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.