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.