were barely audible as she murmured to herself, “The villages of the Sem…”

“My lady? Did you say something?”

“We must find the Sem villages!”

“Of course, my lady.”

“This situation...” the general’s voice snapped out now again with barely contained fury, “this situation is unacceptable! How much time must we waste in dealing with monkeys—mere monkeys? I have a mission, a mission of utmost urgency upon which hangs the very fate of our mother Mongaul. I will not let a rabble of barbarian pygmies bar me from my destiny. Gajus!”

“Y-Yes, my lady!”

“We will hold a war council! Call the captains, raise the pavilion. I have decided that there is no need for us to sit and wait for the wildlings to bring the fight to us again. Why let them choose when and where we wage our war? It is Guin who hinders us, and Guin alone! The rest are just a mindless mob of monkeys!”

Gajus waited for Amnelis to finish her tirade, not daring to breathe. She didn’t even look at him. Anger blazed in her eyes so brightly that the old diviner thought sparks might fly from them as she stared out across the darkening desert. The vast expanse of sand grew dusky, reflecting the oncoming storm. Her lips were drawn painfully taut. It seemed as though she had finally given herself leave to release the rage that she had kept buried deep inside. She was terrifyingly beautiful.

“My lady…”

“Gajus!” Amnelis suddenly raised a delicate fist and struck the knob of her saddle as if it were the catch to release a guillotine blade. “I can wait no longer. The wildlings must be destroyed. I am thinking of two things only, Gajus. One, the Sem are like an overgrown hedge that must be cut off at its root. We will find their villages and stamp them into the ground. And next, we will take Guin’s head and raise it high above our camp! I do not care who he is, nor what plan he brings to bear against us. His life is mine! Gajus, cast your stones! A divination, Gajus!”

“Yes, my lady.”

The call went rapidly through the gathered host. “Orders! To war council! Orders!”

Amnelis sprang off her mount and cut across the newly established camp at a rapid pace, as though too impatient even to wait for the messengers to carry her orders for her. Her long white cloak flowed elegantly behind her and her golden hair sparkled like the shining palace of the ancient city of Nanto, while overhead the wasteland sky was fast turning the color of spilled ink. With her attendants in tow she strode toward the camp’s center, and as she moved through each troop, the knights hurriedly dismounted and stepped aside to clear a way for her passage, then clutched their swords to their breasts in the Mongauli salute.

Amnelis paid them no attention at all.

I must have the head of Guin. When he is slain, the Sem will crumble. Why did I not realize this before? Amnelis reproached herself. Her heart was pounding, her breathing was shallow and her pace quickened. At that instant she wanted to leap on a horse at the head of her army and lead the charge herself.

“Orders! Orders!” the lady general shouted as she swept through the standing soldiers. “Pass the word for Feldrik and Irrim to report to me at once!”

Amnelis had left the diviner Gajus standing with his aged head bowed, a strange expression on his hooded face. There was an otherworldly glimmer in the caster’s eyes as he watched the shining general stride away. When she was out of sight he quickly turned and lowered his gaze, hiding his face beneath his hood. “Raise my tent, bring my basin and divination board. Quickly!” he rasped to the attendants around him. Of all the men there, he knew best what would occur should there be any delay in his obedience to her request.

His entourage carried a tent just for occasions such as this, a simple affair consisting of four narrow poles and a black cloth that could be quickly drawn over them. It took but a moment for the caster’s men to erect it. Then the leader among them, a dark-skinned man from Kravia, laid a mat beneath the tent’s dark folds, upon which he spread gold dust in the shape of a pentagram. Finally he lit a stick of incense, then pushed out the other servants as Gajus came hurrying in and took his place upon the mat.

A short while later the caster emerged, looking flustered. He called out to Cal Moru of Kitai who was sitting perfectly still in his saddle nearby. “Master Cal Moru! Please, a moment of your time. The basin, you must come see the basin,” Gajus croaked, a shudder in his voice.

The eastern mage, risen from the dead but not entirely alive, dismounted and moved his crippled body into the caster’s tent. Inside, Gajus was pointing at the water basin and the divination board set beneath it.

“What’s this?” Cal Moru rasped, his voice harsh in the caster’s ears. “Remarkable!”

“Reluctant though I am to admit it, I have never seen a pattern so strange in all my years,” Gajus murmured, profound unease overcoming his professional pride. “I know not whether it portends good or ill—or indeed whether it offers any prophecy at all!”

“It cannot be an omen of good. Look. Here, this is our army. And in our army, a star of fire! It portends disaster and… and a lasting legacy, at the same time.”

“But what legacy is that?”

“Master Gajus, in the east, where my country lies, when there is a single star that bears two meanings, they say it foretells a coming revolution. But what this means for our army, I cannot say.”

“It is clear that some sort of great and uncommon change is about to come to the army of Mongaul. But how to report this to the lady general?”

“The shining star spills its light!” Cal Moru’s bony fingertip shook as he pointed at the divining board. “The light flows to the east. There is a magnetism in the east, yes, and this causes the shining star to go wild!”

“We do know why,” Gajus said softly. “The lady general is obsessed with this leopard-man, more than she knows. She trembles when she says the half-beast’s name, and she becomes all the more vexed as she seeks to hide her emotion.” The aged caster traced the grooves of the divining board with his finger. “But this is fate that we see here. We cannot speak to her and hope that the light will change its course.”

“All moves according to fate,” Cal Moru intoned slowly.

“Yet…”

“Yet?”

“There are many stars come to this land of Nospherus, and all of them play a great and powerful role in the shaping of fate. The fabric of power as made by the golden laws—the sacred division of things as they should be—has been stretched and made misshapen.”

“Where, then, is the source of the power that works this change on us?”

“I do not know. However…” Cal Moru chuckled deep in his throat. “Master Gajus, we, too, are but patterned threads in this woven cloth.”

“True enough. But this star of fire that we see here, I must know what it signifies. It troubles me deep in my bones.”

“It is troubling indeed. And mysterious. Yet I believe we cannot behold its true nature, for it is like a seed in which the tree lies sleeping. Only when it breaks the surface of the earth at last will we see its destined shape.”

“Yes, perhaps. But early this morning, during my usual readings, I saw no such star in our camp…”

The two mages lingered around the divining board and the alabaster basin, talking on in low voices as the water in the basin continued to swirl in a strange silent maelstrom. Outside, the wind was rising, shaking the black cloth of the diviner’s tent and the gold star that decorated its side.

“At last!”

“Finally, it’s our turn to bring the fight to them!”

The knights spoke eagerly amongst themselves. Seeing Amnelis striding through the ranks and hearing her messengers give the call to a council of war had an electrifying effect on the Mongauli, sending ripples of activity through the troops. Being constantly at the mercy of their enemies, always waiting for the next raid, had rotted away their morale. But whispered rumors run fast, and now they knew that their lady general intended to lead them to a decisive victory. The aggravating skirmishes would finally be over, ended by a pitched battle in which the knights could show their true strength. They felt their warriors’ pride stir once again.

“If we brought the full force of our army to bear on them, even once, those wildlings wouldn’t stand a chance!” boasted one of the knights.

“If we’d just gone on the attack earlier, we might not have lost Viscount Leegan,” another observed glumly.

“’Ey, there’s no call to doubt past strategy,” the first replied.

“He’s right,” a third added. “I’m sure everything up until now has been some plan of the Lady Amnelis. She’s always right.”

Far behind them in the ranks, out of earshot of the knights, the footsoldiers, too, fell out of formation and exchanged theories about a change in fortune.

“Say, if we can massacre these Sem, ’s a good bet we’ll be headin’ back home, ’tis.”

“Awh, only if we’ve the luck to live, and we do our duty, and we get assigned with the homecomin’ troops n’ not stationed out in Doal’s Nowhere.”

“I want t’ go home somethin’ awful. I’ve had me fill o’ these wildlings and this sand.”

“Ye stop yer whinin’ now. Cap’n hears you and you’ll get a whippin’ fer sure.”

“Aye, and I’d welcome it gladly! Sand, sand, n’ more sand! Let’s have at these Sem and get back quick t’ the glorious green on the other side o’ the Kes.”

“When a man says stop yer whinin’ it don’t mean ye should go shoutin’, now! Quiet, or there’ll be hell to pay fer all of us.”

“Aah, I’ll bet they’re just harvestin’ the vasya fruit back in Odain…”

The sandstorm was approaching. While it looked as though the brunt of it would miss the Mongauli, the wind had picked up considerably, and although the hour was still early it had grown quite dark. The Gohrans could hear the howling of desert wolves on the wind, and see sand worms burrowing under the dunes and desert lizards scampering away as fast as they could run. Wisps of angel hair began an unsettling pale dance in the swirling sands that rose in the whistling gusts. Stalks of desert wormwood—one of the few plants that grew in the wastes—were pulled roots and all from the sand and came flying among the knights, slapping against their faces and then blowing away over their heads and off into the sky. It seemed that the Nospherus desert had finally decided to rescind any and all grace it had shown the human interlopers; it had bared its true face, bloodthirsty and mercilessly cruel.

“I don’t believe it! This bleedin’ wasteland can get worse!” moaned the footsoldier who had just been pining for his home in Odain.

“’Tis a land forsaken by the gods,” his companion agreed.

“If I’d known ’twas this bad, I’d have gladly paid a fine to get out o’ duty. Any fine.”

“Could be even worse, yet,” the other observed philosophically, squinting his eyes against the fine grit blowing in the wind as he gazed suspiciously out into the gathering darkness. “Just think what would happen if the Sem attacked us now.”

Fear of attack was a concern the leaders of the army also shared.

“Preparations for the war council are complete, my lord,” Garanth reported to Count Marus.

The count turned to him with a face that was filled with concern. “The timing could be no worse. At last, the Lady has decided to strike back, and now this.” He waved a hand toward the swirling murk of the approaching storm. “Even the skies in this land are the ally of the Sem.”

“This is their land, after all.”

Garanth turned to see who had spoken to the count so lightly. It was Eru of Troop Argon. In a very short time, the young knight had become the favorite of the aged count. It was perhaps his resemblance to Count Marus’ son, far away in the capital, that first moved the count to pick him for his personal guard; yet there was something in this spirited, almost impetuous youth’s manner that had also made many others like him. And trust him.

“Of course, since we cannot move while the storm is on, now is a perfect time to hold the council. We can march as soon as the weather clears,” Garanth noted, hoping to ease the count’s worries. “I am sure that the lady general plans an all-out attack this time. Something that will put an end to this sorry business with the Sem for good.”

“Indeed I hope that is what she intends. If not, then I will suggest such a strategy myself.” Count Marus brushed the dust off the sleeves of his cloak and readied himself for the meeting. “Now, let us not keep the Lady waiting. Wouldn’t want her to lose her temper, would we, Garanth?”

“If a general attack is planned, let it be our corps that spearheads the assault, Captain,” Eru interjected, a hint of mischief sparkling in his eyes. “The men are eager to hunt Sem.”

“As am I!” Marus responded. He nodded, and favored Eru with a look as fond as if the young man were his own son or grandchild. “Perhaps I shall request that we be allowed to lead the attack.” So saying he set off with Garanth toward the hastily erected pavilion.

The knights and footsoldiers had plenty to do, preparing for the decisive battle that they all hoped was near even as they maintained a watch for any signs of a possible Sem raid under cover of the storm. The number of sentries was doubled, and they clanked in their armor as they walked the perimeter, scanning in all directions for any hint of the wildlings.

Through the commotion, Astrias, with Pollak in tow, Tangard, Irrim, Feldrik, and the other officers filed into the pavilion behind Count Marus. Every face glowed with martial spirit. Finally, they would be allowed to awaken from the lethargic routine of defense and counterattack. Eager to hear the general’s words, they assembled quickly; then the door flap of the pavilion was lowered and sealed, and the council of war began.

The wind howled, and the angel hair came in greater quantities, until the light flurry had become a steady fall. Through the swirling dust, messengers ran back and forth, delivering orders.

“The sandstorm comes!”

“Soldiers, use your cloaks when the wind starts hurling stones! Raise them over your faces, and keep low behind the horses.”

“Sentries, don’t face into the wind with your faceplates up, or the sand will take your eyes!”

“Don’t let the Sem catch you unawares. Ears and eyes open at all times! Vigilance!”

“The storm will last only a twist. Do not leave your posts. Feed your mounts and conserve your strength.”

“No one leave the formation!”

Eru was unconcerned with the orders. Standing with his cloak drawn close and his hood pulled all the way up, he watched a page taking care of Count Marus’ favorite steed, then leisurely made his way back to his own horse. Reaching into a small pocket under his saddle, he pulled out a sheet of parchment. Quickly, then, in the shadow of his horse, he drew out a stylus and began to write.

In a moment he was finished. Satisfied, he drew back his hood and looked around.

“What’s this? You, what are you writing there?”

He had thought no one was watching him, but as he stepped out from behind his steed, he realized that he was wrong. The lieutenant from the guard troop to which he now belonged had taken an interest in the new arrival. Eru jumped up, startled.

“N-Nothing! It’s nothing. I… am a bit of a poet, see. I write poetry. Lyrics really. I was thinking of putting some words about this here sandstorm to a kitara tune, maybe make a ballad of sorts.” Eru’s excuses tumbled hastily and he nervously licked his lips. The color rose in his dusky face.

The lieutenant questioned him no further, however. His attention had drifted toward the pavilion in the center of the formation where the war council was under way. Eru, flustered, folded the sheet of parchment and tucked it under his armor. Then he swiftly dug out a gati ball and some vasya fruit and bit into them, munching rapidly—to all appearances wholly occupied with eating.

The wind grew steadily stronger. The blobs of angel hair were like countless white ghosts flying among the Mongauli, and the dried wormwood branches made a dry slapping sound against their armor. The clouds were low and dark, and the invaders could see the giant storm cyclone moving past them in the distance, toward the east. Each knight and soldier knew that getting caught in that terrible whirlwind would have meant their end, and they shivered in their armor and thanked Jarn for turning it aside, one gift of fate in this accursed place. Even as they watched, the cyclone was growing, becoming more monstrous. It ripped up sand, plants, stones, everything living or dead that lay in its path, and carried all upwards in a fearful maelstrom of wind. It was the will of Doal Demongod incarnate, bringing a message to those who trespassed in his domain.

Then the edge of the true storm swept over the encampment.

It did not rain in dry Nospherus. Instead, the storm seemed to suck the moisture from everything it touched. Furiously its savage winds beat upon the land, and the sand and pebbles they carried scoured stone and steel and skin.

This was the moment for which the bizarre and fearful Marches creatures that had lain hidden in the path of the advancing army had been waiting. Innumerable cries and vengeful howls mingled suddenly with the screeching of the wind, and a sound of weeping, too, that sent chills up the spine of every Mongauli man there. The sand boiled and shook, white tentacles erupting from below the surface to grab unlucky sentries to drag them down into a grit-filled grave. Their screams and curses and prayers to the gods were lost in the roar of the storm. Nospherus had revealed its inmost nature, and it was red in tooth and claw.