One twist later, the Sem tribes fell upon the eagerly advancing Mongauli army. This time, the Mongauli were ready. Their hands unbound, free to return the Sem attack and keep pushing, their spirits were high, and the thought of battle only increased their morale.
“The Sem come!”
A sentry posted on the ridge of a dune just ahead of the foremost riders saw a thin line of dust rising from the shadow on the dune’s far side and quickly raised the alarm. The response from the men was immediate and enthusiastic.
“We’ve found them!”
“Finally!”
“Our friends have returned!”
“Tonight we feast, men!”
Shouts rose throughout the formation.
“Keep your voices down. The Sem might suspect something,” one of the knights called out, warily thumbing the hilt of his sword.
“Nonsense,” replied a companion riding nearby. “We’ll cut those tiny heads off those furry necks before they know what’s hit them!”
“That’s right! For Captain Leegan!”
“Revenge! Revenge!”
Their hearts stirring with anticipation of the coming battle, the knights lowered their faceplates and rechecked the edges of their blades, while the crossbowmen spread out and made sure that their quivers were ready to hand. As they prepared, the cloud of dust rising from beyond the dune-ridge grew larger and began to spread, as if it would engulf the Mongauli host entirely.
“Well, it seems the Sem mean business this time. Looks like there’s a lot of them,” one of the blue knights remarked, watching the dust cloud that revealed their enemy’s movements as it shifted in the morning wind.
“Nonsense!” replied another. “No matter how many of them come, they’ve certainly not got three times our number! And even if they did, that would just mean that once each of us wrings three monkey necks a piece we’ll be out of enemies!” The knight laughed raucously at his own jest.
“Watch the poison arrows,” his friend noted grimly, checking the fit of his neckpiece.
The Mongauli soldiers did not know that the combined forces of the Raku, Guro, Tubai, and Rasa added up to less than half the number of the invaders. Lacking the aid of the Karoi tribe, who were as big and as strong as the Raku and better warriors, the Sem army had suffered heavy losses over the course of its raids, and the wildling ranks were dwindling. The Sem had done what they could to keep this fact a secret from the Mongauli, sending out women and youths in each skirmish as decoys to raise dust clouds and conceal the warriors’ true position and strength.
It made little difference to the Mongauli today, however. The men were flushed red with a fierce determination to meet the crafty monkeys in battle and kill every last one of them, be they one hundred or one hundred thousand.
The messengers ran down the lines, transmitting orders from Amnelis’ central command. Once again, the host spread out like a flower blooming. Black, blue, and red petals extended from a white center. The crossbowmen moved to the outer ranks, with the footmen spreading out among them to defend them when the enemy closed in. The knights swiftly formed into several lines behind the front defenses and calmed their horses with soft voices and gestures, waiting their turn.
“Aii, aii, aiiie!”
The wildling war cry seemed to erupt from the sand all around the Mongauli. It was soon followed by the Sem tribes themselves, appearing at the top of the gently sloping dunes in a half-circle formation that threatened the center and both flanks of the invaders’ army.
“And so the monkeys have come.”
Count Marus glared at the Sem horde above them. He still had his faceplate raised, to get a better view of the dunes, and the ragged white hair and beard that protruded from beneath his blue helm shone brilliantly in the sun and wind.
“Lord Captain, Lord Captain! Please, lower your visor!” Garanth exclaimed, fearing that his lord would make a perfect target for the Sem poison arrows. Marus quickly lowered his faceplate, but before the blue-painted iron mask covered his captain’s eyes, Garanth noticed the worry reflected within them as they stared at the tiny wildlings atop the dunes.
“We need but a twist to rout them,” the lieutenant said soothingly.
“Garanth,” said the count, turning toward him.
“Yes, Lord Captain?”
“Do not die today.” Perhaps the count meant to add: Not here in this sandy hell.
Garanth laughed. He was about to respond when the Sem began to charge down the dune like an avalanche, without order or formation, raising a wild cry as they hurtled toward the Mongauli lines. The battle was joined.
The sun blazed hot and white in the sky, searing the tops of the dunes, baking the men and wildings below. The method of battle was a familiar one for both armies. Though the Gohran army’s spirits were higher than ever before, this was, after all, another clash of a kind that had grown grimly monotonous over the past few days, and they had no new position or strategy to make this one any different from all the rest.
The Mongauli crossbowmen in the front ranks loosed flights of shot that sent up puffs of white dust where they hit the sand and knocked over the Sem they struck. Then, as soon as the enemy drew near, the crossbowmen retreated behind the lines of the foot-soldiers and took cover. The infantry layered their shields and crouched down low, slowly advancing while protecting themselves from the poison arrows of the wildlings.
The Sem charged down the dunes, giving a tremendous war cry as they came. They were a mob, with no discernable order or strategy; their faces were painted with evil colors in garish patterns, the traditional marks of the wildling warriors, and their eyes blazed with crazed ferocity. They held blowpipes in their hands which they put to their mouths as they ran, interrupting their yells just long enough to fire volleys of tiny black arrows. Not pausing to aim, they could only hope that a few of the missiles would strike chinks in the Mongauli’s armor so that the poison could do its deadly work.