The last twenty four hours had been frantic for most folk. At Samir’s estimate, a third of the town’s population had left through the east gate for Calphoris. The road between the two places must be thronging with refugees. A few of the hardier folk had found weapons and joined the remains of the militia where they gathered at the great market to plan the next step.
The commander of the M’Dahz militia was a man named Cronus, a mercenary from the northern lands who had settled in the town over a decade ago. He had proved to be a strong and intelligent commander and had, as soon as the militia had mustered, gone to see the town’s governor, only to find that the palace compound’s gate had been shut and barred. No amount of cajoling had drawn a response from within. The governor had withdrawn in solitude; the militia were on their own.
And so Cronus had found himself and his men in sole charge of the defence of M’Dahz. No questions had been asked of anyone who joined them and no one, regardless of age or ability, had been turned away.
By the time the sun had set last night, every body the militia could muster had been given a position on a wall or tower or in one of the makeshift temporary redoubts in the port. No one returned home now. Should it be days waiting, the men of M’Dahz would wait in place on the walls, huddled in blankets against the cold desert night and sweating through the heat of the day.
But the wait would not be long. Outlying scouts had returned around dawn to report a Pelasian army on the move and already in Imperial lands. The desperate and wild-eyed rider had reported a veritable sea of black-swathed bodies on the move and, when the commander had asked how many the army numbered, the scout had merely replied “all of them” and gathered his own gear to flee the town.
There had been a few desertions during the night. In fact, from their current position, the boys could see gaps that had opened in the line of defence. Even now, some of the men on the defensive circuit glanced wistfully over their shoulder at the dubious safety of the narrow streets.
It seemed curiously fitting that the brothers found themselves stationed with five other men on the very tower where uncle Faraj had begun their sword training those months ago. Now, though, as they glanced left and right, the wall was clear of obstructions and, where there had been open land before, there was now a new gate and a hastily-constructed wall, all with their own guards.
“Do you think their navy will attack the port at the same time?”
Samir shrugged at his brother’s question.
“Who knows? They’d be stupid not to, but that’s if they have a navy. I heard Cronus talking about them. There are three satraps around the border area, but only one of them rules coastal land, so what we’re facing depends on who it is that’s coming. It might be one satrap, or two, or possibly all three.”
He sighed.
“The one thing the commander said is that this must have been started without the consent of the Pelasian crown. Apparently their God-King is an ally of the Emperor.”
“Was an ally,” the taller brother corrected. “There is no Emperor now. As they say in the gambling pits at the port, ‘all bets are off’.”
The boys fell silent. Indeed, no man on the walls spoke in the eerie and oppressive morning light. The only sound that accompanied their tense anticipation was the gentle rumble of the wind blowing over the sand dunes and through the empty ways of the city. Samir shuddered.
“The dunes are noisy.”
Ghassan frowned.
“Too noisy. That’s not just the wind.”
As Samir fell silent and held his breath, the taller brother shaded his eyes and gazed into the distance. In their current position, they were on the highest part of the defensive circuit of M’Dahz, with the road into the deep desert heading out in a diminishing line before them, marching off to the oases and their date farms. The dunes came very close to the city here, where the desert met the sea. More than a century ago, an enterprising civic leader had created a levee of stone to keep the drifting sands away from the town. The levee had been buried beneath the endless dunes for many years now, so high were their crests and so deep their troughs. Sailors from the north who bothered to venture to this side of M’Dahz were often amazed by the desert. It was said that the sands south of M’Dahz formed waves higher than were ever seen on the seas.
And it was from one of the deep troughs that Ghassan watched the first Pelasians emerge. Tales of the Pelasian armies abounded in the folklore of the south. They were said to go to war with more pomp and splendour than the retinue of most Kings. In the old stories, the column of black-clad warriors was preceded by chariots bearing banners and effigies, musicians and acrobats. High-stepping, painstakingly-trained horses would convey the army’s leaders to the conflict.
The old tales were wrong.
There was nothing splendid about the flood of black that washed like a sick tide from the deep sands. Like a million locusts swarming across the sea of gold, so thick that hardly a grain was visible between them, descending on M’Dahz to strip it bare.
No musicians; no banners and acrobats. Just company after company of black-clad death-bringers. Spearmen, then archers, then heavily-armoured infantry; three varieties of predator in waves, over and over again. And alongside, escorting them in long-filed companies, came the cataphracti: cavalry so thoroughly armoured that every inch of both man and horse was covered with shining steel plate. Untouchable. And along the periphery, the light skirmishing cavalry in small parties.
The sight was breathtaking; terrifying and marvellous at the same time. And despite the certain dread of death that grasped Samir’s heart and pulled it down deep into his gut, all he could find to think was how hot those cataphracti must be under the desert sun.
Ghassan was breathing heavily close to his ear. Groans could be heard along the wall from the less disciplined militiamen. In his head, Samir performed a couple of swift calculations based on the size of each infantry and cavalry unit he could see. He whistled through his teeth. Even counting only the enemy he could see, and there were clearly more yet to arrive, the Pelasians must number more than ten thousand men. He had performed a head-count at the market meeting and estimated the militia to number a little less than three hundred. The odds were around thirty-five to one. While he had been under no illusion that the militia could hold the forces of Pelasia away from the town, the truth of their predicament suddenly struck home. It was like a rat trying to hold back the sea. If this satrap simply wished it, he could dismantle the entire town in less than a day with no appreciable loss of men.
“Are we foolish, Ghassan?”
His brother blinked in surprise.
“What?”
“Are we making a brave last stand to prove our worth as men” he asked, “or are we simply throwing ourselves onto the pyre of our pride?”
Ghassan opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no sound was forthcoming. He stepped next to his brother and watched as the last of the enemy came into view.
At the rear of the great army came a small mounted party, with one man clearly at the centre. As the army drew itself to a halt beyond the missile range of the wall, the man on his single, gleaming black steed rode forth from his group, accompanied by half a dozen riders with large oval shields. They trotted through the deep sands past the many units and out into the open land before the walls.
As the man came closer, the brothers peered down at him, assessing this man who posed such a great threat. He was tall, dressed in fine, though understated, clothes and armoured only with a shirt of interconnected steel leaves. A black scarf wound around his head and neck and covered the lower half of his face against the abrasive sands. A long, curved sword hung at his side.
Though he had several men with him armed with great shields, he rode alone into arrow range, apparently unconcerned, and finally stopped ten yards from the gate, his horse snorting and prancing impatiently. The impressive satrap looked up at the defences. For a long time there was a tense and uncomfortable silence and then, finally, he unwound the black scarf and leaned back in his saddle, rubbing his smooth, clean-shaven chin.
“Boys!” he called out in a strong, surprisingly light and almost musical voice.
“Boys, old men and merchants!”
There was another uncomfortable silence.
“I have claimed M’Dahz and its surrounding lands as part of my demesne in the name of Pelasia and the God-King. I care not what you think or call yourself, but you and your land and possessions are now Pelasian.”
There was a low rumble of dissent among the defenders, but with no identifiable source or audible words. The satrap nodded as though answering some internal question.
“I give you a very clear choice. You many fight to defend your precious hive, though if you choose to do so, you will all die; I will take no prisoners. Then your women and children… those few of you old enough to have children…” a condescending smile crossed his face. “Will have to face a life without you, poor and alone until they die unremembered.”
He drew a dagger from his robe and threw it point first into the sand before him.
“Or you can surrender the walls of your town, open your gate, accept your satrap willingly, and you may return to your life.”
He allowed his horse to prance dramatically for a moment as his words sank in, and then settled to stillness once again and lifted his face.
“I know that your town is dying a slow death since the Empire left you. Pelasia offers rebirth. We bring trade, peace and prosperity once again.”
He grasped the loose end of the scarf and began to wind it once more around his neck.
“Or we bring death, fire and oblivion; the choice is yours. You have five minutes.”
Without waiting for an answer and apparently unconcerned for his safety, the satrap turned his horse and walked slowly away from the walls. Ghassan and Samir watched as the man approached a low pavilion that was in the advanced stages of construction at the near periphery of the Pelasian army. Food and drink was being unloaded and delivered into the heavy-framed tent and the satrap dismounted and entered, brushing aside the hanging door and disappearing from view.
Ghassan continued to stare at the enemy, conflicting emotions and thoughts battling in his mind. He hardly noticed as Samir dashed over to the rear edge of the tower.
“Ghassan!”
He turned at Samir’s hissed whisper and joined his brother at the parapet. Down in the shadows behind the gate, commander Cronus was standing at attention, with three of his senior men alongside him. Along the street from the centre of the town a small party was approaching. The boys had rarely ever seen the governor’s guard; a hand-picked mercenary unit from the northeast, they were resplendent in silver and white, with plumed conical helmets and banners flying from their pikes. And in their midst came the governor. None of them were mounted; it was simply impractical in the streets of M’Dahz.
”What will he do, d’you think?” Samir asked quietly. His brother shrugged.
“What can he do? He must surrender or join us on the walls.”
The Imperial party stopped below the gate and, while the white guards stood stiff and proud, the governor strode out forward to meet the militia commander. For some reason he looked ludicrous to the boys; an overweight man of more than middle years, used to good living and peaceful bureaucracy, in a white uniform, armed and armoured and with a plumed helmet beneath his arm.
The two commanders entered into a brief, muttered conversation and finally Cronus stepped back and saluted. Ghassan squinted into the shadows and was almost relieved to see the strained look of deep melancholy on the commander’s face.
“He’s going to surrender, Samir. I don’t think Cronus likes it, but he’s acquiesced.”
Ghassan clearly hadn’t realised how loud his voice was, for men nearby turned sharply to face him, accompanied by an audible sigh of pent-up dread being released. The tall boy lurched back from the wall as the governor and his militia commander threw their heads back and gazed up toward the source of the comment.
The brothers held their breath for an eternal moment, and the strain slowly passed. Below, the governor’s voice demanded that the gate be opened.
Ghassan and Samir rushed to the far side of the tower and gazed down into the bright sunlight as the governor, along with Cronus and the white-clad guards, strode out onto the sand, the gate remaining wide open behind them.
There was a brief flurry of activity around the pavilion and, casually and without fuss, the satrap emerged unarmoured. Stretching, he gestured to the guards nearby. As the brother’s watched, their breath held, the Pelasian guards turned a number of crossbows on the approaching nobleman. Secure and safe, the satrap stepped to the edge of the carpet, keeping his unbooted feet out of the rough sand.
“Governor Talus. How good of you to come.”
His expression was hidden as he bowed deeply with an almost ophidian fluidity. The governor and his party came to a halt a respectful distance away. As the white guardsmen came to attention, the governor stepped forward, drawing his sword. For just a fleeting moment, Ghassan pictured the defiant governor skewering the black-clad satrap. But no.
In an age-old gesture, the governor stepped a little closer, reversed his sword, dropped to one knee, and proffered the hilt to his enemy.
“In the name of the Imperial governorship and the people of M’Dahz, I hereby offer you my sword as your vassal. M’Dahz is yours, my lord satrap. I offer you not only my loyalty, but that of my people, in the hope that you will accept us as vassals and not prisoners, to join your lands and bring glory and prosperity both to our town and to its new master.”
Samir whistled through his teeth again. It was a bold stroke; to not just surrender, but try to maintain M’Dahz as his own command under Pelasian rule. Samir found he was holding his breath once again. Audacity like that could just as easily be punished as rewarded.
For a long moment, the satrap glared at the governor before finally pursing his lips and nodding.
“I will accept your offer, Talus, with conditions. If you wish to continue to govern M’Dahz for me, I will hold you responsible for everything that happens here. I keep things tightly-reined and peaceful in my demesne and I expect you to do the same. For every incident of unrest or dissent of which I hear, I will carve a piece from you to remind you of your situation. Do you understand?”
He stepped back and, as his face came into view, Samir found he was biting his tongue. The satrap that had been so smooth and calmly-spoken was more than he had initially appeared. There was something about his expression that sent a shudder down the boy’s spine, something snake-like and cold. This was not a man to cross; nor, he mused, was this a man he was inclined to trust.
They watched as the governor nodded and swore an oath. Wordlessly, the satrap reached down and accepted the hilt of the Imperial sword, holding it between thumb and forefinger as though it were something dirty and unpleasant, and tossed it carelessly into the pile of debris resulting from the pavilion’s construction.
Ghassan turned to Samir.
“When I look into those dead eyes, I suddenly find I envy those who fled M’Dahz.”
Samir nodded thoughtfully, watching their new ruler.
“We need to find Asima and tell her the news.”