Chapter-4-1
——— I ———
While the bizarre sandstorm that carried Guin to the Dog’s Head two days before had hit the leopard-man straight on, only its whirling fringes had reached the Mongauli. Far to the south of the maelstrom’s center, the invaders were never in great danger. The weather they faced was a mere pond-ripple compared to the tidal wave of sand that Guin had endured.
Still, even the storm’s edge was enough to arrest the progress of the expeditionary army. The Mongauli hastily picked a location suitable for a temporary encampment, and moments later they had erected the lady general’s tent and begun preparing for a long wait. The soldiers brought out the horse blankets they used as bedding and stretched the coarse fabric over makeshift frames, and under these barely adequate shelters they weathered the howling winds and the hail of dirt and stones.
The men huddled together, cursing their misfortune in hushed tones so that the officers would not hear them.
“What a place this is!” a young knight of Mongaul muttered, shaking his head. “What could this accursed domain of fiends possibly hold that’s worth all this suffering?”
“Quiet, now. Are ye suggesting we rebel against our captain?” said another who knelt nearby under the dubious shelter of the tarp they shared.
“No, no, I’m not rebelling. I’m just thinking. Listen to that wind howling like a demon! Listen to the sand and stones raining on that blanket! This is no place for men to live. I’ve just about had it.”
“And ye think I like it? We’re soldiers of Mongaul. We’re to give our lives to Mongaul!”
“I’m ready to fight and die for Mongaul, sure. There’s not one could call me a coward—and you know it. But I can think of plenty of better ways to die than being buried in a sandstorm, or getting sucked dry by one of them blood-sucking monsters out there. That’s a dog’s death, that is. No way for any warrior to go, let alone a proud soldier of Mongaul.”
“Ye’re right, there. Pity poor Captain Leegan, so young, so brave. To get yer very life drawn out of ye through yer skin by those nasty yidoh!”
“Is that what we’re going to tell Count Ricard when we get back, I wonder? That Viscount Leegan was swallowed by a creeping porridge?”
“All I know is I don’t want to be the one to tell him. Aye, this is a right horrible place. This whole cursed land should be burned in Doalfire and go back to the charred hell it came from. And those Sem and that leopard-headed freak along with it.”
“See, you feel the same way about this place as I do.” The younger knight seemed almost pleased he had company in his misery. “Listen to that horrid sound, it’s riding on the wind. What is that?”
“Desert wolves howling!” spat another knight behind him.
“I tell you I hate this place, I hate it.”
The storm raged for three twists of the sand clock. When it had blown by at last, night was falling. The Mongauli crept from their shelters to review the damage.
Several soldiers and their horses had been dragged down into sandy graves by the bigmouths, sand leeches, and mouths-of-the-desert that had emerged suddenly from the dunes while the winds were raging. The men who were nearest the victims had tried to save their comrades, reaching out desperate hands, tossing ropes and throwing spears, but they had been well nigh helpless in the ferocity of the storm. Just looking into the gale had been enough to blind a man with driving sand. Yet even during the brief lulls in the wind they were not safe; during one moment of quiet, a section of ground towards the middle of the makeshift camp had suddenly split open, and from the chasm the sickening pale white tentacles of a mouth-of-the-desert had come snaking, hunting for food. The sand around the mouth had then become a funnel, sucking in four or five soldiers in the blink of an eye. Crazed, the lost soldiers’ companions had slashed at the swirling tentacles, trying desperately to avoid the downward rush of sand. Then, although it was midday, the skies had darkened again, and in the howling darkness the desert was once again revealed to be a hellish realm of monsters ravaging unchecked.
The losses during the storm were more demoralizing than any of the Sem raids had been. There was even less that the Mongauli could do about them. Thankfully, however, the harsh weather had also kept the Sem from moving, and so the rest of the day passed without a single sign of the enemy.
Now, as the Mongauli officers continued to survey the damage that the storm had done, night came down around them. At every other night camp, they had directed the soldiers to pound down the sandy soil in a wide circumference around their bivouac, making sure there were no nests of harmful animals or plants concealed nearby, but tonight they had not had the luxury of a choice of camping grounds. All the men knew this, and realized that even though the storm was gone they could not be certain of the safety of their surroundings. Still, the departure of the howling wind from their ears and the dancing sand from their eyes improved their mood considerably. When the cold, star-studded sky finally showed itself above them, the men relaxed, too tired even to worry about the wildlings. Rations were distributed, and the scouts went out on their rounds.
Throughout the sandstorm, the captains had been engaged in a council of war in the general’s pavilion. At last, well after the sands had settled, a servant’s hand drew back the tent flap, and the captains shuffled out and returned to their men.
No sooner had Count Marus, with his lieutenant Garanth in tow, arrived at the campsite of the blue knights from Tauride than his personal guard and staff hurried up, Eru of Argon among them.
“What news from the war council, Lord Captain?” Eru asked before any of the others could speak.
Count Marus nodded to the young knight without replying and looked his officers over. “Give your men double rations, then have them sleep in two alternating watches, with their weapons at the ready. Tomorrow morning we make our move at last.”
“Our move, Captain?”
“We are through letting the Sem dictate the terms of this engagement. For the past few days we have fought this battle warily, not wanting to make the mistake that Leegan Corps made of following the wildlings too closely, lest we fall into another of their traps. And so we bore their raids without striking back. However, I have convinced our Lady that there is nothing for us to gain through this over-cautious strategy. In the morning, we are to take action.”
Garanth continued for his lord. “Tomorrow, when the sun rises, we will bring an end to this conflict. Should the Sem come on another raid, we will meet them head-on, and pursue them relentlessly when they retreat. Then we will search out their nest and exterminate the foul monkeys. Have heart, men! Tomorrow, we go hunting!”
The troop leaders cheered. Without waiting for orders, they ran off to deliver the news to their respective commands. In a short while, cheers rose from groups of men throughout the camp.
To a man, the Mongauli had grown weary of their constant defense against the Sem. Now, the entire expeditionary force was on its feet, ready to move, like a lion that had wakened after a long sleep and was now stretching its muscles to ready for a hunt. The soldiers had barely set camp and already they seemed impatient for the night to finish. From here and there rose the sound of horses whinnying and men talking and laughing and the clang of sword upon sword as the most avid officers staged impromptu practice drills. Liveliness filled the Mongauli camp.
Eru of Argon lingered near Count Marus, seemingly unwilling to leave. He caught the count’s eye and sauntered over, speaking in his characteristic familiar tone.
“Lord Captain. Congratulations.”
Oddly enough, even though his suggestion to attack the Sem had been adopted by the war council, Count Marus did not seem as pleased as he might be. But when he saw Eru’s friendly black eyes sparkling, he smiled. “Eru, you jest. What is there to congratulate when we have yet to join battle?”
“Oh? Was this general attack not m’lord captain’s suggestion? Since everyone agreed with you, and the general favored you with the lead position tomorrow, I would think that’s more than reason enough for congratulations.”
“Well, yes, perhaps. I suppose I should stop worrying.”
The youthful Eru’s words had a way of warming up the count’s cold heart. If he had been a younger captain, he might have thought Eru presumptuous, but for Count Marus, the knight’s attitude and brazen style of speech reminded him of his eldest son, whom he had not seen in many years—the Viscount Maltius, far away in the city of Torus. Count Marus scanned the camp around them, looking for Garanth, but his faithful lieutenant had gone off to see that the men were prepared for the march in the morning.
“Worrying, m’lord? What troubles you?”
“That sandstorm, Eru. When the council began, I suggested that we move on the Sem right now, this very moment. Now that the storm has lasted into nightfall, we are forced to sit here on our haunches waiting for them to come to us. That will have a negative impact on our morale. It would be far better to strike out at the Sem first, and force the battle at our pace, not theirs. But night is here, and like it or not we must camp again. Our attack must wait until the next morning, and more time passes.”
“I’m sure that, in the morning, the Sem will still be out there. We can launch our attack then. And there can’t be more than five or six twists left till full light comes again.”
“No, the Sem will not disappear. But if I were a Sem, and I knew well the tides of battle, I would not attack at all tomorrow. I would not even let the enemy catch a glimpse of me for a full day at least. No, I would give the Mongauli host the cold shoulder. Let them simmer, that is what I’d do. Sometimes the hardest thing to endure in war is to have one’s spirit soar and then have to wait, unable to launch an attack when morale is at its highest. But that’s just speculation, and we’ll find a way to harness the energy of our men. When morning comes, scouts will go in all directions to look for the main Sem force, and I’m sure they will find them, and all will be well.”
Marus sighed and looked out into the night sky, as though he could will Ruah’s chariot to race faster and bring the morning now. “You know, Eru, it may sound foolish, but what really troubles me is the poor timing of the storm. It is almost as though it knew we were ready to move and it came to stop us.”
“Well, the timing was ill, I agree, but I’m afraid it’s just coincidence, m’lord captain,” said Eru, smiling easily. “You don’t think the Sem had anything to do with the storm, do you, m’lord? I know the monkeys are crafty, but they’re no wind-mages!”
Marus smiled at the jest, but then a serious look drifted over his face. He put his arm on Eru’s shoulder, the teacher speaking to his trusted pupil. “In battle, it is of utmost importance that a commander be alert and watchful, able to read the tides of the conflict. But even more importantly, Eru, he must be able to sense the shifting of the engagement. A battle is a living thing, a capricious, feral animal. You never know which of a thousand factors might change its snarling face. Any little thing could. Weather, coincidence, these things might have a greater pull on the outcome of combat than any choice made by a commander. The battle lives and breathes; you can feel it on your skin. Generals that do not know this, Eru…” Marus shook his head. “You can read all the books of Alzandross and still only be ‘well educated.’ Education does not make you a general, or a leader of men.”
“I will remember what you have said,” Eru assured him, his tone thoughtful. “But, I fear you worry too much, Lord Captain. If the weather was truly on the side of the Sem, they surely would have come at us under cover of the storm, and in the absence of any such attack, our morale has soared to its highest yet. By sundown tomorrow, all dues will be paid, and the leaders of our army will be the undisputed lords of Nospherus.”
“I hope you are right,” said Marus, clapping a hand on Eru’s shoulder. He seemed to have completely forgotten that the man next to him was Eru of Argon, and not his son, the viscount. “Ah, I am getting old—so easily worried.”
The count sighed. The darkened dunes glittered in the light of the Mongauli watchfires, their white sands unmarred by any shadow of approaching Sem raiders. “I wonder,” he said wistfully, “if I’ll ever see the watchtower of Tauride Castle reflected white in the blue water again. I’ve never had such a thought before this campaign, not in the hardest of battles. But since heading out on our Nospherus expedition, this feeling of impending doom has come to me a hundred times. I wonder if I’ll ever see again the Golden Scorpion Palace shining in splendor above the streets of Torus, or the black lion of Gohra and the golden scorpion of Mongaul flying proudly from the Tower of the Five Kings. Will I ever again see my son, sent to serve in the army in Torus, at the age of sixteen? He will be twenty this year, finished with his obligation to the Palace Guard, and given a captain’s flag like Astrias or young Leegan…”
The count’s voice faded. Eru stood quietly looking up at his weathered face. The knight’s black eyes shone with a mysterious light.
Marus emerged from his reverie and smiled at Eru. “You should go,” he said, raising his hand. “Go and prepare for the coming march. Do not worry. Mongaul will not lose this battle. Even should this old man not see Tauride or Torus again, you hardy youths will return to the homeland as heroes.”
Eru looked again at Marus with that same inexplicable expression on his face, then turned and quietly walked back to his horse. He seemed to have no trouble putting his captain’s worries out of his mind as he hunched down beside his steed, slid into his bedroll and fell deeply asleep. If the general attack was going to begin in the morning, he needed to get some rest, even if only a little. The other men seemed to have gradually come to the same conclusion, and save for occasional stirring, the entire Mongauli army was now quiet, bedded down for the night.
Before the first light of dawn began to paint the sky red, the soldiers were up and active, eating their morning’s rations. The weariness of the long march was fading from their dust-covered faces, wiped away by the knowledge that soon all their efforts would be rewarded. Foremost in their thoughts was the implacable Guin. At that very moment the leopard-man was facing the long ascent of the Dog’s Head with the ancient Wolf King; but the Mongauli army had no way of knowing this. The invaders thought that Guin was still with the Sem, planning fiendish strategies, and it fueled their hatred of him all the more. They quietly dreamed that today would be the day they hung his head on a spear before their camp and toasted his death around the campfire.
By the time the first rays of sunlight flooded the desert from the eastern sky, all of the five thousand knights and five thousand footsoldiers and crossbowmen who remained to the Mongauli army were prepared for battle, lined up by their squads. The squads, in turn, now moved their ranks to stand behind their leaders, who brought each group of knights in massive formation behind the captains of the red, blue, black, and white knights. The four hues of armor reflected off the white sands of Nospherus in a dazzling array of color. They had forgotten that their number had been reduced by a third from what it had been when they crossed the banks of the Kes. Forgotten, too, were the injuries that plagued many of those who remained, the constant thirst that rattled in their throats, and the insufferable white grit that had found its way into their armor, their helmets, and their clothes, rendering every moment a discomfort. The Gohran warriors were as exuberant as they had been on the first day of the expedition—full of life, and ready for battle.
“Quiet! Order in the ranks!” the captains’ voices lifted up above the clattering of arms and armor. Gradually, even the whinnying of the horses was stilled, and silence pervaded the formation. Then a great cheer went up. Amnelis, Lady of Mongaul and commander of the expeditionary force, had appeared.
“Long live the Lady General!”
“Long live the General of the Right!”
A dais had been raised in front of the pavilion and atop it she stood, tall and majestic. From her vantage point she could see and be seen by the entire army. Her trusted aides Vlon and Lindrot stood guard to either side, almost lost in the glare of the morning light which blazed off Amnelis’ pure white armor. Yet even more brilliant than her jewel-studded armor was the golden waterfall of hair that flowed from her helmless head down over her shoulders.
The assembled army fell silent. To the Mongauli soldiers, Amnelis was no less than a goddess of victory, come to life to walk among them, to lead them on to glory. A fair and noble beauty she was, and yet mighty as any battle-hardened knight, and she held them entranced. Every eye was focused on her.
“Brave warriors of Mongaul!”
Her voice was clear and sharp, seeming to soar over their heads, reaching to the far corners of the desert.
“You have been most patient. And I believe you have grown tired of waiting for the Sem. The wait is over! Soldiers, take up your swords! We shall no longer fear this land of Nospherus. What can be more fitting for the brave corps of Mongaul than a glorious attack? We will strike at the Sem tribes, kill the wildlings, and raise the flag of the Golden Scorpion across this desert land!”
From ten thousand mouths the cheers roared out, shaking the dunes.
“Long live the Lady General!”
“Glory for Mongaul!”
Amnelis listened with an air of satisfaction. Then, with her long cloak sweeping behind her, she sprang lightly from her dais to the ground, ignoring the short steps her attendants had prepared for her. The white knight Feldrik approached.
“Feldrik!” she called to him.
“Yes, my lady!”
“Once preparations are complete, we will march at once. If we linger here too long and let the Sem attack us, the troops’ spirits will ebb. Lead the army east according to plan, and when the Sem show themselves, hit them with all our power and destroy them. And do not forget to send out the scouts. We must find their villages.”
“I understand and obey,” Feldrik replied, saluting crisply.
“One more thing,” Amnelis said. “Marus Corps will ride in the vanguard. Send orders to the count to move at once. And inform Astrias that he will have the rearguard.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Amnelis nodded. “I will go prepare now.” The lady general strode away, her hair lifting and curling in the breeze as though it had a life of its own. It shone as it floated in the desert air behind her. Feldrik watched her go. She was truly beautiful.
Truly a sight for sore eyes. But this is a harsh expedition, with no time or room for comforts, and yet, one full squad of footsoldiers under the white knights’ command is needlessly burdened with this princess’s soft bed and sheets, her changes of clothes, and her food. And though we are in the middle of the desert her white gloves and boots do not have a speck of dust upon them. How many days’ worth of drinking water does it take to wash that hair, I wonder?
Amnelis glanced back unexpectedly and Feldrik, flustered, whirled and hurried off to give his orders. She may have looked soft and feminine, but in all other ways she was as harsh and hard as the desert itself, and few knew this better than Feldrik.
As the rest of the army finished making its preparations, Marus Corps had slowly begun to move like a giant blue snake slithering across the sand. Here and there they passed traces of fires from the night camp, left among discarded trash and broken equipment that had been tossed aside. They were the pursuers now. There was no need to cover up signs of their passage.
Seeing the lead riders begin to move, Eru of Argon hurriedly mounted and moved into formation. He still held the remnants of his breakfast in his hand, a lump of dried vasya fruit at which he gazed with evident distaste. “This vasya’s been cursed by Doal, no doubt,” he grumbled, loud enough for the knights around him to hear. “It’s terribly bitter, and it pricks the tongue. What are the rations officers thinking, handing out this stuff?”
“It’s ’cause it’s dried,” observed an older knight who rode nearby, smirking. “We can’t get fresh-picked vasya from Odain out here, you know.”
“If it’s that foul, throw it out,” grunted another.
Eru grimaced, and continued to stare at the fruit disparagingly for a while, seemingly reluctant to cast away even an awful meal when so little food was available. When the lines around him began to move, he finally gave up on it and threw it at a campfire which was still smoldering near at hand.
The discarded fruit seemed to be very dry indeed. As soon as it hit the fire, it made a small popping noise and split open, sending up a line of smoke. The smoke became a beautiful orange snake, wending up into the blue sky.
“What’s this?” Eru exclaimed with a shocked look. “That’s no vasya fruit. It’s smokegrass root! I’d have died if I’d eaten that! Now I know the rations officers are in league with Doal!”
“Must have been one of the signal packets got mixed up with the supplies!” said his companions, guffawing and trying to calm down the indignant Eru. The smoke rose in great plumes from the fire.
“Hey, somebody better throw some water on it and put out that signal-smoke,” Eru remarked grouchily. “The enemy’ll see our position! Some water…”
Everyone hurriedly looked away. Nobody wanted to waste a precious drop of water out here. It was the only thing keeping them from death in this desert.
“Ah leave it,” said one of the blue knights who had ridden up from the back of the column. “One of the footmen will kick some sand on it. And who cares if the Sem find us? By Doal’s filthy beard, if they see that smoke and come running it will save us the trouble of going to find ’em!” The knight chuckled and waved Eru forward. They were already falling behind the others.
A troop commander saw the smoke and came over to ask what had happened, but when he heard, he laughed and let it be. The smokegrass had almost burned itself out by that time anyway.
The Mongauli army was in no mood to fret about a little accident with a campfire. From the officers down to the lowliest of footsoldiers, all were filled with eagerness and courage. There was a noticeable spring in each man’s step, and even the horses seemed more spirited than usual. The only one without a smile on his face was Count Marus, and he hid his scowl behind his faceplate. Around him, the soldiers sang songs of Mongaul in loud voices as they marched.
Fearlessly the army advanced into the desert, leaving the orange smoke to rise behind them like a twisting Danayn water snake floating high into the empty heavens.